Keith R Wilson
Stories (8/0)
Balloons
I knew she’d been feeling depressed, so I didn’t want to fight anymore. I couldn’t help myself, snapping back at her, sometimes; even though it never did any good. She was snappish because of a chemical imbalance, not because of me, so I shouldn’t take it personal all the time. I should just be happy we’re alive and hope things get better. They will get better. I try to have a positive attitude, always.
By Keith R Wilson3 years ago in Fiction
Dancing With Scissors
Some say that art and travel make the ordinary seem strange so that we can see it in a new way. In the routine of everyday life, at our everyday places, perceptions of reality become blunted and stale. Instead of living, we shift into autopilot. Things that are strange: new music; novel artwork; an uncommon figure of speech; a foreigner’s accent; a different locale, clean the windows of our perception. By having to grapple in a more strenuous, self-conscious manner, we experience the familiar anew.
By Keith R Wilson3 years ago in Fiction
Turning White
“You want to know how I’m doing? Those motherfuckers got my eyeballs. I’ll be tapping around with a white cane while they’re in Bed-Stuy showing ’em off to make an example of my black ass. Some Witness Protection Program they got here. You want to know how I’m doing? You can see how I’m doing, and I can’t see who the fuck wants to know. Ain’t you got more of that morphine?”
By Keith R Wilson3 years ago in Fiction
Trimming
The snow fell heavy around Christmas time last year and remained ass deep for months. Phil pruned his vines all winter with Jack, the hired man, strapping snowshoes to their feet. The snowshoes allowed them to walk on top of the drifts; but their feet, not insulated by the snow, froze every day by noon. The vines were half buried in snow and they had to bend over all day to reach them. By noon, Phil’s back stiffened up, also. He and Jack made their way to the house each day at lunchtime to thaw out and straighten up. Phil told his wife, Carol, he’d rather lie on the hard kitchen floor than eat.
By Keith R Wilson3 years ago in Fiction
The Tree Sitting Contest
“Vern would tell you I enter a lot of contests,” Betsy said, as she stabbed a needle through her needlepoint hoop. Even though it had nothing to do with the question I asked, she kept on talking. I let her. I just let her talk, even though it told me nothing about why she came and what kind of help she needed.
By Keith R Wilson3 years ago in Fiction
Cornwhacker
Craig’s best buddy, Cornwhacker, got his name when their biker gang was riding through Nebraska and he developed a game of tilting at the corn with a long spear on his motorcycle, trying to impale an ear. The game ran its course and he tired of it by the time they reached the wheat lands of the Great Plains, but the name stuck. They shared a tent. Lest you think there was some greasy stuff going on between the bikers in the tent, you should know there was a Mrs. Cornwhacker, also; and they shared her, too.
By Keith R Wilson3 years ago in Filthy