Old Short Stories
Table of Contents
Most of these are a product of the Writing Fiction class I took sophomore year at university.
Perhaps it was his calm demeanor, or his talent for silent conversations, or his not quite disagreeable opinions. The consequence was the same: all these factors converged to make the man boring. Perhaps when he was younger, quicker, livelier, he would have garnered a handful of friends to converse with.
Relationships evaporated. The man’s education was over and his professional career was closing. He tried dedicating his resources towards a smaller group, tightly knit. Decades passed. The investments matured, but the gods of chaos took each of his companions before they were thought due. Everyone was gone.
The man existed: sleeping, reading, walking. He was probably sitting over a bowl of cold stew, equal parts carrot, potato, and water.
Skipping the typical phases of death, he expired quietly. His body, slumped against the counter by the table; his head, laid at a forty degree angle to his torso. A position impossible to rest in, but not unlikely to die in.
It was exactly twenty days till the aromatic nature of decomposition stirred the neighbors to action.