Stand By Your Man

I hated my ending to this story. So I left it out. In other news, I wish I could dedicate all of my time to writing. It's really what I love most. I wish I could go to my professors and say, "Look. I know what I want. Let's cut everything else." If only. Right now I'm reading Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut--I'm now walking with an apathetic 'so it goes' phrase stuck in my head. It's weird.

I feel vague.





The steam rising from the lonely coffee cup on the kitchen table was the only apparent movement in Gideon White’s home Saturday morning, the fourteenth of October. If you had looked closely though, you would have seen a scrap of shadow here, a rustling drape there, a quiet reflection on the vase in the corner. If you had strained your ears, you would have heard the soft scrape of fabric on fabric, or felt a breeze on the back of your neck as if someone had rushed past you quickly from behind. There were secrets. But you weren’t paying attention. People don’t notice those things anymore.

I didn't like the middle of this story either.

It came to a head here: when King hit Sarah Coletharp in the ribcage.





I need a break.