As I write this it is 17th December 2012. I've written quite a lot of these very short stories and have scheduled one of them to post every Monday starting from a couple of weeks ago.
Today (as in 17th December) I went through my notebook to see if I missed any old ones. This one is dated 21st November 2011. The next Monday I'm yet to schedule a post for is 25th March 2013. You might even be reading this on that day.
I don't think I've looked at it since I wrote it, and it touched a nerve. I almost shared it straight away with my friends on Facebook, but while I'm happy for it to touch my nerves, I don't want to force it on the nerves of other people involved so soon after recent events.
I think by March it might be alright. But even now I'm having second thoughts. I hope it's alright.
Eight days ago, from the day I am writing this, one of my drama school friends passed away, many many years before his time.
Everyone at drama school was absolutely fantastic, and pulled together to put on an amazing show just a few days later in his memory, and I feel incredibly lucky and proud to be part of such a wonderful company.
So this is for Dylan. It's kind of sad, but a little cheeky with it.
If It's Nice
I sat staring at the empty page.
The page he'd never write.
The page that followed ten more empty pages. The page with that day's date at the top of it.
It was Wednesday.
I took his pen and I wrote the following:
"Got an itch in my left toe today. Coffin too small to bend down and scratch it."
"Think I might go for a walk later. If it's nice."
I smiled, put his pen away, and left the room for the last time.
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