What a time we’re living through here, eh?
It’s almost too much to wrap one’s head around, isn’t it? Yesterday, as emboldened American idiots stormed the US Capitol, my eyes just about rolled out of my head from doomscrolling. When the kids got home, I had to put the phone down and try to forget about the whole mess until they’d gone to bed. By that point, I was too exhausted to pick it up again, which I must admit was a relief.
Although I’m not advocating ignoring the world at large, by the end of each day, I turn to fiction (be it televised or in book format) as a means of decompressing. Kazuo Ishiguro has been a comfort of late, as have the short stories of John Cheever and Ray Bradbury (among others).
On Christmas Day, (mac)ro(mic) published a little piece of flash fiction I wrote about family, the strains of the holidays, and werewolves.
Those two had been slugging it out since they were kids. They fought at school. They fought at summer camp, at picnics, at weddings. They fought on the ice during a game once when they were on the same peewee hockey team.
Sure, they loved each other. But there was no stopping them. They were brothers.
You can read the rest of “Lyle & Dwight are at it again” here.
Like much of what I’ve written since the pandemic started, I typed this up on my phone while waiting between appointments, during a pause in the chaos of a weekend, or at the end of a day. I hope it gives you a few minutes of reflection, and respite from the wild ride we’re on here.