I have a bit of fiction for you on this dreary Tuesday. This is called “I Remember” and it’s an exercise from a short story class I’m taking that’s taught by my wonderful friend Mart. We had 10 minutes to write whatever came to mind, starting with I remember. Here’s mine.

I remember summer, when the August heat was dense and smelled of watermelons. The coast was packed with tourists and those tiny shops that sell junk that breaks within fifteen minutes. The town was laid out like a patchwork quilt, and from the highway the beach beckoned like a colorful flag, promising sun and sand and romance. 

And that’s exactly why I was at home, with the air-conditioning cranked and the windows locked up tight. If anyone asked—which they didn’t—I told them I was allergic to the sun. It was like a massacre on my delicate skin. Usually they’d call once or twice after that, then the blissful silence would come.

Don’t think that I’m a recluse—that’s far from the truth. I liked to consider myself two-steps-away antisocial. That is, if you stay two steps away from people and don’t make eye contact, they generally leave you alone.

Of course, I have no idea what any of that means, but there it is!

All the best,



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