Will the Real Cheryl Strayed Please Stand Up?

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a woman and her box

Flash fiction!

absurdly yours, gry

living quarters

After a housewife spends hours before a glowing box pressing buttons, her hands sweating, her legs and arms weakening, her pupils dilating and contracting, fluids streaming from every orifice, she goes about her tasks which did not involve punching buttons or looking at a glowing box. These tasks, by comparison, cause little reaction. She goes back to her occupation before the box as if returning to an essential fire. Her life crashes down around her, her family leaves, her house disintegrates and is taken away, and eventually someone takes the box away. She spends the rest of her life dreaming about the times she sat before the box. She dies and is put into a box. The box that had been her glowing box becomes a black box piled on top of other boxes nourishing the soil with mercury, chromium, cadmium, and lead.

First appeared in The New Absurdist

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Why Don’t Men Read Books By Women?

“…[T]he tendency to choose not to listen to women’s stories in print, even when they’re fictional, doesn’t have a lot to do with literary taste — just like the insistence on only watching men’s athletics, when you get down to it, doesn’t have a whole lot to do with the quality of the game, as eschews of the WNBA so often claim. It’s about trusting women’s words and ideas, and being able to empathize with people who don’t look or live exactly the way you do. It’s about humanity, about recognizing that everyone’s story is important and worth listening to.”