By Trevor Pyle
He dumped the photographs on the bed and started cutting out the things he no longer wanted to remember.
Using orange-handled scissors he excised people, curving the blades carefully around their heads and shoulders. A squinting girl with pale hair like his, half her face in shadow. A woman scowling at the camera.
Soon he had a landscape with no people, a house with no windows. He saw the faded pattern of the bedspread peeking through the gaps.
In the hall, the ice machine coughed.
Morning, he told himself. Maybe by then. Maybe by morning he’d be free of the past.
such an eerie story, i love it. I like the images of sad, empty hotel hallways
Things always seem better in the morning–even when they aren’t. Vivid imagery of the narrator trying to excise the past . . .