JASON FUHRMAN

Fiction Author

worth 1000 words

Worth 1000 Words | Episode 26 | Room

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Heading back to the apocalypse. What can I say? This was one I almost scrolled by before discovering an interesting little nugget. Definitely worth the stop.

Thanks for reading.

Artwork by Michał Sałata

https://www.artstation.com/artwork/xJrP0O

DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what is done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.

The Story

She had a garden. Flowers, not vegetables. Every morning, it called to her from an open window. A little dust and a few insects never hurt anyone. The sun billowed the curtains as much as the wind did, infusing it with a glow she could only describe as heavenly. A silly word, since she didn’t believe in heaven, but no one was here to judge her.

Breakfast could wait. Petals buoyed by the morning were much more filling. She kept her nails short. Dirt didn’t like long nails, and she loved the dirt. Worms nuzzled her fingertips as she buried roots. She smiled. She had smile lines from a good, long life. Sixties? Seventies? It didn’t matter. Age was a number. That was a cliche, but no one was here to judge her.

Not too hot today, so she could stay out here awhile, enjoy the warmth on her skin. She wasn’t afraid of aging, anyway. She was already aged. Whatever that meant.

A metallic ringing from upstairs through the open window. Why did she set an alarm if she was always up before it? She’d read something about circadian rhythms once, and how it was important for your health. She had heeded the advice, and was happy for it. Awake with the sun, only candlelight in the evenings, or a fire when it was cold. It was rarely cold.

She went upstairs to turn off the alarm clock. It was one of those old non-digital ones, and never seemed to turn off on its own. She supposed they didn’t make them like they used to. She smiled at her new cliche, hoping the thought would mark another line on her face. She decided lines were beautiful. If they were good enough for trees, why not her? Trees had to show their age on the inside while she flaunted it for everyone to see.

Upstairs, she picked up the teddy bear that rested on the nightstand behind the alarm clock. He slumped. Yes, he. Terrence. Terry for short. That’s what her daughter had named him. Yes, a daughter. She was off at school getting her philosophy degree. She knew it was useless in the real world, but it filled her daughter with such passion, and that’s all a parent could want for a child. Something that would make them feel alive inside.

Like her. With her gardening. Another useless talent. Flowers wouldn’t feed anyone. Except her heart. She went to the footboard of the bed, because it was such a beautiful view. Three windows, one directly behind the headboard and two angled on the left and right. This house was made in a time when people still considered the direction of the rising sun before building.

The age of the house was apparent in the wood floors, the walls where wallpaper seams bubbled. She could have changed it, fixed it up, but why? She viewed all things like she viewed herself. Let the years show. Some called it character, but she didn’t like that expression. Characters were fictitious, at least to her. She found that when anyone said someone or some thing had character, they really meant caricature. And this house was anything but that.

Outside the window, tree leaves looked like flowing kelp in a transparent ocean. She smiled. Another line? Of course oceans were transparent. Water was transparent. She supposed oceans weren’t really. Depth and silt and all that. Krill for the whales. Her daughter, Millie, because she hated Mildred, always drew flying whales. She asked her once why she drew flying whales instead of underwater ones. Millie had replied, “Because they have wings and a tail, like birds.”

She had never considered the genius in that statement, from a child of six. But now, looking at the picture above the nightstand of her, about that age, she appreciated it more than ever. Vestigial traits weren’t something children usually understood. She knew Millie didn’t, but her noticing is what mattered. Deep down, we all know where we come from.

Where did she come from? A place? Yes. A time? Of course. Those things weren’t a concern, though. Now was. Live in the moment because you’ll never know when it will be your last. Someone must have said that at one time.

She touched a spot on her mussed bedsheet warm with sun. She walked her fingers to it, pretending it was a pool of pure warmth. Dry but soothing.

Then it was wet. Her hand tickled with warmth, then was cold again, against metal, one finger resting on a trigger.

She was Anna again. In the rotted room with the dead woman who gardened lying in a garden bed. The dog she hadn’t named looked up at her with perked ears and doe eyes.

