we're all in there somewhere
In trying not to be, it all becomes autobiographical. How could it not, we're all in there somewhere, a pink scarf here, some silver cupcake sprinkles. It all becomes one big memory and we peer over the ridge, cautiously, excitedly, drum ear pounding. Looking for ourselves in the story. We ask was that me? The one on the corner with his hat tipped to the jaunty side? I've wore hats, I've stood on corners. Am I not jaunty? I am outraged between blurred lines. Gary Coleman's divorced child bride sells pictures of his dead body and makes him wait, cold, in the morgue as she wends his will through the courts, grifting.
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Author's Note
I'm participating in a writer's challenge: 90 microflash stories in 90 days. The limit is right around 100 words, about as long as this intro. Minimal editing, just getting it on paper in the spirit of Anne Lamott's shitty first drafts section of Bird by Bird. Cross-posted at emagination.org.
Other stories by Erica Hoskins Mullenix
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Intriguing, Erica. You are talking about the stories we write. Yes, a little comes out sometimes, not always jaunty as you know, or wearing a hat.
I liked this. Fav for making me think.
I like the pondering nature of this, hitting a crescendo when you ask, am I not jaunty.
Good luck on the challenge. Sounds like fun.
Very, very good. Fav.
"In trying not to be, it all becomes autobiographical."
Yes. Exactly!
"Am I not jaunty?" I like where this goes. "I am outraged between blurred lines."