i n • p u r s u i t

I wrote this last semester for my Creative Writing class. It was submitted as a short fictional story. If you want the whole thing (it's about 12 pages) email me a request. I may or may not send it out. ;-) --- “What happened?” I asked softly. My only pair of designer shoes (which are overdue for replacement) made tapping sounds on the sidewalk as we passed the trendy tapas bar frequented by wannabe hipsters and gay men. Our hands were clasped together, and we were seemingly connected, but really distant. We had just left our favorite restaurant: a small, unpretentious, intimate European place where I’m sure that we were the youngest patrons by far. The dimly lit establishment, owned by an older, bickering couple, ran on what seemed to be a bare-bones staff without sacrificing good service. We ordered our usual appetizer of escargot de la maison—snails and mushrooms in a buttery garlicky sauce and matching glasses of merlot. “I hope you both had some,” the waitress said with a ...

I gasped as I felt the sharp, quick pain. Blood poured from the new wound as I quickly grabbed the nearest towel. I had sharpened the knife only a few minutes ago. I wanted it to slice the steaks with quick, clean strokes. I ended up also slicing my finger with a quick, clean stroke. It was not terribly bad; my finger had not fallen off. I removed the towel and looked at my finger. With a small piece of skin flapping and copious amounts of blood, it looked a lot worse that it really was. He led me through the apartment to the deepest room, his master bathroom. He fiddled through two first-aid kits and numerous tiny packets. My head filled with clouds. I removed the towel to once again glance at my finger. More blood. "I think I'm going to faint." I said softly as I slipped to the ground. I sat criss-cross-applesauce--the politically correct term for sitting Indian style--on the chocolate colored mat and he handed me a clean towel. The old one had been the one I used when ...