tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10584167914624793132011-11-22T13:52:02.238-05:00Unless otherwise noted, all posts on this site are works of fiction. Any similarities to real people (living or dead) or events is purely coincidental. <br><br> All site content ©2009 by Jonathan W. Williams.Jon Williamsnoreply@blogger.comBlogger201100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058416791462479313.post-60804754955012711992009-10-14T23:12:00.001-04:002009-10-15T10:19:56.577-04:00

Or, Circle (cont'd) Against his will, he found himself dragged to something called "karaoke night," which apparently consisted of the worst singers in a three-county radius being, inexplicably, called upon to sing. Into a live microphone. In front of an audience, some of whom were in varying states of actual sobriety. He could think of few more horrible forms of punishment. As for himself, he

Jon Williamsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058416791462479313.post-14689898374152358762009-10-13T22:09:00.004-04:002009-10-14T10:12:09.936-04:00

Cold. Windy. Raining. I'm hungry, and exhausted. Of course I find I'm locked out of the house with no way to get in. Why would it be otherwise?

Jon Williamsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058416791462479313.post-47632797157001144242009-10-12T21:57:00.000-04:002009-10-12T21:57:42.638-04:00

He sat in the dim orange glow that fell into the corner of the bar, a slight smirk on his face as he cast an eye over the boisterous crowd surrounding him. The fitness guru with her body, her smile, her infectious laugh. The inseparable pair of writers, history buffs, one given to theatrics, grand lies, the other to apology or inflammation, depending on the moment. The bartender, the artist. The

Jon Williamsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058416791462479313.post-72838059735706290342009-10-11T23:59:00.000-04:002009-10-11T23:59:00.559-04:00

"I guess so," she said. "I just thought you wanted more." He paused, not sure what to say. "I did," he said slowly. "But that was then. Things change." She sighed. "Things change." They were silent for a moment. Then, finally: "So what now?" he asked. She was staring off into the distance. Finally she gave a half-chuckle and shrug. "What now. What now is that one of us has to pack our shit

Jon Williamsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058416791462479313.post-57635496621785608052009-10-10T23:48:00.001-04:002009-10-12T05:44:16.690-04:00

Here my troubles end. Here my troubles begin.

Jon Williamsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058416791462479313.post-20685494336543736582009-10-09T17:41:00.000-04:002009-10-09T17:41:04.595-04:00

Slender summer showers     Like lace on skin blossom in secret, immense whispers which build and swell     and slice into storms  of thunder and wonder,  of lightning licking like tongues, tendrils searching,   seeking shelter     like lovers, laughing  after standing  soaked and stranded in a summer evening storm. AUTHOR'S NOTE: I wrote this poem at some point in the year 2000. As far as I can

Jon Williamsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058416791462479313.post-65157254342560478332009-10-08T23:46:00.000-04:002009-10-08T23:46:10.758-04:00

The dance floor was crowded. Packed, more like it. I swallowed the rest of my drink, slammed the glass down on the bar and rolled up my sleeves. Between the crowd and the alcohol, my face was burning, and I could feel the sweat getting ready to drip into my eyes.

Jon Williamsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058416791462479313.post-5240952944944902862009-10-07T22:02:00.000-04:002009-10-07T22:02:59.474-04:00

I breathed a sigh of relief at that point, but I knew it would be a mistake to leave it at that. "Okay," I repeated. "Okay...meaning...?" "I'm not gonna do it." Her voice was raspy, but she sounded so much better than she had. Grounded. Calmer. I'm pretty sure I said something at this point that even got a weak little laugh from her, but I have no idea now what it was that I said. She

Jon Williamsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058416791462479313.post-3781869742882669002009-10-06T23:15:00.001-04:002009-10-07T12:05:20.020-04:00

Because I wasn't 100% sure what had happened, I figured the best and easiest thing to do was just to keep her talking. I had her try to explain exactly what had happened. I asked questions as best I could from what little I was getting out of her. She got more and more coherent as time went on and she calmed down, although she continued to insist that her best course of action would be to kill

Jon Williamsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058416791462479313.post-88418083388894892612009-10-05T20:01:00.003-04:002009-10-07T21:09:24.542-04:00

I was never wholly aware of exactly what triggered this incident. I did eventually puzzle out that it was something to do with her boyfriend, something he had either said or done. Or both; I suppose that seems likely enough. Like her depression, M's boyfriend was something that J and I were aware of mostly on the periphery. Of all the times the three of us hung out, I can remember only once

