A Story About Glass
You didn’t know this but I walked by your house everyday and I would stop and listen to the music coming from within. Your windows open. The sound of a strumming guitar. Wasn’t sure if it was live or from the stereo. Then I heard your singing one day. Words about healing broken hearts of poor children living in rusted tenements. That day I was going to write a story about glass but instead stopped and listened, leaves rustling on a day it didn’t rain.
We sent letters to your last known address hoping you were still alive. But we found out you’d been dead for years. All those letters—family updates of job promotions, marriages, deaths—sent nowhere. Last week, we learned our letters had become a museum exhibit. At first, we were aghast; then, we saw it and weren’t. Viewers were moved to tears, as were we, seeing our handwriting, our words to you thought long lost. We can’t help but keep writing, this art form of you not dead, we still clinging to obscurest hope.
Christian Bell lives near Baltimore, Maryland. His fiction has appeared in SmokeLong Quarterly, Wigleaf, Pindeldyboz, Skive Magazine, rumble, flashquake, and JMWW Quarterly. He posts many of these little stories here and blogs at imnotemilioestevez.