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By Brian Weilert



Where others may doodle when bored, I strived for something much greater.  In place of the spin-wheels, checker patterns, loop-de-loops of shapeless scrawls and scribbles, I composed words; a short story to be exact; restrained only by the boundaries of the objects upon which I wrote.  I wrote whenever I could, on anything I could.  Often times these limited spaces reduced my scholarly pursuits to short snippets, each written on their own unique pallet.  Together they sequenced a sad life documented on the surfaces of the world.





On the back of a fortune cookie insert

He was never happier than at this moment with this woman.


A Post-It at work

He hated his job.  Short of feeding his genitalia to a convention of ravenous Guinea pigs, he thought coming to work was a very close second.



Margin of the Times

When she moved in, things changed he changed she changed things just….changed.



The March 29th square on a desk-calendar

The boy’s father always said, “When you put your hand in a bucket of water and pull it out; the hole that is left is how much people will miss you when you’re gone.  A bit of a cynic, his dad.  He had hoped it wasn’t true but as he emptied out his center drawer and loaded his things into a box: Pens and pencils, a stapler, Post-its, a tape dispenser, and his favorite Polaroid of his girl and him taken by a man in front of a Chinese restaurant, he saw people avoiding eye contact, busying themselves with the daily grind….and he knew what his father had said was true.



Empty microwave popcorn bag

She started spending more and more time sitting in front of the computer.  From the glow of the monitor he watched as she smiled, before flicking-clicking a rapid typed response to an unknown, unseen competitor.



The Napkin at Starbucks (all space used)

There she sits in the corner, piston stiff, greasy black hair, a vertical blind over thick-rimmed bifocals that ought not be worn by a girl in her early twenties. She is reading a library issued paper back with the cover folded hiding the truth that she has a passion for passion.  Several dog-eared pages reveal the fact that many teenage boys have checked it out.  She feels his stare and glances up, catching him in the act.  She smiles and he fantasize about all the things she is thinking about him after reading such a book as that.  She rises and waves.  He waves and his heart picks up its pace.  She moves toward him.  His hands are actually sweating; his mind is racing for a clever opening, his mouth void of moisture.  She nears, 10 feet.   It’s so silly, he has a girl friend, 7 feet, and the girl really isn’t even that attractive, 5 feet, but still- to be desired, 2 feet, and that book, she passes by.   He turns to see her hug a man with ratty jeans and an AC/DC tank top.  He is a fool in his own world.



A hotel receipt from inside his girlfriend’s purse

The man had been forgetting things lately, irritating his woman.  So, he wrote them down: two heads of lettuce, a bag of radishes, a bottle of wine (the sweet kind), and a National Enquirer.  He looked at the list and felt as if he were a child.  He became angry at her and tore up the list. It’s not like she was ever home to cook anyway.



The Bathroom stall at the airport

She left him for another man, a guy she met on the internet.  He was proud of how he kept his pride, stoic as she tried to push his familiar buttons.  He stood silent and unmoved as she packed her bags.  Self controlled as she smashed the picture, the one taken by a man in front of the restaurant. Impassive and unfeeling as she spat in his face.  All this, until he cried, a blithering idiot, begging her to stay as he drove her to the airport.



Coaster at a bar

Stale peanuts are like love….even when they’ve gone bad you can’t stop eating.