Jason Edwards
Bio
Dad, husband, regular old feller living in Seattle. My stories are a blend of humor, intricate detail, and rhythmic prose. I offer adventure, wit, meta-commentary; my goal is to make the mundane feel thrilling and deeply human.
Stories (43)
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Toe Truble. Content Warning.
So the other day I decided that maybe I have too many toes, and I should cut one of them off? It's not that I have a problem with toes in general, or anything. I like toes. But I was looking at my feet, which had always looked normal enough to me before, and it just seemed like now there were too many of them, so I thought I might have to take care of that.
By Jason Edwardsabout a year ago in Fiction
A Minor Incident at Parkwood and 45th . Content Warning.
The smell of laundry detergent and hot pork fried rice. Uncle Kris was stereotypical, Asian, and an asshole. He sat on his nephew's two-wheeler and stared at the house across the street. The sun had chased away any thoughts of clouds, shade, not sweating into his pit-stained v-neck undershirt. His jeans were thin at the knees and in the ass, and clean enough to make him regret what he felt like doing.
By Jason Edwardsabout a year ago in Fiction
The Frank and Zombie Show. Content Warning.
When I was five the government did something with the state line, and 20 families or so who lived a little outside of town found themselves suddenly to be citizens of Montana. I'm not sure why, something to do with taxes and the electoral college, I guess. The town had a meeting about it, with the New Montanans led by my father. The debate was whether the New Montanans should send their kids to Plaine's Pointe schools or not. George Suskers, who ran for mayor every year and lost, was of the mind that no, their taxes were now going to Montana, not Idaho, so they could ride the bus 30 miles over to Shenigni. But dad spoke eloquently and long. He was an engineer at the Plaine's Pointe radio station, KLKL, 92.3, and he'd grown up there, met his future wife there, gotten married there. And the Good Lord willing, he was going to die there, and be buried next to his Mom and Dad, eventually his wife, in Hope Springs Memorial Gardens.
By Jason Edwardsabout a year ago in Fiction
No Loitering. Content Warning.
And then Emily died. A bunch of guys in an empty mall parking lot talking about it. Not quite dusk. The dusk of dusk. Boozy belches acting as ellipses. Liquor from that place that sold Jack Daniels by the gallon. Or, if you didn't need something fancy, Old Crow and Red Savage in thin bottles with a curve to fit in the back pocket of your jeans. A sign on the brick wall that said No Loitering, right above a bench. And an overflowing trashcan. Always overflowing. Always.
By Jason Edwardsabout a year ago in Fiction
Steak and Robotic Eggs. Content Warning.
Down at the Grant and Franklin they got all manner of gizmo. Picked me up a Self-Buryin' Shovel, which I haven't seen since the day I got it. "Oh you'll find it when the batteries run out" says the feller behind the counter. But I also put in some of them Never Die D cells, which the ads say are worth every single penny. Remember pennies? I don't.
By Jason Edwardsabout a year ago in Fiction
Desmond Tutu Wore a Tutu to Tango. Content Warning.
Reminds me of the time Desmond Tutu wore a tutu to tango and solo-tangoe'd twenty-two times. I believe it was for charity. He raised one dollar and ninety-nine cents, which is a shame. A man of such renown should be able to raise more money by name recognition alone.
By Jason Edwardsabout a year ago in Fiction
He Has Not Forgiven You; He's Made You Mad
Something wrong with this apartment, but I'm not sure what. Like when you flush the toilet, the oven turns on (not really). Or like when I'll go to use the microwave, and the TV changes channel. I tried unplugging the TV, but then the shower wouldn't work. Plug the TV back in, shower works, but only cold water unless I leave the front door open. Unnerving. Try to open the window to see if the dog is still there, the faucet comes on. Let it run once, because I really needed to see that dog. Got thirsty, looking at that dog. Picked up the remote control where it had fallen off the coffee table, which opened the cupboard. Took out a glass, the alarm clock in the bedroom went off. Water from the tap tasted different than it did if I opened the refrigerator to make the tap run.
By Jason Edwardsabout a year ago in Fiction
Circle Six. Content Warning.
Circle six, beat in four, then thrust to his opponent’s neck. The lieutenant parried, made a riposte to the dirty brigand's seven, which the dirty brigand easily parried. Then the dirty brigand's cell phone rang, so he continue dto fence while pulling it from his pocket. All around them the queen's soldier's and pirates continued to battle, as the brigand answered his phone, without bothering to check the caller ID.
By Jason Edwardsabout a year ago in Fiction
A Hazy Shade of Thin Mint. Content Warning.
Liam is afraid to drive across bridges. Which sucks for someone who lives, works, plays and learns in and around Seattle. It's close to 3 PM on a Tuesday in June and I'm driving Liam's car. He met me at the airport, gave me a handshake and a brohug, threw my bag into the back seat and then got in on the passenger side. You want me to drive? And he said Yes, Liam is afraid to drive across bridges. In third person like that.
By Jason Edwardsabout a year ago in Fiction
Hugh's Bris. Content Warning.
Forty-seven-year-old upper middle class lousy lover and excellent writer Hugh sits on a skinny white chair and grits his teeth and grins and bears it, pretending his skull beneath all that flesh and muscle and blood is just a skull. Can Death die? I am not dying, I am death, Hugh doesn't say out loud, so she can't kill me, skinny little hardened piece of brie that she is, Loretta, forty-six, not a day over thirty-six, babbling incessantly, as usual, ad nauseum, Hugh's personal mausoleum, his penance for half a life of selfishness, he tells himself. He knows he needs to be around people more, needs people, needs to be seen with them if he's to be accepted for who he is, forty-seven, lousy lover, excellent writer. So he sits on the skinny white chair and listens to the skinny pale Loretta and pretends not to notice that all mastication is delayed micturition. The Chablis at Chateaux Cher is awful, simply awful.
By Jason Edwardsabout a year ago in Fiction
