David Accampo writer • designer • producerdavid@habitformingfilms.com
Posts Tagged ‘Fiction’
The Beautiful People: Who You Are
Today my name is Leopold Atari. My father, a bronze ambassador from Nigeria, carries the same wide cheek bones and square set jaw. My eyes will be my mother’s. She is Bao Jiaosheng, a Chinese diplomat who met my father at a political conference in Geneva.
Apartment House Blues
Leroy leaning on the black iron gate, Leroy owes me forty dollars. He’s thin as a lamppost, bent over, brown skin faded. Shit, I mean look at me. I’m black, white, everything, all mixed up, he tells me, thin arms outstretched, scant black hair curling up his forearms. Why did Leroy tell me that?
Where Were You When I Was Dying Yesterday?
Marc and Annette lie on the bed, staring up at the tiny white topographical map of ceiling above the bed. A single sheet stretches between them, covering the odd angles of their naked bodies.
Charlie Went Home
Charlie sets the notebook computer down on his lap, slides the clasp, opens it. Presses the power button. The machine grinds gently to life as Charlie sips from the steaming cup of green tea on the bench beside him.
The Devil Came to Rockville
Midsummer oily heat haze on the black asphalt roads when the devil came to Rockville, and Henry was the only one who noticed, out of breath, pushing his black-and-chrome silver Huffy bicycle across the sidewalk and into the flat gray parking lot of the Savings Corner Market.
The Physics of Apathy
When there is nothing left between two people, the physics of the room appear to change. A stillness overcomes the space between them, lazy dust motes trapped in a shaft of light. There is movement, of course — the nervous fidget of fingers, the swaying of legs, the tilt of the head to a slightly sharper angle. A yawn. But these movements become infinitesimal in the void between the occupants of the room.
The Art of Noise
Allen talks, a little too loud, a little too fast. A little too much. He’s telling Dawn something, and she’s listening, really she is, but more to the rhythm and cadence, wondering if he’s going to stop and take a breath. It may sound annoying, but Dawn doesn’t mind; she doesn’t really want to contribute to the conversation, and Allen doesn’t appear to require any collaboration.
The Island
The following piece is an odd one, even for me. It definitely plays as a companion piece to my other flash fiction story, “The Woods,” in that I appear to be on a little bit of a Lovecraft kick. I’m going to say that”s because I’ve been gearing up to write more Wormwood. This is a first draft.
The Woods
The following story is the answer to a writing challenge from Paul Montgomery, and inspired by the this prompt: “An old bachelor, having just moved to the country, discovers something strange in his back yard.”
The Incremental Time Traveler
Jude’s ability was — in the larger scheme of the universe — rather unimpressive. And yet, he took pride in his ability, as he felt it was something that was solely his, to grow and shape.Jude didn’t tell anyone of his ability. They wouldn’t understand. “Time travel,” they would say, “Bah.”