I don’t know what it is about Sunday, but it feels like a good day for stories.
Over the past few years, my favorite stories to write have been anecdotes about my life. I have never really kept a traditional journal, but crafting random personal memories into a short narrative is my version of journaling. It gives me a chance to experiment with story structures while also thinking about the things I’ve experienced and learned.
I write these stories for myself (and occasionally family) because I’m under no impression that people on the internet should care about my life. In fact, I have a whole collection of stories I’ve never published because I don’t want my preconceived notions about the thoughts of readers to change how I write.
But sometimes publishing a story pushes me to write more. Plus I’m human, so it also gives me the childlike feeling of putting a paper boat into a gutter and hoping it floats for a long time. So here’s a Sunday story.
The Accident
A moment of catastrophe, or so I thought.
I’m laying on the shoulder of a two-lane country road. The engine sounds that were so loud before have ceased. All I hear is silence, which is unnerving because I’m not alone. I can’t see my sister behind me, but she should be saying something. Or at least moving around.
“Is she dead?” . . . .
With gratitude in heavy spoonfuls,
Braden