Now that the first draft of my novel is done, I have a little more space in my life to update you all more regularly. Recently, a group of writers (who also happen to be my friends) set out on an adventure to wine country to, you guessed it, drink wine and write. Though, if I’m being honest, there was probably a little more wine drinking than writing. But who’s keeping track?
It was a wonderful weekend of friendship. We were able to let our guard down, forget about the worries of every day life, and completely enjoy each others’ company.
It also forced us all to step away from our current projects and focus on the writing itself. Each of us were given a prompt and a maximum word count and then we were let loose. What did we do? We each wrote, in our own style, a short, easily digestible story, chapter, script, etc. Then we got to read each others’ stories and provide feedback. Risky, I know. But we’re all good sports. Phew.
So, without further ado, I provide you will my fun little short story from the weekend. I hope you enjoy! Feel free to leave little comments on how much you love it 😘
Al the Alien
Al was an unusual guy, everyone knew that. If you asked his coworkers about Al, they might respond, “Al who?” And, when reminded about the man in the cubicle by the window with long black hair that was always meticulously combed into a perfect pony tail and who never took off his brown trench coat no matter the weather, they might say, “Ah, Al. The one who likes paintbrushes.”
Al did not speak to his coworkers more than necessary. It is unsurprising to hear that they would identify Al by his paintbrushes. When Al first started at the office, Al’s paintbrushes were a point of discussion among his coworkers. Al has paintbrushes of every size and kind; some with plastic handles and thick bristles, some with wooden handles and wispy bristles; and he delicately takes them out of his briefcase each day and sets them on immaculate display. At the end of each day, he would take the same care and tuck them back away, taking them back to his tiny apartment with him each evening.
At first, his coworkers asked him about the paintbrushes, “Do you paint?” “Who’s your favorite painter?” “Which paintbrush is the best?” but Al would respond only with grunts or one-word answers if he even responded at all. Eventually, they all gave up and left Al alone with his paintbrushes and barely remembered he was even there.
That is until one day when two strange humans showed up at the office in perfectly pressed suits, their hair slicked back, and their polished shoes reflecting the light from the jarring fluorescent lights, and asked where they could find one Al Smith. Curious, Al’s coworkers watched nosily as the two people made their way to Al’s cubicle. When they reached his cubicle, Al was not there but his paintbrushes were. His coworkers knew then. Something was amiss.
In fact, something was amiss. Al saw the two humans as they arrived and knew he didn’t have much time. He quickly grabbed his favorite paintbrush (because he did have a favorite paintbrush) and left as discreetly as possible down the back staircase that no one ever used. He exited the building and took a sharp right and walked as quickly as possible to the subway.
He wasn’t going back to his apartment. No, he wouldn’t go back there now.
He hopped on the next train and patiently waited for the doors to close and the train to take him away from the people in the suits with the shiny shoes.
A few stops later, Al hopped off the train, clutching the paintbrush in his pocket and scanning the crowd to make sure he hadn’t been followed by the humans. He didn’t see anyone suspicious and so he carefully made his way through the crowd and out the station.
Once he reached the sidewalk, Al took a deep breath and held the air in his mouth. He wanted to taste the gasoline, dirt, and sweat of the city. He didn’t know when he’d ever get to taste it again and he had grown accustomed to the dirtiness. The thought of fresh air, or worse, no air at all, sent a shiver down his spine.
Before dread could settle in, Al exhaled and hurried down the street. It took him another ten minutes and several turns down back alleys before he reached his destination, a quaint boutique called The Petit Paintbrush.
There was a whimsical jingle when he opened the door and the clerk looked up from the book they had been enjoying behind the register. With a soft smile on their face, they greeted Al.
“Welcome back,” they said.
Al nodded but did not return the greeting nor the smile. He made his way to the counter, his hand fumbling on the paintbrush in his pocket. The clerk closed their book and stood up, the smile remaining in place.
When Al reached the counter, he clutched the paintbrush in his pocket and took it out, carefully placing it on the counter in front of the clerk.
“Ah,” the clerk said, “you are in need of an exchange?”
Al offered a sharp nod.
The clerk gave Al a sad smile and fought the impulse to pat him on the hand. Instead, the clerk took the paintbrush in their hand and then swung the small door that led behind the counter open and motioned for Al to follow them. Al did so and followed the clerk to the back room.
“Wait here,” the clerk said and then returned to the store, leaving Al alone.
Al waited patiently, taking deep breaths of the dusty air, it was fainter inside but he could still taste the city. After another moment, the room started buzzing and a faint green light began to illuminate the dark corners. A hole appeared above him where there was once a ceiling and, taking one last deep breath, Al was sucked up and far away, the taste of the city still on his tongue.
Rachel Potts 