Stories, by John Edgar Wideman

[a recent favorite]

A man walking in the rain eating a banana. Where is he coming from. Where is he going. Why is he eating the banana. How hard is the rain falling. Where did he get the banana. What is the banana’s name. How fast is the man walking. Does he mind the rain. What does he have on his mind. Who is asking all these questions. Who is supposed to answer them. Why. Does it matter. How many questions about a man walking in the rain eating a banana are there. Is the previous question one of them or is it another kind of question, not about the man or the walking or the rain. If not, what’s it a question about. Does each question raise another question. If so, what’s the point. If not, what will the final question be. Does the man know any of the answers. Does he enjoy bananas. Walking in the rain. Can the man feel the weight of eyes on him, the weight of questions. Why does the banana’s bright yellow seem the only color, the last possible color remaining in a gray world with a gray scrim of rain turning everything grayer. I know question after question after question. The only answer I know is this: all the stories I could make from this man walking in the rain eating a banana would be sad, unless I’m behind a window with you looking out at him.

times are changing, soon we'll be the same.

Forest Park's Balloon Glow has been on my pre-graduation bucket list for a while now. Success.

but i'm thinking of what sarah said.

Sarah wrinkled her nose, unwrinkled her nose, and wrinkled it again. She felt nothing. Her left ear twitched correspondingly.

Sarah's reflection wrinkled its nose, unwrinkled its nose, and wrinkled its nose again. Her reflection felt nothing. Its right ear twitched correspondingly.

"Here goes nothing," Sarah thought as she brought the red-hot needle to her nose.

And there nothing went.

Sarah watched the clock tick backward. Sarah's reflection watched the minutes pass. It could not feel the tension settling into Sarah's motionless shoulder, elbow, hand, fingers; nor could it slowly feel the warmth of the needle dissipate. It only saw Sarah hold a quarter of an hour in her hand before letting go.

"Nothing goes here," the reflection thought.


[In response to a prompt for Microfiction to write about 15 minutes of time]