This is something I wrote my first year in grad school. I really like the world I’ve set up in this short, and I’ll probably revisit it again someday. This kind of setting is right up my alley. Dystopias are where it’s at!
Fear of the Dark
Good morning Caesarea.
Pure air slithered through the widening gap as David’s glass bedcover detached, retracting to the ceiling. He lay there under the covers, letting the familiar radio voice of Tom Tolleran erode away the sleep still in his eyes.
It’s a steamy ninety-two degrees today, no chance of rain. Forecasters predict no end to the draught any time soon. The Order of Health has extended their call for conservation of water. Daily allowances per household are still in effect, so don’t get your hopes up for long showers just yet, and keep praying for rain.
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This one is kind of nasty. Please excuse the uneven paragraph formatting in this one — the file itself is pretty old, and I had trouble transferring it onto the blog. It’s a creepy piece I wrote for a fiction class in undergrad. It’s one of my favorites. Enjoy!
The Zinger
Paul and Stacy sat in the waiting room. Someone had scattered issues of Technology Today and Sailing Monthly, among other generic titles, across each of the three tables. Paul had thumbed through a few of them already and had moved on to twitching his leg up and down compulsively. Stacy kept busy going over various documents from her law office.
“Mr. and Mrs. Roper? Dr. Proley will see you now.”
Paul and Stacy exchanged glances as they stood: both hopeful but worried. Stacy rested her palm on Paul’s forearm, and it was enough to draw a smile as he squeezed back.
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This one I’m not quite happy with, but I couldn’t bring myself to edit it any further. ”Teardrop” became my first story to appear in print in the 2007 edition of Bartleby. It won the award for short fiction that year, so now I can pretentiously refer to myself as “award winning author, Jeremy Hentschel.” This story is about a little girl growing up in the sticks, and it’s dedicated to my mother.
Teardrop
I hated Christmas time. Some kids got presents on Christmas. Momma and Daddy told me I was a bad little girl, and I didn’t deserve no presents. Every year I woke up hoping Santa came, and every year I saw nothing under that tree. After a while I didn’t even bother to check no more.
The only presents I ever got were for my birthday, but they weren’t from Momma or Daddy neither. My grandma and grandpa sent me a birthday card every year, and inside it there was always a five dollar bill. Daddy always took it out before he gave me the card, but I didn’t care. The cards were always beautiful, and I kept them all in a shoe box under the bed. The best part was what my grandma and grandpa wrote inside each card. Every time I went over to their house they made sure I practiced my reading so I could read what they sent me. My favorite one came on my eighth birthday, April 10th, 1969 – the last year I ever saw them. It went like this:
“Happy Birthday Rose! Every year you get prettier. We hope we even recognize you next time you visit! Love, Grandma and Grandpa.”
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