“I know,” Anna said. “We’ll leave soon.”

Curtains flowed. Heavenly, Anna supposed. She smiled. She went to the footboard where sheets clung like old cobwebs, careful to not distrub the shoe that looked so comfortable on its side. A couple of books were stacked at the edge of the grass. Her hand hovered over one, to dust them off and pick them up. She always loved those scenes in adventure movies. Instead, she decided to leave it. The woman liked to read by candlelight. Sometimes in the mornings, too, if the flowers didn’t pester her through the window.

Tonight they wouldn’t. They were with her now. She was one with them. Even though Anna couldn’t see her smile on the bleached skull, she knew she was, with a face full of beautiful lines that were drawn across a map of time, much more beautiful and complex than the world in which Anna found herself. A world of death and hunger and ruin.

Anna plucked a flower from the garden grave, felt the wind through the broken windows.

The woman wouldn’t mind. She had so many. Anna twirled it in her fingers, smelled it. It smelled of a garden, and a woman who had lived.

Worth 1000 Words | Episode 25 | Just Follow the Fishes

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Another much-appreciated submission by a view. As always, thank you. This one appealed to my darker side, the only side I fear I have sometimes haha. But I took it in a slightly different direction. There is some darkness, but also light.

Thanks for reading.

Artwork by Donglu Yu

https://www.artstation.com/artwork/X6G13

DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what is done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.

The Story

Hua’s tummy grumbled. She knocked on the door, which had been closed and locked a long, long time. Momma had said she needed some time and to go outside and play. Momma needed a lot of time lately.

Hua watched the shadows slide across the sidewalk from her seat on the second to last step that led to her front door, because the ground was extra icky, and Momma only cleaned the steps. Sometimes.

Hua’s tummy grumbled again. “Shh,” she said to it. It didn’t listen. It never listened.

Momma said flowers ate sunlight and minerals washed through the soil by rain. Since Momma called Hua her little flower, she thought maybe she’d feel better out in the sun. Silly, thinking that the sun would fill her tummy, but what else was there to do?

Stepping into the light felt like a warm blanket, fresh out of the laundry. Hua closed her eyes and spread her arms wide, imagining them stems. She wiggled her fingers, thinking that might help. Petals, of course! Her hair was cut short, but if she spun fast enough, it might spread to eat the sunlight. She did, face turned up, her hair lifting off her neck.

Then, the world wobbled, even when she stood still. Her tummy didn’t grumble anymore, but it didn’t feel good either. “Sorry,” she said to it.

When her head and tummy stopped spinning, she sat on the ground, which at least was warm on her bottom. She traced the lines between the tiles. They’d be much prettier with color. She went to her secret place, where she kept her collection of chalk, gum that still had flavor, and the coins she had found. Almost enough to buy the little plastic doll that smiled at her through the glass of the vending machine.

Chalk in hand, she skipped down the stairs. Now, where to begin? Momma, the prettiest lady she had ever seen. Momma liked to take naps a lot, like she was now, so Hua thought what better place to take a nap than out in the warm sun. She started with her face, giving her a pillow of the tiny step before the sidewalk. She drew closed eyes and a big smile. Momma had the prettiest smile.

Hmm. What would she like to wear? A dress. Not the best thing to take a nap in, but Momma looked so pretty in them. The last time had been at the park, on Hua’s birthday. Just the two of them, eating sandwiches with no crust. Momma didn’t eat hers, so Hua ate both.

Hua’s tummy grumbled, remembering those sandwiches. Then it told her it really wanted fish sticks. “Mmm,” she said. “Good idea.”

Hands and knees on the icky floor in front of the bottom step, Hua drew all kinds of fishes. Orange ones and blue ones and yellow ones, even rainbow ones.

At the top step, she regarded her work. All of them smiled up at her, but they seemed sad. She couldn’t quite place it, until she remembered the day at the pond, with the sun glimmering off its surface. That’s when the fish came up with their funny lips to tickle Hua’s fingers when she gave them breadcrumbs.

