My story, “In This Room Where We Practice Dying Every Night,” is live @ Little Fiction today! On the morning of his dad’s funeral, Tim wants to go surfing. His board is in his dad’s garage so we go to the house and no one is there. “Everything feels weird,” he says, “and we’re displaced. I’m not used to being back out west.” “That makes everything weirder too,” I say. “I need to get in the ocean,” he says. I’m sad for him and I need a coffee so I can be a better listener. I’m pretty useless right now, slumping against this car draped in a nylon cover. I nod at him and reach out so we can hug and afterwards he squeezes past me to grab the lightning bug-yellow surfboard leaning against the concrete wall.  

My story, “In This Room Where We Practice Dying Every Night,” is live @ Little Fiction today!

On the morning of his dad’s funeral, Tim wants to go surfing. His board is in his dad’s garage so we go to the house and no one is there.

“Everything feels weird,” he says, “and we’re displaced. I’m not used to being back out west.”

“That makes everything weirder too,” I say.

“I need to get in the ocean,” he says.

I’m sad for him and I need a coffee so I can be a better listener. I’m pretty useless right now, slumping against this car draped in a nylon cover. I nod at him and reach out so we can hug and afterwards he squeezes past me to grab the lightning bug-yellow surfboard leaning against the concrete wall.