A short, short story by Tristan Lutze
I was travelling home from Brunswick a few days ago when, from the window of my tram, I saw a white sheet hanging from the window of a church, directly above the door.
The words on it were simple, and poorly scrawled, but they were so rich with poetry and dramatic potential that I felt like I had to do something with it.
* * *
This wasn’t how He had imagined it playing out. As He lay on the floor of His living room, His hands blue with paint that was beginning to dry and crack, He allowed the memories of every missed opportunity; every glance He’d avoided, every word He hadn’t said to flow painfully over Him.