So, Hua gave them a sun, clouds, and a sky. They still looked a little sad. No matter how bright she colored the sun, it didn’t make it brighter.

The fish needed help. Swimming up steps must be hard. Hua had legs, and she couldn’t imagine how the fish could climb up without them. She’d seen fish swimming upstream on TV before. Sometimes bears liked to catch them and eat them when they did it. Hua would help them.

She worked her way up the steps, drawing smiling fish the entire way, the closer to the door they got, the bigger their smiles. But even at the top step, the brightest yellow fish kissing the bottom of her front door, something was wrong. They needed more help.

They needed her help. She drew herself on the wall next, putting her back to it to get her height just right. When she was done, she hopped back down the stairs to take in her creation. A stream of happy fish, eager to go inside, to be cooked up and fill Hua’s tummy.

She started her ascent. “Thank you, orange fish,” she said. “Thank you, blue fish. Thank you, yellow fish.” She went on thanking every single one, because they were giving their lives for her. She wished she could do more, but thank you’s were all she had. Other than the gum and chalk stubs, but fish didn’t like those things.

Hua made it to the top and knocked on the door. Lightly, so lightly. “Momma?”

She picked at the chipping paint on the door, and then picked up the flakes to put them back, because she might get in trouble if Momma saw. They didn’t stick. Even with spit.

Behind the door was quiet. At the top step was quiet. “Momma?”

No answer. She must still be sleeping. Momma was so tired all the time. Hua wished she could make it better. If only Momma would let her in, she would. “I promise,” she said.

Hua walked down the steps backward. Maybe it would reverse time and give her a second chance, because if she knocked too much or called too much, Momma would get angry.

Hua’s tummy grumbled. So loud it scared her. “Shh,” she said to it.

She whispered in Momma’s chalk-drawing ear. “I’m sorry you’re tired. I hope you feel better.”

Hua moved inside the stairwell, careful to not step on the fish, and looked up to the big dark doorway, where the chalk version of herself stood, under the sun and clouds with a smile on her face. Like her Momma outside. Like the fish swimming upstream.

Hua felt her own face smile, but it was hard. And she walked up the steps to try again.

Worth 1000 Words | Episode 24 | Crawling Death

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An artist I continue to come back to time and time again. His imagination was staggering in both its depth and darkness. Giger may have achieved more mainstream commercial success, but Bekinski’s work has much more depth, much more to say — in my opinion, and I hope if you haven’t discovered him yet, you will explore his artwork now.

Thanks for reading.

Artwork by Zdzisław Beksiński

DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what is done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.

The Story

Mother had always called me a dog.

Before I knew what a dog was. Faint memories of her barking in my face, snarling, mouth dripping. Or were those images I concocted? Funny how memory works.

Before I could walk, which I suppose I was then, to a degree. Crawling, with my nose to the ground. Putting any vile thing in my mouth, to explore the world that most people trampled, uncaring.

Before the city burned. It still burns. Endlessly.

I don’t hate her for it. A game maybe. For her. Alone in such a small apartment with an infant. No one else to keep her company. To converse with. You can’t converse with an infant. All you hear is yourself, and perhaps the pop of saliva bubbles. Giggles if you’re lucky. I’m not sure if I laughed much as a child. I’m not sure if children laugh. I have heard stories. But there are few people left to tell stories. Fewer by the day.

I hear voices, though. So many. Far away, usually. Sometimes I will hear a soul perish outside my window. Soul. Mother used to call them that, when we’d watch them burst into flame or be cut down and then lit on fire. It was a custom to be burned, even for those who killed. She told me it was believed that a soul traveled on the smoke rising from the deceased.

Deceased. I like that word. I like words you can break to discern the meaning of by analyzing their respective parts. Cease living. De. The Greek or Latin prefix meaning “off” or “from.” Cut off from living. I learned that from a book. There aren’t many books anymore. They burn more easily than people.

