My brother asked who I voted for.
“Oh, you know me,” I laughed. We hugged.
Monday Night Football.
This commercial comes on. My brother says, “Can you believe these people?”
I’m like, “I know.”
Fourth quarter, I almost said something.
He handed me another beer. And I just took it.
Paul D’Arcy tells stories. All real. Most brief. You can read more at pauldrc.com.
He takes a personal day. Third Wednesday of every month.
Drives three hours each way. Gets forty minutes in a booth.
The man across from him has his hands, his eyes, his sense of humor.
Has fifteen years left on his sentence.
Has never explained why he did it.
Still.
Paul D’Arcy tells stories. All real. Most brief. You can read more at pauldrc.com.
Her name. Home town. LinkedIn. Facebook. The Team page on her company’s website. The obituary I found, then closed, then reopened three times.
Nuked it all.
Fifty-six years old. Healthy. Pillar of the community. Loved by all. Survived by no one. Abandoned by the only man she ever loved.
Me.
Paul D’Arcy tells stories. All real. Most brief. You can read more at pauldrc.com pauldrc.com.
He changed the locks in October, the month he got married. But the landlord used the same hardware.
She figured it out in under a minute.
She doesn’t take anything. She doesn’t leave anything.
Just stands in his kitchen, flipping through the calendar on his refrigerator.
Counting backward from nine.
Paul D’Arcy tells stories. All real. Most brief. You can read more at pauldrc.com.
Found it under her mattress. Wasn’t looking, just changing sheets.
Pages of song lyrics. Then drawings. Then letters, written like she was already gone.
I put it back. Exactly how I found it.
At dinner, she said, “Why are you being weird?”
“Burn the plans,” I said. “Keep the songs.”
Paul D’Arcy tells stories. All real. Most brief. You can read more at pauldrc.com.
She orders the salad.
Has for nine years. Every dinner, every work lunch, every birthday where someone else chose the restaurant.
At home, she eats standing at the counter while her family sleeps.
Not much. Not nothing.
Only enough to keep the number she carries in her head from changing.
Paul D’Arcy tells stories. All real. Most brief. You can read more at pauldrc.com.
He called. Nineteen years later.
She picked up on the second ring. Like she’d been waiting. Which maybe she had.
He recited what he’d practiced.
She was quiet.
“I know,” she said. “What else?”
He hadn’t expected that.
“Here’s what you’ll do,” she sighed. “Lose my number. Stay away. Goodbye.”
Paul D’Arcy tells stories. All real. Most brief. You can read more at pauldrc.com.
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.