fiction – Rachel Potts

This year’s writer retreat came at an increasingly pivotal time for me. As in, I have been facing significant writer’s block and have refused to even look at my novel for the past several months. Did I work on my novel at the writer’s retreat? Well, no. But did I write? Well, yes.

This year’s writer retreat for me was a not just communion with my friends and fellow writers, but about rediscovering the joy of telling a story. I need that reminder. Badly.

Editing my novel, I’ve been riddled with road blocks, frustration, boredom, and self-doubt. So much so that I haven’t even been able to write anything else. But this weekend I did it. I wrote a short story.

This year, we all decided to choose a single prompt and each write our own story based off that prompt. I won’t tell you what the prompt was, but I’m curious to see if you can figure it out after reading my short story! It was such a fun exercise and I truly enjoyed seeing the different directions each of us took it.

Now, without further delay – my short story.

She woke up to the smell of burnt coffee and sweaty sheets. The temperature in the bedroom was stifling. Had her boyfriend turned off the A/C when he left? Why the hell would he do that?

She rolled out of bed, stripping the sweaty, smelly sheets off her body and made a B-line for the bathroom.

She flicked the bathroom light switch. Nothing. She flicked it a few more times. Still nothing. She swore under breath and then peed in the dark.

Her boyfriend, Tanner, had only just started sleeping over regularly and, up until now, it had been going well. But the lights, the smell, the heat – what the hell is going on? He could have at least texted her to let her know the bathroom lights were out. She double checked her phone. Nope. Nothing. Not even a “have a good day!” text, which was his unofficial official way of her letting her know he had arrived at work for the day.

What happened this morning? She typed out and then sent him the text while she walked into the kitchen.

Sure enough, the light for the coffee pot was on. She flicked it off and walked over to the thermostat. Off.

“What the fuck,” she groaned as she jammed the power button.

Hadn’t they just been complaining about how today was the hottest day since like 1932 or something? Had he lost his mind?

His phone buzzed and a “Failed to send” messaged popped up on the screen.

“Huh?”

She checked her phone again. No internet. No service. The SOS in the corner of her phone suddenly filled her with dread.

This isn’t normal. This isn’t normal. This isn’t normal.

She raced to the front door and flung it open. She didn’t know what she had expected but everything was normal. No signs that disaster had struck. Everything was calm. Too calm? No, she shook her head at herself. Everything is fine. Stop being a weirdo.

Coffee. She needed coffee.

As she cleaned and prepped the pot, she turned her phone off and then on again. While the phone glowed the “welcome” screen while it rebooted, she turned the coffee pot on except… it didn’t actually come on. She did it again. She bent down and aggressively ripped the power cord out of the wall.

“I can’t fucking believe this,” she mumbled as she jammed the plug back into the wall.

She tried the switch again, giving it a couple seconds this time in case it was only the “on” light that wasn’t working. But when the pot again refused to do it’s job, she threw her head back and let out an exasperated, “fuuuck!”

She was on the bring of an actual tantrum.

Storming through the hot, sticky apartment, she made her way to the spare bedroom, looking for the damn breaker. She was going to reset it all or burn it down. At this point, she barely cared which.

She threw open the double doors to the guest bedroom closet and…

She blinked. Hard. She blinked again, this time a little longer.

No, they were there. Stairs. Where her winter wardrobe should have been hanging, there were now stairs that, yes, she was certain, had not been there before. She looked to the right of the closet and there was the breaker, exactly how she remembered it. She stared at the breaker and then back at the stairs, her gaze going back and forth.

Finally, she settle on a decision and took a tentative step on the first stair. With both feet solidly planted on the first stair, she swallowed hard and took another step. The staircase creaked and swayed slightly. She clasped the wobbly case iron railing on either side of the staircase and took a deep breath before continuing. The staircase swayed slightly with each step, but it wasn’t long before she could see the landing. Just a few more steps and she was there. It looked like… an attic space?

There was a worn, burgundy, chair in the corner next to a small bookcase and lamp. All covered with at least a few millimeters of dust. The standing lamp was glowing, softly illuminating the small space. The smell of cinnamon descended upon her and she turned her head to see a teapot and tea cup sitting, waiting on a small table pushed against the wall. The rest of the room was bare.

She walked to the teapot and placed the back of her hand against it. It was hot. She lifted the lid and was met with a gush of steam and cinnamon.

She smiled softly and then, hesitantly, poured it into the teacup.

With teacup in hand, she walked over to the bookshelf and scanned the titles in the low light. She was surprised to find a compilation of her favorite titles mixed in with others that had been on her “to be read” list for eons. She asked herself, well, something comfortable or something new? She closed her eyes and pulled a dusty book of the shelf. With a small smile she thought, something comfortable it is.

She settled into the chair, a puff of dust surrounding her as she did.

She did not leave for hours. Maybe even days. When she needed to relieve herself, she noticed a door she hadn’t seen before that held a small toilet and sink. When she began to feel sleepy, hidden away in a cobb-webby corner was a cot, creaky but comfortable. She felt hungry and found orange scones, her favorite, stacked neatly on a plate on a shelf.

Eventually, she realized that perhaps she had been there too long. Didn’t she need to work? And she saw the stairs, finally noticing them again. She placed the book she had just finished back onto the dust shelf and descended the stairs back into the guest bedroom closet.

As soon as both feet were flat on the floor, her phone tucked in her pocket and long forgotten, began to buzz. Her WIFI and service were back up and she had hundreds of missed calls and messages.

She stared at her phone for a long time, her brow scrunched. Certainly, she hadn’t been gone that long?

She clicked on her messages, her boyfriends at the very top.

Where are you? He said. Can you believe what’s happening? He went on, are you safe? And dozens of messages along similar lines.

She crinkled her nose and realized that she was inhaling smoke.

She looked back down at her phone and then back at the stairs. After another moment, she slipped the phone back into her pocket and went up the stairs.

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.

Tag: fiction

Writer’s Retreat Aug. 2025

Writer’s Retreat Sept. 2024