White Socks at a Funeral

By Caroline Wood

I didn't choose the titles of these short stories. Once generated, each word was used as the inspiration for 150 words of fiction. Except for 'One Hundred and Fifty Words', which was sparked by the process of using a limited number of words to conjure something more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Caroline Wood
• Release date: Jun 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005833244

Caroline Wood

Writing has always come to me more easily than other ways of communicating. Not always helpful or convenient in real life...I still make up stories in my head, as I've done since childhood.Overheard snippets of conversation, or a random word can trigger a story. My brain seems to do this automatically.I like to explore the dark, strange or the unexpected behind apparently ordinary life.The nice curtains hiding a corpse on a rocking horse. That sort of thing.But I'm less drawn to blatant horror. Instead, I like to look into the unsettling sense of things being askew, unreliable. A little bit twisted.

Book preview

White Socks at a Funeral

Published by Caroline Wood at Smashwords

Copyright 2022 Caroline Wood

Table of Contents

Broadcast

Charm

Wait

Attract

True

Demonstration

Emotion

Pottery

Brainstorm

Eat

Breakdown

Disagreement

Offensive

Hike

Contemporary

One Hundred and Fifty Words

Mystery

Shorts

Makeup

Minor

Abbey

Safety

Professional

Thigh

Temporary

Thanks for reading.

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Broadcast

He's been on permanent broadcast all his life. A long life now. And still he won't receive. No messages go in, nothing registers other than to trigger more output of his own. I did this I did that I am I was I will I used to I can I can't I did I didn't I I I …

We excuse him, allow him, indulge him. And resent him with a mercurial fusion of guilt and loyalty that he cannot comprehend or transmit. The magnetic pull of his ego creates its own universe, rendering us transparent, ether, anti-matter without past or present existence. He denies us, eliminates our reality so that we occupy only hollows, shaped to his version of us. Thin, one-dimensional, fading shadows, never quite formed. Without depth, without purpose or meaning, without achievements or autonomy or breath. We subsist