Jon Williamsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058416791462479313.post-31752900944648724982009-10-04T23:26:00.001-04:002009-10-05T09:44:31.190-04:00

"Lay back," she said. Close your eyes. He looked at her for a moment, wondering where she was going with this. Her eyes stayed on his. Finally he sighed, leaned back, rested his head on the earth. He laced his hands behind his head as he closed his eyes. He was aware of her lying down as well, snuggling up close to his left side, her hand on his chest. "Now," she whispered, "tell me what you

Jon Williamsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058416791462479313.post-61595160904645266632009-10-03T21:32:00.001-04:002009-10-05T09:44:57.989-04:00

And make no mistake, this is still home for me, despite the fact that I wasn't born here and don't live here now. Although, in one sense, I was born here. This is where I found myself. This is where I came into my own.

Jon Williamsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058416791462479313.post-23364498289735679552009-10-02T19:06:00.003-04:002009-10-07T21:06:04.690-04:00

Did I ever tell you I once had to talk a friend out of suicide? I was either a sophomore or junior in high school, so either 15 or 16 years old. My circle of close friends at the time consisted of myself, another guy (J), and a girl (M). Before you can ask, it was never a matter of attraction between any of us. It was just a serendipity of three teenagers who enjoyed each other's company and

Jon Williamsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058416791462479313.post-2379146349423908412009-10-01T20:49:00.000-04:002009-10-01T20:49:07.748-04:00

I clicked over to this blog the other day to see how long it had been since I had posted anything. Quite a while, as it turns out. I think that's probably because I didn't have any concrete goals when I started it. I figured I'd use it from time to time to work out some ideas, maybe occasionally post a bit of something I was working on, whatever. Obviously, that loose plan didn't accomplish much

Jon Williamsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058416791462479313.post-13707218200344864092008-07-01T04:00:00.000-04:002009-09-21T14:50:22.084-04:00

The reception makes me uncomfortable. More so than the wedding, which is a focused ceremony—eyes front—this is a social gathering and celebration. I feel awkward being here by myself. If it were anyone else getting married, I would have brought Laura along with me. Today, though, she’s a little busy, and finding another date never even occurred to me. I guess I’m not entirely by myself. I’m

Jon Williamsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058416791462479313.post-8050547160149063022008-06-18T16:16:00.003-04:002009-09-21T14:50:22.084-04:00

That next year, she started slipping away from me. I didn’t think a whole lot of it—we were in college, and busy. One night she called me, and I realized I hadn’t talked to her in over a month. Then she told me: she had met a guy. They had gone out a few times, she said, and things were going extremely well.She went on about him for a few minutes. How he made her laugh. How right it felt to be

Jon Williamsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058416791462479313.post-88530542700874391242008-02-01T01:13:00.000-05:002009-09-21T14:50:22.084-04:00

The dress is what catches the eye at first, of course. Pure white, long and flowing, satin and lace. It seems to glow, taking the diffuse illumination of the church and giving it back a thousandfold. It’s so gorgeous that it takes a moment to realize that the woman wearing it is even more eye-catching. Her tanned skin contrasts the dress exquisitely, and her brown hair is braided and wrapped in a

Jon Williamsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058416791462479313.post-56573569203185142132007-02-04T14:37:00.001-05:002009-09-21T14:50:11.915-04:00

He asked if Alexandra was her real name, and she just looked at him. She kept a half-smile on her lips, but that was just reflex. Alexandra wasn't her real name, of course--it was Lisa--but the question itself was a step into the danger zone. This was a fantasy world, and the paying customers were expected to recognize that. Asking about her real name was an attempt to penetrate the veil. He

Jon Williamsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058416791462479313.post-38642450141144237572007-02-02T23:20:00.001-05:002009-09-21T14:49:43.078-04:00

Rain pounded the windshield, coming down so hard and fast that it created a nearly solid sheet. He leaned forward in the driver's seat, the fingers of his right hand digging through his beard to scratch his neck under the base of his jaw before returning to the wheel. He squinted his eyes as he sped up ever so slightly, trying to get close enough to discern the taillights of the vehicle he knew

Jon Williamsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058416791462479313.post-44289633582125293382007-02-01T23:34:00.001-05:002009-09-21T14:51:10.920-04:00

It starts here. It starts now. I'm talking about my writing career. I'll be turning 30 in July, as hard as that is for me to believe, and before that happens I want to get things moving in the right direction. I may never make a living, or make any money at all, for writing fiction. I don't know. And that's the problem, really. I don't know. I'm almost 30 years old and I don't know. I've

Jon Williamsnoreply@blogger.com1