Now, where was I? Many places, I suppose. I have to be, because I am only in one place. I cannot leave. The streets are dangerous. The air is dangerous. I have a fan that runs off a generator. Funny that I can still find fuel. I think that’s called irony. The thing that burns most is still abudnant. Abundant is the wrong word. Somewhere between abundant and scarce. That is where fuel is.

It sounds like I’m speaking of actual locations. Streets, maybe. I’d say, “Yes, fuel can be found between Abundant Avenue and Scarce Street.” Alliteration, that. I think. I do think. It’s mostly all I can do. I told you I can’t leave, remember? Yes, I think I did. If you’re still listening. I hope you are.

Now, where was I? Somewhere. On the third floor between two burning ones. If it were winter, I might be happy. I am happy. It is a winter of sorts. Flakes fall from the sky. Not white. Grays and browns. Sometimes reds. Yellow embers, which I prentend is the sun crying because it misses me. And I tell the sun I miss it. That’s when the embers usually stop falling. Usually. And I think I made the sun happy. I know I made the sun happy.

Now, where was I? In my room, because there is a window there. We have a window in the living room, too, but mine has a better view. I can see a sign that just won’t fall. It’s been burning for ages, rocked by powerful gusts of wind from the storms that pass by daily and force me to close my window and hide under my bed, because it might be the only safe place in this world. Monsters used to live under beds. I heard that once. I’ve been here a long time and the only monsters I see are outside my window. Sometimes they see me, and when they do, I hide under my bed, because I’ve discovered monsters are afraid of what hides under beds.

Now, where was I? Not under my bed, that’s for sure. I’m at the window. In my room, because it has the best view. We have another window–wait. I told you that already? I apologize, I don’t like it when people repeat themselves. Repetition is the enemy of … something. Or do I have that wrong? Probably. There aren’t many books anymore.

Now, where was I? On my balcony. Yes, today I braved the outside. I’ve learned to breathe ash. I think. It feels like I have. I forgot to mention the balcony. A fire escape they were called. That’s funny. More irony. There is no escape from this fire. But I am at the window, because I must watch Mother. Oh, yes, Mother is still here. She finds things. I made her able to find things. She inspired me when I was a child. She called me dog, so I made her one when I was bigger and stronger than her.

Now, where was I? She hunts. No, scavenges. How did I make her a dog, you ask? It’s a secret, but I can tell if you promise to not tell anyone else. All right. I let the fire burn her, little by little. It changed her skin and her bones. It made them resilient against the outside. I made her a coat of ash for the more dangerous days. She had a small nose so I tried to make her a bigger one, like a dog’s. It didn’t work. It never stops bleeding. That’s okay, because I found gauze. The whitest thing I’ve ever seen. She kept it clean. And when she doesn’t, I punish her and she knows to never let it get dirty again. She’s a good dog, Mother is.

Now, where was I? Ah, yes. Mother. See, I’m on track. Always on track. There used to be tracks. It’s how I gave her extra joints. Breaking them there. Again. Again. Again. It’s surprising what the human body can adapt to. Oh, here she comes. I can’t wait to see what she brought for me to eat and her to watch me eat. I never let her eat. Bad dog.

Now, where was I?

Worth 1000 Words | Episode 23 | Laundry Done

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When I saw this image, I just had to write a story about it. It’s gory in all the right ways. There is a comedic quality here – at least that’s where my weird mind went.

Thanks for reading.

Artwork by Rishiraj Singh Shekhawat

https://www.artstation.com/artwork/48qEVl

DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what is done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.

The Story

Gray’s hot dog took a red shit on Clint’s flourescent white t-shirt.

The civic screeched to a stop.

Gray’s hot dog took red shit on Clint’s dash.

The civic always idled hard, but tonight it idled harder.

Clint said nothing, the quiet type. Ball bearings for a brain, though polished, colliding in his head. Hands gripped the wheel at nine and three, because he was a big man, and something about looking over his knuckles at the black spines that grew there didn’t sit right with him.

“S-sorry,” Gray said through a mouthful of dog. He was slipping through the seat cushion seams.

