This Story

Photograph of an octopus swimming just above the ocean floor.
by Pia/Pexels

This story walks a delicate line. Perhaps we will find an easier approach of starting with what the story does not want.

It does not want to be seen as pretentious. This story would never go to a chic restaurant and, upon hearing the sommelier say the restaurant has no more bottles of 1984 Fancypants Chablis, throw a fit and storm out of the restaurant. This is not one of those kinds of stories. Also, when wearing a polo shirt, this story does not “pop the collar.”

It desires to be seen as a “story among the people.” On weekends, after mowing the lawn, it sits on a patio chair and sips a common brand of beer — not a “this dude only drinks microbrews nobody’s heard of and listens to bands nobody’s heard of” type of beer.

This story wishes to entertain, in the hope that people will have a good time while experiencing it. Of course, “good time” is subjective to every reader. Some readers prefer action:

Viv dispatches the four members of Baron Lybo’s assault squad with throwing knives as she creeps around her house that they’ve entered in the night. Viv acts as a ninja using the familiar territory to her advantage. The last two assaulters fire their AK-47s before Viv’s knives plunge into their necks. The shots will cause neighbors to call the cops. Viv slings the four AKs on her shoulder and marches outside to her muscle car. Plenty of ammo is in the guns for her to attack one of Baron Lybo’s drug warehouses. But how did the baron discover Viv’s safe house? Is one of Viv’s few friends a snitch? Does her car have a tracking device?

Other readers prefer romantic comedy:

In the office’s break room, Jacqueline stands at the counter and has no way of knowing that Antonio is walking behind her when she turns around. Jacqueline bumps into Antonio. She was heading to the microwave to heat her leftover chicken curry. Both people watch in surprise as the green curry sloshes, then dollops of curry sauce leap from the container and land on Antonio’s shirt. He recovers from the surprise and says, “I better soak it before the stain becomes permanent.” As Antonio unbuttons his shirt and holds it under the sink’s faucet, Jacqueline is hit by lust/love’s gentle cheek slaps: Delicious six-pack of abs! Knowledge of good laundry practice! He chose to solve the problem instead of lashing out in anger!

But this story doesn’t want to be only entertaining. Going for thrills and laughs is a fine goal. Reaching beyond that, into the realm of admirable

(in the story’s estimation),

is to also aim for resonance. To weave a story with such emotional depth, readers will remember the story as more than “five or ten minutes I spent while avoiding my work at the office, or while I waited for the bus.” To resonate with readers, the story could show a character with weaknesses:

Parcy slumps on a kitchen chair as the dishwasher starts. Another difficult day of work. Tempting is the thought of pouring wine into one of the tall, retro-swirly decorated glasses (thrift store finds; to hell with “proper” wine glasses) and binging on a TV show. Yet, Parcy doesn’t want that tonight. There’s an urge for a meditative time. Parcy taps her phone’s screen to find the Quiet Nights album by Miles Davis. Interesting how the jazz mixes with the sound of water spraying inside the dishwasher. Parcy wonders when she’ll feel consistently confident at work. To get past the thoughts of being behind. Doubt weighs heavily. She closes her eyes and focuses on the trumpet’s music. She wishes she could ride the music, let it carry her around the apartment while rain falls outside the windows.

The story’s aim is for this kind of character, contrasted with a character representing a societal ideal that’s impossible to achieve. Such a character would breeze through life, everything coming easily to her/him/them.

This story would rather include a character facing struggles, while developing strength and lessons from struggles and failures:

The octopus swims away from the crowded sea floor, into a maze of rocks, gliding over and under, around them. Until the octopus finds the cave and enters its darkness. The sun’s rays diving into the water do not reach inside the cave. That’s preferable to the octopus. She needs a break from her parents nagging her to find a mate (“Please! We’d like grandchildren before we get too old and slow to play with them.”) and her friends, whose kidding around can sometimes get on her nerves. In the cave, the octopus dances. Her tentacles swirl and ripple in complicated patterns. Nobody can see her. She dances simply, for the joy of movement. A good way to let off steam and help ease her mind. However, she is wrong about nobody seeing her. Today, a lanternfish happens upon the cave. Seeing the octopus, the lanternfish turns off her green glow. The octopus is so involved in her dance that she doesn’t realize the presence of another creature. Until the octopus spins toward the cave’s opening. Immediately, she stops dancing. She says, “Why are you spying on me?” The lanternfish says, “I couldn’t help it. I came in here and saw you and I didn’t want to stop you. Please keep dancing.” The octopus says, “No. You’ll judge me.” The lanternfish says, “Too late. I already judged you. Your dancing is wonderful.” The octopus says, “You really mean that?” The lanternfish nods and says, “I’d like to see more.” The octopus says, “Promise you won’t make fun of me?” After the lanternfish promises that, the octopus says, “Will you tell the others?” The lanternfish says, “I won’t. Your secret is safe with me.” The octopus hesitates, weighs her options, then begins to dance again. The lanternfish turns on her green light, brightening the cave. The lanternfish joins in the dance, swimming over and under, around the swirling tentacles.

