It is one of those weeks. I have a deadline tomorrow. Three articles need completion, and interviews and statistics on family court and custody battles are piled on my desk.
Charles has a fever, and I swear I see little red dots in front of my eyes. I cannot decide whether it is the lamp, looking at a computer screen for too long or the light on my new digital recorder.
I want to write some kick ass articles. I also want to finish reading Dr. Zhivago and eventually that Charles Lindbergh biography. Yes, I want to disappear into my imagination and the mountains of snow I’ve never seen in my entire life.
One of the things I learn every time I write a serious article, I realize people can only hide from their realities for so long. Pete Denton wrote a post about flash fiction. Now I have not done any flash fiction, even though I’ve read some great pieces. But I did sit down and write one paragraph the same way I wrote Grass from the Grave, which is about to be published for a second time.
This is a short, very simple nonfiction piece I wrote about a week ago.
He Turned His Back
He turned his back. Twice. Once on the 4th of July, and the other at the annual agricultural fair the town hosts to raise money for the school. My heart burst when the teenager turned his back on the one-year-old; his brother. He would not even look at his face. He did not want to, and I did not want to return to the town again. I told my fiancé—the father of the teenager and my son—I did not want to return to that town ever again. Not a town where brothers turned their backs on brothers.