Oh, the Places You'll Go

Not all who wander are lost, only those having the most fun.

Fifty [50] words is all it takes to go somewhere you didn't expect.

Pack light.

We won't be staying long. ⛟

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Departure, Terminal

The doctor points to several blurry spots on the scan.

"Three months, maybe four."

I nod, already planning the many trips I've postponed: the Grand Canyon, the Louvre, the pyramids, the Holy Land.

My bucket overflows with faraway destinations.

I make it as far as the parking lot before collapsing.

[50]

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Visiting Hours

I rehearse what to say the entire drive.

The guard pats me down, runs a wand over me, finds nothing but nerves.

My grandfather's smaller than I remember. Gray. Diminished.

"You look like your mother," he says.

I don't correct him.

My mother was his victim.

I am her vengeance.

[50]

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Rose is still a rose

He stands at my door, corsage in hand.

Twenty years since high school, but he remembers our promise.

"You said if nobody asked you..."

I'm between chemo treatments.

Bald. Nauseous. Exhausted.

He pins the flower to a rented gown. Wheels me out to his car.

We dance my life away.

[50]

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Sundown Suite

Dad doesn't recognize me anymore.

The man who built empires, memorized Shakespeare, and knew the name of every bird to visit that feeder we built together, now asks my name hourly.

Sometimes he calls for his mommy.

Yesterday, he wept, whispered, "Please take me home."

"Okay, Pop. Let's go home."

[50]

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Odometer

Every Friday, she drives past the house to watch a strange woman watering the lavender they planted together, her children playing with a dog he never let them have.

Her therapist calls it "unhealthy."

Her daughter calls it "creepy."

The restraining order calls it criminal.

Tomorrow, they'll call it inevitable.

[50]

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Detour

The note on the fridge said "Milk, bread, eggs."

I drove to the store but bought a tent instead. Then, sleeping bags, a camp stove, fuel, and matches.

Swiped a pistol, shells.

Drove west until the pavement ran out.

Been here two years.

Can't remember what we needed milk for.

[50]

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Roadside Attraction

A hitchhiker's thumb braves the rain-slicked darkness.

I stop because my husband never would.

Her soaked denim stains the passenger seat.

"Just to the next town," she says.

I don't mention there isn't one for ninety miles.

Don't mention I recognize her from the missing posters plastering the truck stops.

[50]

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Deadline

My protagonist dies on page 217.

I've rewritten it fourteen times. The fifteenth, he escapes. Walks out of the manuscript, sits in my kitchen. Drinks my coffee. Wears my clothes. Takes my wife to dinner.

The publisher keeps calling.

I hide in the closet.

Someone has to finish the book.

[50]

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Immanent Critique

Let the critic sing.

For you are wont to swim.

And while the critic stands where you began to curse the path you’ve taken, you have made it to the other shore, an island of your creation.

You've survived a voyage they will never understand.

Let the critic be damned.

[50]

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Not all who wander…

Maybe you remember. We used to rely on paper maps. Now, it's GPS.

The crinkled, coffee-stained atlas in the glove compartment has been replaced by a cool computerized voice telling us when to turn.

Convenient, sure. And so precise. Such efficiency.

But we’ve lost the joy of discovering beautiful, accidental destinations.

Maybe this is a little of that. So, thank you.

Thank you for wandering with me here.

Meet you at the next junction?

I’ll be waiting for you 🤗

—Paul

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p.s. Did any of these stories resonate? I’d love to read your feedback down below 👇

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