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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Bad Motorcycalia. Content Warning.
Jack Johansson strolled into Jack Scarlatti's office. It was a stroll kind of day. New sun, old enough to not be that exciting anymore, summer well ensconced but not bothersome yet. A status-quo kind of day, an even keel, que sera sera kind of day. "Jack, buddy," said Jack, while Jack shuffled papers and held a phone cradled between his ear and shoulder.
By Jason Edwardsabout a year ago in Fiction
Cougars, Tigers, and Milfs, Oh My. Content Warning.
Usually I run outside, but occasionally mom gets it into her head to go to the gym, but of course, she can't go by herself, so I'll go with her sometimes. I'm on a treadmill, with my iPod on. I don't like listening to music when I run, and when I'm outside, in the morning before the sun comes up, it's usually the right kind of quiet. But the gym insists on playing what passed for peppy music back in the nineties, and I can't stand it. So I made an hour long mp3 of white noise, and now it's blasting in my ears, erasing everything else.
By Jason Edwardsabout a year ago in Fiction
Hardy Laughter. Content Warning.
The door slammed shut with a loud bang, making Gary jump in his chair. Across the desk, Grayson seemed unmoved, as if this sort of thing happened all the time. He continued to scan the document before him. Eventually he said, "Door stop must have slipped. It's the new carpet. Still too slick."
By Jason Edwardsabout a year ago in Fiction
An Eulogy for Biffy. Content Warning.
Biff, Biffy to his friends, people who didn't like him but didn't hate him, not HATE hate anyway, didn't know how to delete google docs. Occasionally he'd open a new doc, change his mind, and write nothing. But that blank document would be in his folder, waiting for him. You'd think he'd remember the blank one, and use it instead of starting a whole new one. But you wouldn't think that if you were one of Biffy's friends.
By Jason Edwardsabout a year ago in Fiction
I Am Getting So Damn Tired of All These Ninjas in My House . Content Warning.
I am getting so damn tired of all these ninjas in my house. Stupid jerks. Look, I am not xenophonic. I'm not a bigot. I have three friends with Jewish names, my neighbor is a black guy, very friendly, and as for Japan, I even like sushi, okay? I am not racist. I'm just so tired of all these ninjas in my damn house!
By Jason Edwardsabout a year ago in Fiction
Lemons
You can't find the lemons. You're in a medium size grocery store. Big enough that they should have lemons. Not so big that you shouldn't be able to find them. But you can't. You've done a few laps around the other produce. This wall has lettuces. This wall has bowls of pre-chopped fruit. This bin's got potatoes. But no lemons.
By Jason Edwardsabout a year ago in Fiction
Paranoia is a Rorschach Test. Content Warning.
Walked out of Janssen Cilag's re-edit of Jim's World, saw the man in the trench coat again. It's Seattle, it's fall, it's cold and rainy, it's okay to wear a trench coat, it's a city one ninth the population of New York, go get a coffee, it's okay, everything's okay.
By Jason Edwardsabout a year ago in Fiction
YOU are the experiment
Chemistry 1-A at Dunmaru High is buzzing with the usual student chatter. Jenni Olmack's wearing that jacket everyone saw at Oldsen's, the one that cost like a gajillion dollars. Greg Tarkley and Michel Inbay are punching each other in the shoulder. Everyone's ignoring Lisa Besson because everyone always ignores Lisa Besson.
By Jason Edwardsabout a year ago in Fiction
Full Frontal Cottage
Just now, today, literally seconds before I started writing this very sentence, I heard of a thing called "Cottagecore." Apparently that's when folks are into and promote old-timey chores like gathering berries and making butter by hand and other crafts of that ilk. I think that's wonderful. Make fun of Portlandia-hipsters all you want (I do, that is, make fun of them all I want) but if people like something, let them like it, I say.
By Jason Edwardsabout a year ago in Writers
Lev Grettel, Crucifixion Specialist. Content Warning.
Lev Grettel stomped uphill through a field of snow toward the abandoned church. The February air was still, frigid, moist. Lev kept his head down with the effort, glancing up occasionally in anticipation. The church loomed, isolated in a field of white. The sun roared a dull whine, attempting to set distant trees on fire, failing.
By Jason Edwardsabout a year ago in Fiction
The Duel Arranger. Content Warning.
Jeremy Banjo and his brother Emeril standing back to back, in a field, wind softly blowing. Each armed with a Sig Sauer P210 loaded with only one bullet, hardened brass and steel core, one of those so-called "cop killers." They start to take their paces. Jeremy doesn't know it, but Emeril's been practicing. His goal is to fire at exactly the same time as Jeremy, and hit Jeremy's bullet with his own. He doesn't want to kill his brother, but he certainly doesn't want to be killed either. No, not at all. He's in his late forties, he's shorter than his brother, he's certainly heavier, but he has that wonderful bushy mustache, and he's well respected down at the firm, he still had his half of the trust in his nest egg, why would he want to die? Just because he's been cuckolded? No, which is to say yes, there was shame in being cuckolded, surely, but not so much that a man needs to die. Not even his brother, the cuckolder, or whatever you call them.
By Jason Edwardsabout a year ago in Fiction