Clint sighed phlegm. His thick neck didn’t allow him to turn and look at Gray, the no good son of a bitch who he shouldn’t have waited for. The bastard was nine minutes and three seconds late, and Clint was never late. But he couldn’t show up like this.

“I can’t show up like this,” Clint said to the crystal-clear windshield. No bug dared die there. Not on his watch.

“I-I know,” Gray said, two-fisting his hot dog that was shrinking as much as him. He scanned the street for something, anything, anyone. Crammed between a Chinese place and a DVD rental place was a laundromat, neon letters flashing DRAIN THAT STAIN.

“Must be fate,” Gray said. “Look at that.” He pointed with his hot dog, which drizzled yet another red turd on Clint’s forearm.

Gray stuffed the hotdog in his coat pocket and zipped it up. Clint’s entire face was a straight line. Gray took of his shoe to toe the door open, since his hands were red as murder.

Clint pulled the car to the curb and got out. His ketchupped forearm was locked to his side as if he had lost use of it.

Gray opened the laundromat door for him. Clint entered as if he were alone.

Inside was as cramped as the outside looked. A row of machines stood to the side, a few on the wall. Graffiti, as to be expected. Clint noted the bench, how clean it was, and he sat, closing his eyes to take in the umblemished surface. From his new vantage, facing the machines, he saw they were clean, too. Sharp lines, gloss topped, and at attention. Soldiers waiting to serve him. This’ll do, he thought.

Gray paced the entryway, fishing condiment-greased quarters from his pocket. Clint eyed him and shook his head, sighing more phlegm.

Gray slotted as many quarters as the peeling label instructed before offering his help to right his wrong. Those muder-painted hands hovered in front of Clint, to which Clint didn’t oblige with another head shake, getting dizzy from all the disappointment.

“Oh, right,” Gray said and pulled his jacket and shirt off over his head to clean himself.

Clint stood three heads over Gray, breathed on him long enough for a drop or two of piss to eject from his retracted penis, and then tossed his shirt into the washer. He went back to the bench, rested crossed arms on his belly, and wished Gray would get the fuck out of his line of sight.

Gray didn’t. He leaned against the running machine, ribs and nipples sticking out as if he were something to look at. He sniffed.

“Smells like a pet store in here, don’t it?” Gray said. He sniffed his hands, then himself.

“It is,” Clint said.

“Huh?”

“Animals. Use places like these.”

Gray guffawed, did the leg slap, too, the walking cliche he was.

Then Clint saw a transluscent flake jostling on the running machine. “Animals,” he said again.

Gray laughed again like Clint said a new joke.

What looked like a black thorn shot up from between the machine and wall. Clint flexhed his hands as it tumbled overhead to land on Gray’s head.

Gray flinched, then grabbed at it. Cross-eyed, he examined it closely.”What the …”

Clint’s nose tickled. He sniffed. Gray was right. It did smell like a damn pet store. A particular part.

Clint followed the scent. Colder. Warmer. Warmer.

It was strongest at the wall. The three black portals looked back at him with their emptiness.

Then he smelled ketchup. He turned, enough to bump into Gray, who was standing too close, always, always standing too close. A coldness smeared his back, tangled the hairs with its half-dried thickness. Blood, Clint thought. That’s what it felt like.

Gray backed way, knees touching, 9mm aimed at Clint. Clint threw himself to the side, but no gun went off.

Between Clint’s crooked legs the blackness of those machine doors slithered aacross the floor. Wet and thick and spined with more black.

It encircled Gray’s leg, and he fired a clip’s worth of rounds. By then another tentacle wrapped around his torso and dragged him to its hole. Actually, two holes, one coming from each, above and below.

Gray would have screamed if a third handn’t coiled around his mouth and neck. His arms were free, though, and they grabbed at the air between him and Clint.

Clint had his own piece drawn and ready. He sighed phlegm and put a bullet through Gray’s head. He went dark as one tentacle twisted his head off, the other fighting for his lower half. Soon, Gray was in two.

