Evan Quinlan

Archive for January, 2015|Monthly archive page


The Lovely Q

In Drabbles, Poetry, Short Stories on January 27, 2015 at 6:51 pm

She’s a rare letter.

It’s hard to think of ways to describe her, like when you play Scrabble and you could get a load of points if only some impossible word were real. You can try to will that word into existence, but when she looks it up in her dictionary it won’t count for much. So you have to try your best with what you have.

She has pleasant curves.

There’s that beautiful, shapely leg.

When you see her you want to say something smart but you can only make a kind of pathetic hissing noise in the back of your mouth. She’s the kind of girl who does that to you.

Oh, there’s a string of adjectives to try… quick-witted, equal to none, quivering (like an aspen), quintessential the-girl-you-love.

In the end, what makes you so lucky is,

she goes well with you.


I Had the Strangest Dream

In Drabbles, Fiction, Short Stories on January 27, 2015 at 6:33 pm

Yesterday morning you told me about all about your dream, but I didn’t listen. I tried to pay attention, but coffee beckoned. You said something about poison…? A conspiracy…? Superheroes, and how you had to fake your death. That was enough; I didn’t need the details, so I nodded and went into the kitchen.

People say about mirrors, maybe that other world is real, but it doesn’t scare you because you know.

…I don’t have much longer; I heard feet landing on the roof. It might be Superman, or Spider-Man, or any of them. They’re all here, and they’re all after me.

It’s been two weeks. The details are complex; the plot in which I am embroiled cannot be described on a single used napkin.

They’re coming. I need to escape. Or I need to make them think I’m already dead.

I wish I’d listened.


Better to Know Where It Is

In Fiction, Short Stories on January 16, 2015 at 1:11 pm

A face in the window is one of the quintessential fears. To have a pair of eyes—especially a malicious pair—looking into your home, the place where you’re supposed to be safe, triggers some of the deepest, most primal reactions humans can have. You’d think anything would be better than having an evil face staring at you through your bedroom window. But then you get used to it. Night after night, day after day, it’s there. You go outside to look but there’s nothing; it can only be seen from the inside. It never says anything, never moves. And that has changed my opinion on faces in the window. Because now I’ve come to realize that, far from wanting the face to disappear, I think I would fear nothing more than to look out my window one evening and see that it’s gone.