Hopefully, the reader would connect on some level with the character, to feel less alone in the world.

Which springs a kind of magic. The little drawings that we’ve come to the collective understanding that they represent letters. When grouped together, they form words. Strings of these words can inspire pictures in readers’ minds and inspire emotions in their hearts.

Such is the wish of this story. With every reader who happens upon it, the story knows it walks the delicate line between failure and success.


copyright © 2021 Dave Williams

Wind Through the Fence

The horse was grateful the man turned on the hose, with the forest’s stream flowing lower. The man was kind with gifts of carrots and brushing, saying, “You shouldn’t run so much on these hot days. Where ya runnin’ to, anyway?” The horse coughed out some water. In asking, the man would never know. Especially with his mere two legs never showing hurry. He’d never know the wind on your skin, the sound in your ears. Muscles working their glorious purpose. Outrunning the shadows of the clouds. Even though they are slow, the clouds know as they laugh at the fence. Freedom.


copyright © 2021 Dave Williams

Strange Occurrences at the Old House

After violet lightning struck the tree by our house, oddities started in our family. Levitating coffee cups. Sis would snap her fingers and random objects burst aflame. An entity named Virkiv sometimes spoke through me. Word spread through the nearby town, around the county, farther away from us. Then armed men broke down our door, dragged our family into vans, drove us to a laboratory.

The scientists who study my family tell us that our house is still being examined. As are we. The scientists claim a new house will be given to us after the examinations are finished. But they don’t say when that will be.

Certainly we miss the old house, all the familiar rooms and the memories that happened within them. As well as the land around the house, the field and slice of forest. Now our home is this lab, which has a sad, blank character.


copyright © 2021 Dave Williams

Concern Over the Housecat

Photo of a cat with its tongue curled up.
by Megan McClain/Unsplash

Sometimes when my cat looks at me, I wonder if she ever imagines leaping on me and sinking her fangs into my flesh, for although she is a housecat (and a cute one at that), maybe there’s a flicker within her of wildness, a pinch of inheritance passed down through generations from ancestors who lurked in tall grass toward prey, crouching in careful and delicious anticipation, then leaping from their hiding spot and chasing antelope (or other creatures) and tackling one and sinking their fangs into the flesh, because surely that pinch-flicker still remains in my cat, and that opens the possibility of it growing into flames with which the tyger burns bright in the house of the night, burning so bright that my cat attacks me and gets to feast upon fresh meat for once, not food from a can or pouch or bag, and would the headline of my obituary — DIED FROM HOUSECAT ATTACK — cause horror or humor in readers, or a bit of both?


copyright © 2021 Dave Williams

Rocky Road

Wine gave the illusion of courage, yet Alex’s heart thudded a rapid drumbeat, beads of sweat on his forehead and lower back from the heat of the imagined bonfire around which several dancers frolicked to the rhythm of that rapid drumbeat.

In reality, Alex maneuvered around the other patrons in the bar. He arrived at the lady’s side, then he murmured, “Hi.”

“Hi there,” she replied, louder than him.

“Rocky road.”

A frown on her lovely face, and she said, “Do you mean the ice cream flavor, or that you’ve gone down a difficult path?”

“The former. No, the ladder. No, I don’t mean a tool you can use to climb to second-floor bedroom windows. That’s creepy. I mean the latter. With t’s, not d’s. The second one.”

Thankfully, the lady’s frown eased away. “Do you mean your life in general has been rocky, or that recent events have been rocky?”

“Recent,” Alex said. “Very recent. The path to get to you. I’m not saying the bar’s floor is strewn with rocks. I’m speaking metaphorically.”

One of her eyebrows raised, a gesture that communicated some of the lady’s opinions and ideas. If only Alex could’ve translated the gesture, he would’ve understood her better. However, that was part of the mystery. Which was maddening and enticing at the same time.

She said, “Now that you’ve achieved your destination, do you expect a reward?”

“I already have it.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“You’re talking to me.”

This time she let out a little laugh, and the sound was sweet to his ears. “And what an unusual conversation it is.”

Encouraged, Alex said, “Do you have a taste for rocky road ice cream right now? Or is it just me?”

“I’m not sure.”

“We could try to find an ice cream shop and see if you’re up for it,” he said. “Or we could put it to the side for later. Down the road.”

The same eyebrow raised, along with the corner of her mouth directly underneath it. “You’re original. How about we have a drink, then we’ll go from there.”


copyright © 2021 Dave Williams

A Chilly Conversation

Photo of a circular thermostat on an orange wall.
by Moja Msanii/Unsplash

I went to my buddy Soka’s place, as he and I like playing card games and board games — seems like most other guys our age (twenties) prefer video games. I like them too, but it’s nice to get away from screens.

We were playing The Castles of Burgundy and munching on chips when Soka went to the bathroom. I was chilly, so I checked the thermostat on the wall.

