However, today I'm a bit too tired. Ergo; here is an interesting piece of short fiction by Robert Coover. I'm also including a link to an article by a writer who carried a concealed weapon for a couple of months that is also extremely interesting.
I also write fiction
Ending to something:
I want you to know that our goldfish died; I killed him. Our neighbor flips on her light, and I can see across the darkness between buildings. For a moment, I stop writing. I watch someone who is not you, but it isn’t the same. I think about the millions of telephone wires strung across golden fields, the ravens perched on the wires, waiting for something to die, all the wires that run the length of the earth, and none of them are carrying your voice.
So I called you, and I pictured you picking up the line next to your girlfriend, swimming up from the acres of darkness you are buried under when you sleep. I had always wanted to skip with you, but you had left the water with a beautiful arc and flown onto some distant shore I could not reach. I could only call to it from the distance. You surfaced without me.
When your voice croaked, “Hello,” I waited a moment.
I whispered, “I forgive you. I forgive you.”
And when your voice faded into the hum of a dial tone, I hung up and turned on the television. I watched all the people behind the glass living their happy lives, and for the first time in months, I felt myself rising to meet them.
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