George Jacob is a strategic marketing professional based in Greater Philadelphia.
All in Fiction
“That is the way. You are the unclean hands bearing sustenance, supplies, correspondence. We are the cleaners, the receivers, the curators.”
When Nathan was a child, he found her in a snow bank. He recognized her limbs, her body, her face—she was sleeping soundly. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and he decided he would tell no one. Instead, he traced her features with his glove and lay down next to her, his little secret. He named her Emily.
This platform is old and wooden planks, streaked in yellow paint and sprinkled in piles of salt. We wait. We sniffle. We breathe steam into the dry and jagged morning air.
On a Wednesday, Tom’s shadow called out sick. You see, it had been a dry and clear November, so Tom's shadow hadn't had any time to rest.
On Tuesday, Tim brought a picture of his baby in a baseball uniform. Did you see it? Well, his baby’s name is Dean, and Tim put the caption, “Deanball,” which is a play on “beanball” and made everyone laugh. It was adorable.
The second day of rain in the early summer. Through the apartment windows, Christian hears diesel engine downshifts. Car tire puddle splashes. Squeaky brakes coming to a slow stop. The sounds as the world shuttles itself through a gray, rainy dawn.
For tears and years, life rushes by, a colorful dizzying torrent. An orchestra blowing, bowing, plucking, and tuning peg turns in a clamor. In thumbs and fingers and spit-valve dumps, the noise grows louder. And louder. AND LOUDER.
I’m never sure how to start letters. Is that a good start? Do I need more of an intro? Probably not. I mean, you’re Santa Claus. You know a lot of stuff.
Driving home at night, from west of Philadelphia. The time change, the sudden and new early darkness, seems to have slowed the commuting class. Tack on 15 minutes if you feel lucky. 30 if you feel realistic.
Philadelphia in the fall.
Two men, WILLIAM and BRENT, are sitting on a stoop in front of a rowhome. They are drinking bottled beer.
Dear Nick,
The other day, Mrs. Rosenthal asked, “What do you imagine you’ll be in the future? Where will you live, and what will you be? Do you have anything you’d want yourself to remember?”
