The Contradictite

Audrey stepped up over the hill, Roger limping behind her. “There’s a stump over there,” she said. “Sit down for a while.” He hobbled over to the stump and took a seat. “I guess I just missed that last step,” he said. He held his foot and rotated it, feeling for where it hurt. “I don’t think anything’s broken.” Audrey looked out over the hill. It overlooked the woods, the trails disappearing under their protective branches. “Take your time,” she said. “The view is wonderful.” Roger looked up from his foot. “Yeah.” Audrey looked all the way around, but stopped short in the middle of her rotation. “What do you suppose that is?” she said, pointing to a bunch of sticks piled up against one another. They formed a sort of pyramid, with the tops of each stick nestled among the others.  Roger craned his neck to see. “Oh?” he said. “It looks like a wickiup. That, or maybe someone got bored stacking sticks.” He rubbed his ankle. “Could you see if any of those would make a good walking stick?...

[Author's Note: This was a writing exercise from Jeff VanderMeer's Wonderbook . However, while the instructions were to write a story without using Freytag's Pyramid, I accidentally wrote it to counter Campbell's Hero's Journey, specifically the part where the hero answers the call to adventure.] Marvin awoke from his nightmare, skin cold and clammy, sheets drenched in sweat. Though the image was fading in his mind as objectivity and reality replaced the ephemeral dreamscape, the image of something lingered in his mind’s eye. He took a few breaths before stepping out of bed. Bare feet against a cold wooden floor, he left his room and ventured toward his kitchen. In the dim flickering light of fluorescent bulbs coming back to life after a long sleep, he poured himself a glass of water, drinking the entire thing in one gulp. The mental image lingered, but the more he probed at it, the more it squirmed away. He had a feeling of something massive, something cosmic, ...

["We do not write in order to be understood; we write in order to understand." - Cecil Day-Lewis] How do you explain death to a kid? I mean, it’s one thing to swat a fly or squash a spider, and it’s completely another to explain why the goldfish stopped swimming around and now just bobs at the top of the bowl. Why did kitty fall asleep, and when will she wake up? When will grandma get back from heaven? But to explain death, as in, you’re going to die. You have less than three months. The doctor’s don’t know how to fix it. This is it. You’ll find out where all those flies and spiders and fish and kitties and grandmas went. But how do you explain that to somebody who doesn’t even understand life? Eating, sleeping, playing, Ninja Turtles . How do you go from that to hospital beds and drip bags and monitors and doctors and nurses and needles and charts? My wife and I talked, off hand, before any of this was a reality. What would we do if he was diagnosed with some terminal illnes...

Barry stopped his car outside of Alba’s house. He took a deep breath before leaving the car. He had a feeling that today would have its fair share of hiccups.  He knocked on her door. A few moments later she opened the door. Her face was all smiles and she wore the flowery dress that Barry said he had liked at one point. “You’re a bit early,” she said. “It runs in my family,” he said. He gave her his best smile. “Are you ready?” “Are you?” she said. She grabbed her purse and a shawl and followed him to the car. He opened the passenger door for her. “I guess I am,” he said, once they were both seated and buckled in.  “You’re what?” she said. “Ready. You know,” he said. “It’s not every day you meet my family for the first time.” He chuckled. “Relax, Barry,” she said. “Everybody’s family is a little weird. It’s part of their charm.” “You’re right,” he said after another breath. “Well, let’s get going then.” They drove on for a while in silence, until Alba said s...