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Old Mini Sagas


Wind swirled up there.  The people below, shielded by the towers, swam through stagnant air.  Reflections from office windows pierced his eyes.  Everything was calculated; surely it would hold.  This was the time.  He stepped off the roof and into the air.

Below: "Look!"

A thousand heads gazed up in awe.

  I'm posting these old mini sagas so that everything remains in one place.  (By the way, I don't exactly hold firm to the 50-word rule: I allow myself some flexibility under 50 words, but never go over 50.  You've gotta draw the line somewhere.)  I wrote these sporadically over the course of a couple of years, and now it's my intention to post a new one here every day.  The first one is called "Walker."  As any mini saga, I think it can be interpreted in more than one way.  This one happens to be inspired by the book I'm reading--as I have been all month, and with only four days of the month left I'm afraid I may not finish it, let alone read another before February--Let the Great World Spin.  I've posted a passage from the book already.  Anyway, here are the mini sagas, and the dates they were written.


Without warning, the truck began its turn. The reaction was pure instinct--the brake, the brace, and the flash of clarity--This is happening. A crumpled wheel, mangled frame, and broken back lay in the street.
"I just didn't see ya," the man drawled.
(August 24, 2007)



Bleary-eyed and red-faced, wishing only for more time, I take the long way home--around the park, down the hill--my courage in my hands. Bearing down, my vision blurs and my mind enters a tunnel. How much easier would it be had I done something else that night?
(September 6, 2007)





Tiny, shining shards of broken glass litter the cold concrete floor, as the boy--toes poking through his leather boots--turns, with a fearful frown, as if to say to the fiery foreman, "Please forgive me."

(September 6, 2007)



The room is dimly lit. Candles burn and people sit in silent contemplation. Among them, one man alone bows his head and clasps his hands together. Rapt, he sits in concentration--perhaps he convulses, if only for an instant. The strings hum; the guitar prays.

(September 10, 2007) 

Zarathustra spoke of God; I can only speak of sleep.  Like God, sleep comes in small moments that can only be described as pure—inspiration, exhaustion, annihilation.  And it disappears as mysteriously as it came.  But who can believe in fits and spurts?  Like God, sleep is dead.
(April 23, 2009)



Taken / A Justification of Sorts / Details Matter

God, According to Corrigan