Story #52

Dear Readers,

I'm happy to report that my very short story "But the Coffee Is Excellent" has been published at Columbia Journal.

The following one-page story is the fifty-second and last in the weekly series I’ve been posting to this site for a year. I’m intending to collect all of the stories I’ve posted here—and a bunch more that I haven’t—into a book. Some of the stories for the intended book remain to be written. When there is news to report about the book, I’ll report it here. I may even post a new story from time to time, though the weekly series is at its end.

I’ve very much enjoyed this experiment in online self-publishing, and I’m grateful to those of you who’ve expressed your enthusiasm to me and those who’ve read in silence. If you’ve liked one or more of the stories and you have the funds available and you feel so inclined, please click the “donate” button that appears below this week’s story. (As always, friends and relatives are discouraged from contributing money.)

Thank you very much for reading.

Yours sincerely,

Matthew Sharpe

Story #52

I don’t know where I am. I’m walking somewhere, the ground is covered with snow, snow is falling heavily, I don’t have a coat on, I can’t tell if I’m on a road or in a field. Luckily I’m wearing warm shoes. My wife got me these last year for my birthday. And she got me this phone that I carry around in my pocket. “Hello, honey?” “Yes, Bill?” “Where am I?” “You’re out in the back yard, I can see you from the kitchen window.” “Quite a blizzard we’re having. What did I come out here for?” “To collect logs for the fire.” “I can’t find them.” “Keep going straight, you’ve almost reached them.” “I don’t think I’ll be able to find my way back.” “I’ll come out and meet you.” My wife’s face is next to mine now. Snow is gathering in her white hair. Her name is Gloria. “Come on back inside, darling, thanks for getting the wood.” “Why did my brother send me ashes in the mail?” “That wasn’t your brother, that was our son, Randy, he’s in Chicago, he sent you a letter and you held it near the toaster while you were making toast yesterday and it got burnt.” We’re at a doorway now. A strange old woman with white hair is pushing me through it. “Don’t push me, leave me alone!” “It’s okay, Bill darling, come inside and warm up. Thank you for bringing the logs.” “Hold on, I need to call my wife.” The old woman says, “Sit right here in this chair and call her.” “Hello, honey?” “Yes, Bill?” “I don’t know where I am.” “Don’t worry, darling, I’m coming to get you.”