Instead of writing fiction recently, I've been writing fragments like this one. What do you think? I mean, regardless of if it's crap or not, I'm enjoying taking a break from writing coherent, structured stories.


I want to write the fiction equivalent of an Air song.

I want it to be dedicated to you, and I want you to love it.

I want to forget about audience and salability.

And I want to forget all of the stuff I’ve ever read and ever will read; I want this to be new and for you.


But I have to buy a bigger bookcase, you know. Because of all the lit classes I’ve taken. I’m the nerd that doesn’t sale back my books at the end of the semester.

Anecdotes only go so far before they’re not poignant anymore, so maybe I’ll stop and construct a paragraph.



Nah.


It’s not about what I say, but how I say it, eh?

Well son of a bitch, there’s nothing new to say, so there’s no use in saying it.

There were seven apples on the table.
Seven.
The perfect number.

The apples aren’t perfect.
They look perfect.
Red and shining with polished wax.
But they're bruised.
Drying.

I ate one tonight and the pulp
disintegrated in my mouth
like tasteless powder.

It’s what I get for forgetting to eat dinner.
A bad apple.

Now there are six unholy apples on the table.