Short Story I'm Working On
This is a short story I'm working on, I'd love feedback on it.
She says, she can’t remember where she put her camera and she has to take a picture with me before we both leave for good. I tap the heel of my foot and cross my arms. But she doesn’t notice the urgency. Even when the subtle knocking becomes a loud soundtrack to her weird way of sorting through the mess of t-shirts and acid washed denim and flower patterned dresses—by squinting her eyes at the suitcase they’re piled in—she just continues looking for an answer she and I both know has evaded her.
I study her fragile frame. She’s no bigger than 90 pounds because of the medicine. She begins to look around the crowded room she shares with her sisters when she visits for winter and summer, but never spring break. I give in and kneel down to help her.
It has to be here, I say.
Remember when you said you’d write that book about everybody’s life? she asks.
Are you still gonna do it?
Yeah, I’m working on it.
That’s gonna be so awesome.
She dives under the bed for something she says looks like her camera out the corner of her eye. She lets out a yawn. I catch it.
We both give up and go sit on the roof of her apartment complex. We waste time staring at the moon counting the stars out on one hand. There are times when you realize how insignificant we are as humans. Times like these. When you’re gazing at the night sky and you suddenly realize how many billions, no trillions or more people stared up at that same moon, those same stars with possibly these same thoughts. People who just like I am now, don’t want the present to end. People who realize their mortality and envy something like the moon that never dies, ever.
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