You are currently browsing the category archive for the ‘Metaphor’ category.
Category Archive
Drowning in Air
March 29, 2026 in 299 Words, Autism, Broadcast, Flash Fiction, Life on the Spectrum, Media, Metaphor, Monologue, Opportunism, Opportunist, Publicity, Self-importance | Tags: 299 Words, Autism, Books, Faith, Fiction, jesus, microfiction, spectrum, veryshortnovels, Writing | by davidbdale | Leave a comment
Come in! We’re The Fishes! Welcome to The Aquarium! Hahaha no of course not. Not officially. Just a nickname. Dude, an ice-breaker. Drop it. Is this for broadcast? We’ll start in Michael’s room then. How big’s your crew? Shoot from the door maybe. Again, this nursery-room mobile of origami fishes has hung over Michael’s dresser since he was ill-conceived. The big blue fish represents me: Daddy Fish. Here’s Missus Fish, the yellow one. Sister Fish. Other Sister Fish. And Michael, currently purple. Correct. It hangs lower because it’s been repainted. Uh-huh. Often. I know. It upsets the dynamic. I fixed it once, but Michael objected as if I’d whacked him. What? How dare you. You there. Let him be. He’s self-regulating, OK? Take a course. Well you’re in his room, so. Want your headphones, Michael? My Boy. Now notice each drawer contains just one garment type— What the— Hey, don’t move that! Not for angles, not for nothing. Again, the garment drawings indicate the contents— Is the Fishmobile a metaphor for what? Look, I didn’t invite you here for this. There are real challenges, peckerhead. Cuts to government funding, accessibility issues, what the hell happens when Michael ages out of school…. Sorry. You’re right. This is just the latest in a lifetime of long mornings. You like metaphors?: when he was two, something kidnapped our son. It dropped a hook into the family and pulled him from the water flapping. We’d suffocate where he lives down there beyond reach, and he can’t breathe where we live. Get it? We wait every day to land a glimpse of him, and when we do, we wish we hadn’t because it’s like watching him drown in air. So. You need more footage? Squeeze in here. You’re gonna wanna witness lunchtime. Makeup!
Original Copyright © March 18, 2007
Revised Copyright © March 28, 2026
Homefield Disadvantage
January 20, 2026 in 299 Words, Dog, Family, Flash Fiction, Haunting, Home, Humor, language, Marriage, Memory, Metaphor, Parent, Sports, Very Short Novels | Tags: Family, Fiction, Life, Love, Writing | by davidbdale | 2 comments
I’m helping Dad break into his house. The doors are unlocked but he can’t use them. They could fall from their hinges and he wouldn’t step over them, wouldn’t cross the threshold, wouldn’t pass through the frame. We’re standing before one now. Don’t poet me, he says, doors are not metaphors. He’s right to discourage me; I translate everyone into bad verse, sometimes out loud. Just now I pictured Dad “tackled by memories” at every doorway because he played high school ball. Cheesy, but I use it to stiff-arm season-ending thoughts. That linebacker sprawled across the welcome mat where she collapsed coming home from their anniversary dinner? The linebacker with the boobs? That’s Mom. She won’t be getting up. Dad’s pain is real, but for me it’s a chance to sketch with the telestrator. See how the weak-side end-around avoids the dead wife. The obvious play is an out-route at the pantry, but that leads to the accessible entry he built for his grandson sidelined by an IED. There are losses in every direction, shut-down defenders at every door. His best man was clotheslined and dropped for a loss at the entrance to the garage. I risk telling him what I’m thinking, and he laughs without mirth and punches me. So we might get through this. But we never make it inside. The memory of Buster sprawled at the slider off the deck where he collapsed scratching at the glass takes Dad to a knee out of more than fatigue. He’s my wife’s Dad, actually. He hasn’t a hint of a bald spot. I touch his shoulder, speak his name, call him coach, help him up. He lets it happen, hates still living, wants to go. He’s offered us this house because he thinks we walk thoughtlessly through doors.
original story Copyright © January 10, 2007
revised story Copyright © January 20, 2026
Very Short Novels 