The torches are lit and flickering, the old war chief Lake George coasters are loaded, the beer is frosty cold, and the sun’s drooped low behind the silhouetted Fricker treeline. Johnny made the post on Facebook, and on Twitter, and on Instagram, just like he does every year, and he got a ton of likes and comments from everyone he’s connected with, just like he does every year. Hardly any of them knew the man, and none of them hung around him when he was alive, but after he died, he suddenly had a tsunami of friends crashing down on the shores of his social media accounts, which have since been respectfully deleted.
Sometimes the washout following the death of a young man in his twenties is too destructive to repair, but that’s not the case with George; dude was a quiet one and he liked to keep to himself, and Johnny was his best friend, and Johnny just couldn’t stand all the randoms who claimed to be the same. If they were really his friends, they would have hung out with him when he was still alive instead of waiting until after he passed through the veil to tell the world how much he meant to them. George’s parents agreed, and that, as George liked to say, was enough.
But being gone off social media doesn’t mean one has to be forgotten, although Johnny is sure George’s name doesn’t often cross the minds of any of the many who posted gushers about how they loved George oh so much; every year on the anniversary of his death, Johnny and the two other guys who he and George used to hang out with get together to have drinks and share memories. They used to go up to Lake George every year – George’s family has a cabin up there, a cabin they decided to move into after selling their old house – and drink ‘til the fish got jealous, but now that George is gone, they just use Johnny’s back porch. He lives back in the woods just down the road from a reservoir, so it’s kind of the same thing. Not really, but kind of, and it gets the job done. The location doesn’t really matter whilst reminiscing about the good ol’ days, anyway; it’s the stories that matter.
And from the sound of the pounding bass in his driveway, the storytellers have just arrived.
Hello Commons, this has been the first subchapter of the fourth story from Convenient Incidents, an anthology of fifteen interconnected short stories which revolve around a man by the name of Hilter Odolf Williamson.
Convenient Incidents is part of the Third Spiral, an anthology of sorts called The Here and Now which is comprised of stories told from the various planes of Existence.
Convenient Incidents is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.
I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.
If you like Convenient Incidents and would like to help support my work, click here and buy an autographed copy of the book (or anything else!) from my store. Alternatively, you can snag a cheaper (and unsigned) copy from Amazon by clicking here OR you can buy the ebook for even cheaper here.
If you’re there, hypothetical reader, thank you for being there. Be well Commons~