I write short stories. I own surprisingly few pairs of shorts. I sometimes short circuit.
"Alana" sounds like "A lotta" = A lotta shorts.

Take the title however you like.

Friday, February 1, 2008

Recluse.



Thom hadn't always been a recluse.

Thom had loved life once; loved people; places; adventure; laughing; talking; singing; the art and act of being alive.

But somewhere along the line - and Thom couldn't quite remember if it had been the marriage or the secret divorce or maybe it was the great ketchup-in-the-fridge versus ketchup-in-the-cupboard debate - he'd pulled away.
Friends would write to him with the common chatter of emails and community-based website comments: "Just droppin' a HI!"; "What's new?"; "Happy Birthday!" written in obnoxious sparkly glittery swirly flashy script. Family would call and leave messages in cheery voices with just-interested-enough queries into his life, his wife, his job. And for a while he was content to lie. He'd write back equally shallow quips of "HEY! Not much? YOU!?" and "Thanks! Wish you coulda been there, bro!" (why does everyone shout on the Internet?). He would call his family back and chat, chirping generic positives like "It's a wonderful roller coaster! I learn something new about her everyday!" in regards to marriage; he would pick out some inane detail about his job that he could be happy about like "They finally switched back to the Swingline stapler after a year of begging on my part!"

Thom, after a while, just couldn't play that game anymore. He began to feel either guilty or tired or both. He stopped calling back. He stopped logging on. The phone would ring and he would click it straight to voice mail. But just so no one sent the police to find him he would call his friends and family back, when he knew they weren't around. And he'd go on and on about how busy he was and how sorry he was that they couldn't seem to get their schedules synced for a simple chat. The world's going to pot the way they run us ragged, he'd say. We should all move to Jamaica, live at a slower pace and chat and IM and email and phone all the live long day, he'd say.

When Christine moved out (when was that?) he found himself a routine and promptly ground a nice, deep rut in it until he barely needed to be awake to function.

And being so removed, so vegetative, he didn't even mind it.

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About Me

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I'm Lanii. I try to Be Good. It doesn't always work. "Call Me Lanii" is sort of about that - my inner and outer triumphs (what?) and struggles. "Alana Shorts" is sort of about that, too: I draw way too much inspiration from the crazy and strange events that actually happen to me and end up writing very little 'fiction'. I usually have my tongue quite thoroughly stuck in my cheek.