Gray’s body took a red shit all over Clint. Not a spot was clean. Even his backside dripped with it.

Clint emptied his clip, and when that was done, beat at the tentacle now around his waist with the stock, losing his grip in all the slipperiness, fell to the ground where he clawed tile and everything he could get his hands on, but it all felt like air.

Far-sighted as he was, the sign didn’t come into focus until he was halfway inside one of the machines. The neon flickered irony, bright, and intense enough to where he could see it far back in the depths of the machine that wasn’t really a machine, while he was slowly consumed.

Worth 1000 Words |Episode 22 | Road / 022

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If you’ve read any of my stories, you’ll know that I tend to tell darker ones. No matter the premise, there is a pinch of tragedy. I’m drawn to those kind of stories, so I tell them. But with this one, I wanted to challenge myself. I wanted to find a bleak or melancholic image and attempt to tell a lighter story. Something with hope, hapiness, or another color in between. Here is my take.

Thanks for reading.

Artwork by Serj Papadin

https://www.artstation.com/artwork/PoJdWy

DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what is done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.

The Story

Headlights painted Highway 022 with honey-colored light.

Jake swallowed and dug at the center console for something sweet keeping his eyes on the road. Finding crumpled papers and sticky change, he glanced down for a split second, which was long enough for the car to drift slightly to the right and hit one of the many potholes he’d been trying to avoid for the last ten miles. Jake’s head hit the ceiling, and the liner he’d stuffed behind the visor to not sag, sagged now.

Lips smacked in the back seat. “What?” Morrison slurred.

“Sorry,” Jake said as he hit another pothole.

In the rearview mirror, Morrison leaped off his seat and repeated the impact. He slouched between the front seats, rubbing his head.

“Shit, Jacob,” Morrison said.

“‘Jake’, asshole,” Jake said.

“Jake is short for Jacob, asshole.”

Driving for eight hours straight, his eyes ready to crumble from his head, Jake didn’t have the energy to remind him that his given name was Jake, not Jacob. Well, not remind. Morrison knew this, just lived for the shit-giving.

“Better than a last name first name,” Jake said. “And your dad’s name is William, so it’s doubly stupid.”

Morrison grumbled and slid into the seat behind Jake, a thunk of forehead to window.

“Pull over,” Morrison said. “I gotta piss.”

The headlights flickered, losing their honey-colored luster, looking more like spilled piss.

Jake guided the car to the side of the road, thought about killing the engine, then decided against it since it made a funny sound now, and starting it at the last stop had been hard enough.

Morrison tripped out of the car and weaved his way to a twisted fence.

“Really?” Jake said eyeing the door Morrison left open.

“Fuck, it’s cold,” Morrison said, trembling from the weather, the last few drops, or both. “Ho. Lee. Shit.”

Jake palmed away the condensation and squinted out the window. Outside was drowned in brackish gray soup. Gruel, really. Morrison was pointing into the distance, zipping up with his other hand.

Tire tracks cut through a rumpled sheet of snow up a turnoff through the broken fence before disappearing altogether. It was enough of a guide for Jake to see what Morrison was pointing at. Distant heartbeats of light specked the damp sky above a steep-roofed cluster of buildings seated around a massive tank. On that tank, stretched the ladder he and Morrison had climbed at the age of eleven. Clean black lines leading to a tower that–

“No way,” Morrison said. “Big Gulp Tower. The infamous tiddle tank of young Jake Lee.”

“Piddle is for peeing, not ‘tiddle,'” Jake said.

“Alliteration, Jake,” Morrison said. “Alliteration. Have a little imagination. I’m an artist. We have to bend the rules sometimes.”

“And it was because I drank an entire Big Gulp of–“

“Suicide.” Morrison said “The whole lineup. Every damn flavor. And yes, I know. That’s the beauty of it. A tower shaped like a Big Gulp, tinkled on from the after effects of Big Gulp, timed with precision. Irony, my friend, is powerful.” He said the last bit wagging his finger.

