A journal of narrative writing.
What Ails Him

Jake's wife Cami drops a jar of orange fat in their living room, then backs out the front door, dragging him behind. Through the window, they can see fat spread across their purple rug. The couch and love-seat they bought when they moved in, the gray leather chair from his apartment, the glass-covered bookcase from hers, dissolve in orange froth. Their gray Tom, curled on the love-seat, leaps to the floor, turns orange, is gone. Like slow fire, the fat devours all in its path, then evaporates, leaving the oak floor scarred and bare. They walk through their front door as if arriving home after a war. "It feels like we've been robbed," he says as Cami sobs. A flash of orange in the ornamental coal-scoop; then orange smoke—or is it spores? "Watch out!" Jake yelps; but Cami's gone. His lungs prickle and itch. He feels a thick woods spring up in his chest. "Goodbye, camp-site," a family calls. Their Jeep jolts down a Forest Service road while, from their campfire pit—not quite covered in dirt—smoke like a dusty beard appears, then orange eyes.