When Soka came back to the kitchen table, I said, “It’s awfully cold in here.”

“That’s the way I like it,” Soka said.

“But it would be better for the environment if you put the thermostat a little higher. The air conditioning wouldn’t have to work as hard.”

Soka shrugged. “Eh. It wouldn’t make much of a difference.”

“But it would make some difference. You have it at 74 degrees, and putting it to 76 degrees wouldn’t be all that different to you. You probably wouldn’t feel the difference.”

“I guess it’s not that much,” Soka said.

“It’s really not. And if you can handle 76 degrees, surely you could handle 77 degrees. And if you can handle 77 degrees, surely you could handle 78 degrees. And if you can handle 78 degrees, surely you could handle 79 degrees. And if you can handle 79 degrees—”

Soka held up a hand as stop symbol. His eyes were aflame with anger. He said, “Get out of my apartment.”

Too bad, since Soka was losing the game.


copyright © 2021 Dave Williams

Lake Fishing

“Avoid the crowds,” he said. “Come to the lake in early morning. Really, really early. Slide the canoe into the water. Quietly paddle out, fling out your fishing line. If the fish don’t bite and the sky is cloudless, the stars will stun you. They’re bright like you’ve never seen before.”

I followed his instructions and caught no fish at all. But then, I barely tried. Once the stars caught my attention, I didn’t care about fish.

The Oddity of Marbles

Shipwrecked, we searched the island for other people. Found none. Instead, we saw many colorful plants and birds, and several chattering monkeys (which could’ve been the same monkey following us).

Strangely, we discovered big marbles all over the island. Theories bounces around us survivors about the purpose of the marbles. Some thought they were decorations, along the lines of Easter Island statues. But we found no evidence of settlements. No ruins of houses or pottery or hunting implements or boats.

As for me, I couldn’t shake the feeling we were being watched. I voiced that concern, but the others laughed and said I had a desire to be on a “reality” TV show. That is far from the truth. I prefer privacy. And I didn’t mean producers of a reality show were watching us. I meant aliens.


copyright © 2021 Dave Williams

A Devious Plot

In the building’s unfamiliar top floor, the gray hallways and countless offices were confusing, and twice he had to stop in an office doorway and ask for directions. Clocks at regular intervals pounded the lost minutes away from his desk. Finally, large doors loomed at a hallway’s end.

Harold checked in with the secretary wearing deep purple lipstick, and she escorted him through the inward set of doors. An enormous office ending at a wall of windows to a world of skyscrapers beyond.

Desked in front of the wall, the company president stood up and said, “Ah, Mr. Hardy. We finally meet. Please, have a seat.”

A firm handshake and sitting in the firm chair before the desk. Harold wondering if this was how it felt to be in a dank basement, roped to a chair, with a single, bare lightbulb showering harsh light down upon your eyes. At least the view was better in this office.

The president cleared his throat. “First, your manager talks to you, and then an increasing hierarchy of directors. Now you’re here. Tell me. Why do you continue wearing polka-dotted and striped socks despite these requests? Are you the mastermind of some devious, rebellious plot?”

Harold settled back in the chair. “Not exactly, sir.”


copyright © 2021 Dave Williams

Bartholomew Eskrew

Bartholomew Eskrew reached the end of his story and walked away from his writing desk and turned around to look upon the pile of papers next to the typewriter and said, “It’s got to be tighter.” And so, he set upon cutting the story down: removing unnecessary back stories of characters, tossing out implausible situations, slashing needless dialogue that really had nothing at all to do with the plot, crossing out descriptions of places that seem to go on and on and on. He worked like this, a man with a red pen instead of a machete that he would’ve used to bring low the tall grass out in the country to clear an area for a field next to a house he had built with his own two hands, a field in which to plant vegetables and fruit trees, a field with which to feed a family he hoped to someday have to bring life into the house and fill it with laughter, talk, crying, and more–all the noises of human emotions bursting out to remind ourselves we are really and truly alive. Bartholomew Eskrew worked far into the night editing his work this way. The nights strung together, each lit by a feeble light that some people noticed as it emanated out of the tallest window in the old house where many other tenants lived underneath the floor boards of Bartholomew Eksrew’s apartment. The light–seen by those people looking up as they walked the sidewalk, possibly gazing up at the stars and moon, or possibly simply stretching a tired or pained neck–burned each night, with each night’s light connecting to the next like a string of Christmas lights from years ago that’s dim but still works. Bartholomew Eskrew worked steadily, patiently, making slow, ponderous progress, for the more he read of his story, the more it seemed to him that most of it was him just trying to impress the reader, and he wished to pare this apple down to the very core where the seeds remained, waiting to be discovered. Night after night, the pages from the original pile lowered, and the edited pile grew higher. Finally, after two weeks of editing, Bartholomew Eskrew again stood up and walked across the room and turned around to look upon his writing desk and saw what remained and he smiled, finally satisfied with the story. There, on the top page of the pile, written in his careful handwriting in red ink: “He tried.”