Jake got out of the car, drawn to the forbidden playground of his youth. Morrison threw an arm around his shoulder when he reached his side.

“Snowball wars,” Morrison said. “Packed with rocks. Cardboard sledding down those roofs. I busted my balls on that one right there.”

“You packed your pants full of snow,” Jake said. “Didn’t last long. You ripped your pants off batting at your junk like you were trying to kill a spider. Stumpy McTwiggerson–” That name hit Jake like a bullet.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Morrison said. “It was cold, all right? And we were, eleven. My balls hadn’t even dropped yet.”

Jake looked at his friend and burst out laughing. He retched it out, diaphram thumping, a laugh held in by past generations, released by him.

Jake straightened, wiped his nose, and sighed. “That felt good.”

Morrison smiled. “It did.”

“You think …?” Jake said.

“I think,” Morrison said, and then dashed up the snowy road to vanish into the absence of color.

Jake ran after at him, scooping snow as he did, packing it tight. Back against the wall next to a boarded up door, he peeked around the corner, blinded by cold and white and a stinging center made of stone.

Jake crushed his snowball from reflex. Eyes closed, caked with ice, he heard Morrison bellow the laugh he had a moment ago.

A crunch, crunch, crunch, and Morrison was there. “You owed me. Twenty-five years of interest. Truce?”

Jake blinked away the snow to Morrison’s pale-blue hand. He took it.

“Looks smaller,” Morrison said, taking in the structure.

Still holding Morrison’s hand, Jake spun him, tore his pants down, and heeled his ass. Hard.

Morrison fell face-first into the snow. He scrambled onto his back and pulled at his pants but couldn’t get them up. He burst into laughter again. “Go on,” Morrison said. “Say it.”

“It does,” Jake said. “I see Stumpy McTwiggerson hasn’t left the neighborhood.”

They laughed, and Jake helped Morrison up.

“Hey, it’s cold,” Morrison said.

“Not that cold.”

“Shall we?” Morrison said.

They climbed the ladder to Big Gulp Tower and stared at the featureless sky for a while.

“I can’t believe we almost missed it,” Jake said.

“It was destined. That glass of water at the diner was just enough, timed just right, to land us right here. Fucking beautiful.”

Jake didn’t say anything because nothing else needed to be said. He let those last two words linger, as did Morrison.

They left those words at the top of Big Gulp Tower, where they deserved to be left, and walked in silence, grinning like idiots on the way back to the car.

“Your shift,” Jake said and tossed Morrison the keys.

They got in the car, and it started flawlessly.

Morrison pulled back onto the highway and flicked on the headlights. They were the color of pure gold.

Worth 1000 Words | Episode 21 | Wimagatée

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The first story of the new year. I’m overall pretty happy with it, and hopefully it’s a good omen for what’s to come. I can’t say it’s a happy story, because, well, I’m not sure that’s even in my vocaulary. Even still, I think there is some happiness in the darkness, and I’m sure you’ll agree.

Thanks for reading.

Artwork by Benjamin NAZON

https://www.artstation.com/artwork/L3JxGA

DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what is done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.

The Story

Beneath a leaning tree, snow flurries hazing the world in crystalline glow, Private Don Jamison’s blood kept him warm. It was a blanket that started at his chest and wrapped itself under his heels. He had left a trail of threads, he saw, down the hill that lead out of the forest. He wasn’t sure who was coming, but he knew someone was.

His rifle was made of ice, inside and out. Still, it had some use. The firmness of it against his chest reminded him that he was alive. More than the blood that quietly flowed from him. He wished it were louder. Loud like the snow blower old Hixley, his neighbor used on weekend mornings to carve a path from his door to the road.

Don Jamison saw the old man step through the trees, fighting with the machine like he always did. A crooked cigarette dangled from corner of his mouth, accenting his curses with puffs of smoke.

Beneath an eave spilling frost, the sky pale and bright and clear, Donnie Jamison’s gloves, jacket, and hat kept him warm. He peeked around the trash can to get a better look at the old man, but the fence between their houses was snarled with dead vines, so the old man looked like he was battling a nest of spiders, which would have been pretty cool.

