Wednesday, July 17, 2013


This story first appeared at Thick Jam.

The faucet is leaking again. So am I, my penis an open hydrant. Do they make diapers for faucets? I'd ask my son, if I could remember his number.

My room shrank today. It's not the first time. In another month I won't fit in it. The nurses keep telling me not to worry. They'll move me to a bigger room. Are they speaking the truth? I'd ask my son, if I could remember his number.

We had a fire drill yesterday. I think it was yesterday. It could have been today. I don't think it was tomorrow. I trudged along the hall, the wheel on my walker squeaking like a mouse with its tail in a trap trying to get loose. Maybe the squeak wasn't from a mouse, or the walker. Maybe it was someone whimpering for freedom.

Ellen hooked her fingers around my arm on the way back to our rooms. She's my neighbor. Ellen scares me. This place scares me. The fact I can't remember my son's number scares me.


  1. That is a chilling piece of writing but I don't think it qualifies as a "story". A disturbing peak into my possible future.

  2. Thanks, DA. I've thinking a lot lately about "story" and if sometimes, as readers, we get too hung up with descriptors and lose sight of the author's intent. By your comments, you haven't.

  3. Sadly all too real, that moment in between the world of memory and the world of forget.

    In regard to story - it's not form or word count a reader taps into, it's the connection to the account of events that's been told.

    1. Thanks for reading and commenting, Lisa.