All right, so I'm entering a short story contest and for the first few paragraphs or so I was all like, "Yeah, this is easy. Wewt. I am fa-lyyyin'" but then I was like, "...Damn. What now?"

In short, I've got writer's block. I know how it begins, and I know how it ends. I'm just not sure how to get it there. I want the "you" to be hit by a car. And die. But I need to fill it up. Make a story leading up to it, and possibly a little bit afterwards. I've got the ending entirely planned out, I just need some filler. Anyway, take a look please. :wub

Life Is Funny
By S. Hof

Life is funny. That’s the first phrase that comes to my mind as I step onto my stoop, my hands shoved so deeply into my pockets that I can feel the pattern of the stitches becoming etched into my skin. I think this because the weather and the very tone of the world seem to match my mood perfectly this morning as I walk down the street at such a pace that the gentleman behind me quickly strides past and casts me an irritated look as he does. I know what he’s thinking. He’s wondering why he always gets stuck behind the hippies wanting to smell the roses when he’s in a hurry. I smile at him, a gesture he doesn’t return, and answer him in my thoughts.

Because life is funny.

Around me, a cold wind stirs the dead leaves littering the street and a crumbled sheet of today’s paper drifts in front of me. I snatch it in mid-air and deposit it in the waiting trashcan. The trashcan itself is rather empty, and I sigh when I see all of the normal inhabitants of trashcans much like this one lying all over the street. This litter, the cold wind, the irritated gentleman, and the cloudy sky above me paint a wonderful illustration of the mood I found myself in when I woke up not an hour ago.

I’m going to a very special place today, and I will take my time getting there. That’s the only way to go about it, really. I walk slowly, smiling apologetically at every rushed businessman who is unfortunate enough to fall behind me, and I remember what led to this trip and others like it.

In contrast, that day had such a sunny tone to it. Winter had finally left for the year after an unusually long stay, and the world was so alive. The grass was a luscious green, the leaves had replaced bare branches, and everyone was in high spirits. When we woke up that morning, it wasn’t to a blaring alarm clock, but instead we heard birds building a nest outside of our window. For several minutes, we didn’t move. Your head rested on my chest, my arm around your shoulders, and we listened contently to those birds. They reminded us so much of ourselves, although we didn’t intend to lay an egg or two anytime soon. The world seemed very much in love, like us.

When we had finally gotten out of bed and had dressed, neither of us wanted to go to work. I called your boss and you called mine; I told him you had the flu, and you told mine that my grandmother had become very ill last night and that I had caught the midnight flight to Atlanta to see her. I commended you on your attention to detail and you laughed and pulled me back into bed.

Later on, after breakfast, I kissed you goodbye and I went for a run. I felt as though I’d been hibernating, and I ran with such vigor and energy that I exceeded my personal goal of four miles by an extra two. In Central Park I bought a small bag of bread from a vendor and fed the ducks there, even tossing a few crumbs to a brave squirrel. It was a beautiful day, the sky cloudless and blue, and I wished that I had a camera.