Published November, 2015 in
Literary Hatchet, Issue 13
Small publishers help many writers to appear in print, often without turning a profit. Please support this publisher and purchase this volume. Since the first rights have now expired, the story is also printed below.

There was no true inspiration for this piece other than the length some people will go to maintain their appearance. This is a story about a man who truly enjoys his work.

 

The Middle Box

by DL Shirey

A trick of light. The wafer-thin disk spins, a mirror dangling from a silver chain, reflecting the chocolate-brown iris back into her pretty, pretty eyes. The left one, now the right.

“Concentrate on the color,” I say to the woman, none of that your-eyes-are-heavy or you’re-getting-sleepy nonsense.

The spinning pendant does not make her mind relax, nor the pendulum from one eye to the other. It’s the mirror and the vanity of seeing oneself, even for a brief moment. Appearing for an instant, then spinning away; reflected again, and gone; there, not there.

Her lids flicker and fall, breath evens out. She is asleep at the hands of a perfect stranger.

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Published Sept. 25, 2015 in
Saturday Night Reader (gone, sadly)
This story was originally written for a class taught by AnnMarie O’Malley. She was gentle in her (needed) criticism and urged me to revise and submit for publication. This is for you A.M.

g.lentz

by DL Shirey

Nearly every day I followed her. Bohemian and quite thin, it wasn’t physical attraction. Physicality, perhaps, as she slalomed sidewalks with that enormous fake Fendi bag, switching hands, using its weight and momentum to navigate through gaps in the crowd. She was g.lentz according to a Labelmaker font beside the apartment buzzer.

The grocery store had a sandwich window and stainless steel counter along the front glass. I sat on one of the stools waiting, her last stop as certain as Tuesday. I imagined her leaving the shabby Brownstone, with its warren of medical offices, adjusting her foot-speed to catch the crossing signal changing from red hand to green man. If her timing was off, avoiding the cluster of pedestrians by inspecting the pawnshop window.

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First published by Beyond Imagination, a digital literary magazine that, sadly, is no longer available. Fear not, my story is reprinted below.

There is an intersection near our house with a police station. An artist was painting a mural on the large, blank wall behind the bus stop. I wondered where he got the inspiration.

This was my first published story.

Deep Pools of Tepid Remorse

by DL Shirey

“Does the mural have a title?” she asked.

The artist pointed a brush toward the far left corner. “Inscription on the headstone, the quote is the title,” Curtis said.

He knew who the woman was, her reputation and why she was here. Deliberately he said nothing more. Q&A was the game.

He also knew the next question this blogger would ask.

“You always put quotes in murals but I didn’t know they were your titles. Where is the quote from?” said Trina.

The answer would be found in a book of poetry: Do not delve in deep pools of tepid remorse. One line buried in a sonnet written about him, about a night deep red with too much wine, when his new lover opened herself for the first time.

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