how to write a short story, part three

content/trigger warning: discussion of death, grief

I.

"For now, let's just take it in parts," the narrator says. I don't know who you think your characters are speaking to, but you should know that they're speaking to you.

If artificial intelligence problematizes creative writing, it's because the magic of reading is your awareness of the person on the other side of the page. On the page. No one really idolizes a character or a story; they are mesmerized by someone's ability to believe. This is why a cake will always taste better than a chair, and why no one will ever put their life on the line for a car.

I am always trying to say something. I am always trying to tell myself something. If I do it with care, you'll be told something, too.

II.

You have to know grief. It feels, when you feel it, like the opposite of hope, i.e., a vacuum, and humans need oxygen to breathe, so it's understandable why one would rather avoid it. But there are balms quite literally everywhere, on every corner. More common on a corner than in a home. More abundant in the middle of nowhere than at the center of everything.

Not everyone grieves. Some people live and die and never know grief, nor its balms. You have to know that sometimes this is worse. Maybe always.

The artist's name was Karen, by the way. The one who left the country. The one whose children died. The one who worked a farm, then wrote a book. The one who never said goodbye. The one who returned to say hello.

III.

A dog and a cat navigate a narrow alley. "It's too tight," the dog says. "I don't think I can pass." The cat replies, "Just go like this," and stretches out until it's skinny enough to wiggle through. The dog, much larger, does the same but gets stuck. "I'm no good at being a cat," the dog laments. "No," the cat replies, "it's just that some cats are good at being right here."

IV.

I'm still here.

V.

"You have this with something," the footnote starts. A short story is the transcription of a dream you dream while you're asleep. As tangible and accurate as a dream can be. A novel takes that dream and turns it into a building. At some point someone's going to want to live in it, and now you've become a landlord. "Take the scariest, most vulnerable parts of yourself," the footnote continues, "and turn them into a class. Review its syllabus. Enroll in it and attend. Try to take its final."

Don't be fooled; nothing is anything else.

But everything is right beside everything else, and someday that will be something worth rooting for.