To write short, meaningful stories, one must think big and read wide, but watch and listen for the small things, the tiny moments when the best (and sometimes worst) of what it is to be human is revealed.
Recognize these moments, moments after which everything is different.
Write about that.
Paul D’Arcy tells stories. All real. Most brief. You can read more at pauldrc.com.
She’s perfect for ninety minutes.
First glass: she’s warm, charming, the woman who captured my heart.
Second glass: still funny, dancing in the kitchen.
Third glass: everything’s my fault. Fourth glass: she’s crying. Fifth glass: sloppy drunk.
I tell myself it’s menopause, she’ll come around soon.
Then open another bottle.
Thursday, my sponsor says, surrender works.
Friday’s dealer says it too.
Saturdays, my therapist says addiction is a disease.
Sunday, the priest says it’s a sin.
Monday’s doctor says it’s genetic.
Tuesday, Mom says I’m killing her.
Wednesday’s mirror tells the truth:
I’ll believe whoever makes this feeling go away.
Paul D’Arcy tells stories. All real. Most brief. You can read more at pauldrc.com.
The kerchief was stiff with salt, sweat, and machine oil. She pressed it to her face.
It was him, alright. Not much of a dad. Always working, drinking, fighting, womanizing. Never home.
He couldn’t make her bedtime, but could always make her laugh.
She breathed him in one last time.
Paul D’Arcy tells stories. All real. Most brief. You can read more at pauldrc.com.
Most guys find religion in prison. Not me. I brought it with me.
Four years of Latin, prison chaplaincy volunteer. I communed with monks, priests.
Now I sit in concrete cell, Bible in hand, wondering if God sees the irony in me preaching to men with cleaner souls than mine.
Paul D’Arcy tells stories, all real and most brief. You can read more at pauldrc.com.
Twenty-seven years.
You lean into your pencil. Learn shape, shadow, perspective.
Graphite grey, iron ore, steel shackles shatter in negative space.
Routine-etched canyons crease your skin.
Portraits come to life. Denzel, Biggie, Beyonce. Your cellie’s mother from an old, worn photograph. Your daughter from a news clipping. Celebrating. Without you.
Paul D’Arcy tells stories. All real. Most brief. You can read more at pauldrc.com.