“A dollar says he doesn’t get it going,” Chris said from behind him, breath smelling of egg farts.

Chris had bet a dollar every time and lost every time, which had allowed Donnie to amass quite the comic collection.

Before Donnie could answer, the snow blower roared and a white wave crashed over the fence, to which he and Chris dove under, hugging their plastic rifles with their backs to the oncoming soldiers.

“Charge!” they yelled in unison.

Beneath a sky of endless stars, on a well trodden path to Pickman’s Hill, Donald Jamison kept Bethany Wilson warm. She was tucked under his arm, scowling with shivers.

“Let’s go back,” she said. “It’s late. And my dad will kill me if I’m not back by ten.”

Donald kissed her forehead and pulled her tighter. “We’re almost there.”

She mumbled a protest, but the wind picked up and whistled through the trees that had risen along the path, so he didn’t hear. When her shivering didn’t stop, he undid his jacket and gave it to her, laughing at her bundled form, which made her the proportions of his Aunt May, who was pushing two-hundred pounds.

“What’s so funny?” she asked, and that’s when he saw how pretty she really was. Her porcelain face was rosy in all the right places, her brows arched inquisitively at his laughter, above those eyes that made his chest ache with happiness and sadness at the same time.

He tugged her ahead until he crested the place he wanted to show her. He turned her around in front of him, hugging her from behind. He wanted to see her face when she saw it but also wanted her to have a clear view.

The valley opened up in front of them. A border of trees drew their eyes to a dark spot in the mountainside. It was only dark for a moment more. Perfect timing.

When he felt her sharp inhale, he knew he had done right. The dark spot on the mountainside was dark no longer. Light bloomed from it, carried by the snowflakes neither could see until now. Across the entire valley.

“It looks like diamonds,” she said.

It did. A thousand thousand diamonds, maybe more, all their fractal detail reflecting and refracting something so simple as the light on a train to bejewel the world.

“I love it,” she said.

Beneath a weeping willow, fireflies swarming over a sunset he couldn’t place the color of, a baby boy of twelve months kept Don Jamison warm.

“Should have named him Cole,” Don said to Beth. “The little sucker is making me sweat.”

“Good thing,” Beth said. “Summer’s colder than usual this year.”

“When aren’t you cold?” Don said with a chuckle.

“I’ll remember that when you try to sneak those cold feet of yours over to mine later tonight.”

Donnie Jr. cooed, pointing a fat finger at a cloud of fireflies that had dared to invade Tucker’s territory. The border collie growled and snapped at them. They divided with each bite, forming into independent globes that Tucker couldn’t keep up with. Defeated, Tucker plopped onto the grass and panted away his frustration.

Then the fireflies flew farther over the field opposite their house, reforming into two tightly packed orbs. Their impressive light was only matched by two neighbor boys running down the street with Roman Candles held high.

Time slowed. The fireflies merged with the Roman Candles’ flames, and the sunset simplified into a singular color. That color was blue.

Beneath a leaning tree, the blanket of blood now a blanket of snow, Private Don Jamison wasn’t warm. A cold like this he’d never felt before. Not even the time Chris dared him to jump into the snow blower’s wave in his underwear. Not even the time he’d fallen through the frozen lake, showing off his skateless ice skating moves to Beth. Not even the winter day his father had died, which delayed the burial far too long, and Don’s dreams were plagued with the decomposing body of his father desperately digging his own grave with skeletal fingers, because he was tired of waiting, too.

No, Private Don Jamison couldn’t compare this to anything. But amid the blue, there was gold. He wondered how the two boys with the Roman Candle’s had made it this far. He wondered if Donnie Jr. would ever remember the fireflies that day.

“Wondering does you no good,” his father used to say. “Knowing is what counts.”

Private Don Jamison took his father’s advice and stopped wondering. He looked around for diamonds or fireflies and waited for what he knew was coming.