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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My Illegal Aliens. Content Warning.
My Illegal Aliens Here I am in my hallway, pretty much the only hallway we have in the house, sitting on the floor and writing in my journal. Why? Aliens. Illegal aliens. The reason I'm sitting on the floor is because there are illegal aliens in my bedroom, in my office, in my guest room and the kitchen and the dining room and the den and the media room. My house is packed to the rafters with illegal aliens, everywhere except the hallway. This hallway. They're in all three bathrooms and the garage and oh, you know it, totally in the back yard, in tents. I think the ones in the tents have it the best. Those are three-man tents, and there are only three illegal aliens in each tent, so it's appropriate. The bedrooms have more than a bedroom should hold and too for the bathrooms, it goes without saying.
By Jason Edwardsabout a year ago in Fiction
Dex Boulder. Content Warning.
Dex Boulder, Private Eye. Dex is tough, a little bit crazy, a little bit hungry, a tiny tiny bit evil, a very wee smidgen of a bit cuddly. He's got a hat on, a Fedora: Amanda, Carla, Elaine, Gloria, Iris, Kelly, Melody--a dumb-ass name for a hurricane--Onisfree, Quinne, and Samantha combined together off the coast of South Car-o-line and with a seven year-period peaking couldn't blow that Fedora off his head, it's actually made of his own hair, his own scalp and brain tissue, grown and manicured to resemble a hat.
By Jason Edwardsabout a year ago in Fiction
Keep Calm and Bang That Drum. Content Warning.
Mabel Francis, 52, eyes of blue, five foot four, sun dress, inappropriate for the weather, appropriate for the season, inappropriate for what she's doing: chasing a dog. Appropriate for 197 pounds? Maybe. Mabel's been seeing a therapist for a few years now who's been trying to convince her how sad she is for having a BMI in the 30s when really she's been not only fine with it but actually quite happy since she was 47 and her husband left her for someone who was skinny and who then got cancer and Mabel would never wish misery on anyone and she wasn't glad the skinny bitch got cancer, just glad it made her husband sad when the skinny bitch kicked him out for thinking the cancer was his punishment for leaving Mabel. She's seeing the therapist because she feels guilty for being glad her ex-husband's sad. Good Christians don't feel glad when people are sad. But the therapist won't stop asking her if her weight affects her mood (it doesn't) so she's thinking maybe she should just give up Christianity altogether because then she can feel good about smiling and say, in all sincerity, Fuck you, Carl.
By Jason Edwardsabout a year ago in Fiction
The House Seller
I don't really want to sell my house but I have to I am told because my ex wife says that now that my new wife is dead or passed away as they call it she gets half of everything again and she wants half of this house and I don't know about Solomon or anything but half a house? Let me show you some of the peculiarities of the place, cause it's a house until it gets differenter from every one's else's house, and then it's a home. I'm 73, or at least that's what my doctor told me.
By Jason Edwardsabout a year ago in Fiction
This is Why They Number Channels Sequentially. Content Warning.
Theseus had been walking for seemed like hours, and at first he was tense, walking slowly, shield up and sword at the ready. But after a while of nothing happening, of twisting corridors, left turns and right turns and seemingly endless miles of wall, he had become a little less vigilant. Now he walked with plodding steps, head almost hanging, sword dragging. His shield was gone---he'd set it down to take a leak, and then forgotten it. The truth was he was bored, just so damn bored. Actually, taking a whiz on a random wall had been the most exciting thing that had happened in the last 60 minutes.
By Jason Edwardsabout a year ago in Fiction
Death by Laundry. Content Warning.
Karl walked into the laundry room, shouted “Motherfucker!” and then began to sort the dirty clothes. Underwear in this pile. Socks in the same pile. Dark clothes in this one. Karl stared at a wadded up ball of lint, from the dryer. It was sitting there on the counter, next to the sink. God damn it, Karl thought. It was sitting literally one foot away from the trash can. She couldn’t even be bothered to throw away a god damned ball of lint?
By Jason Edwardsabout a year ago in Fiction
Sucks to Be You. Content Warning.
She wakes up much earlier than she wants to but it's part habit part anxiety. On a Saturday in July she can overcome the habit, get back into bed after a quick pee, and have those late-morning dreams that people have, the ones where you're sort of in control. But it's the end of the fiscal and she has to go into work, so the anxiety forces her to try and actually wake up. She sits on the commode with her sleep shorts pooled around her ankles and repeats a mantra: shower, coffee, dress n drive. Shower, coffee, dress n drive. When she's done she stands up and pulls on her shorts, even though she's going to take them off again in about two seconds to step into the shower. On the floor under where her shorts had been, a quarter. She barely notices it.
By Jason Edwardsabout a year ago in Fiction
The Taffy Mafia. Content Warning.
People are calling them the Taffy Mafia, which is cute, but I don’t know if cute is a good thing for the little monsters. They come around in packs, reaching and grabbing at you, mewling with their scratchy voices, and sure, it would be cute in two dimensions, on a screen, or drawn up in a comic strip. But when you’re surrounded by a feral pack of little girls hell-bent on forcing you to buy cheap-ass taffy, I gotta say, it’s pretty god damned scary.
By Jason Edwardsabout a year ago in Horror
The Joaquin Dead. Content Warning.
Folks, if you're hunkered down for the night in some abandoned house, hiding behind a make-shift barricade, curled around a small transistor radio with the volume turned down low to save batteries and so the zombies won't hear and come crashing in to devour your flesh, if over the past few months you've seen loved ones massacred by hungry monsters, some of them still alive and driven to madness by our now lawless society, well, I can finally tell you who's to blame for all of it. It's Joaquin Phoenix. Yes, the movie star, the man who used to delight you in such films as Gladiator and Walk the Line (and well after I originally wrote this, The Joker). Joaquin Rafael Phoenix, of Puerto Rico, brother of the late River, and I'm sad to report, also now late Rain, Summer, Liberty, and half-sister Jodean, all of whom were consumed at the Phoenix compound, in, ironically, Mesa Arizona. Joaquin Phoenix, nominated several times but never winning Academy Awards, Golden Globes, and BAFTAS, whatever those are. Joaquin Phoenix, once called Leaf, is whole responsibly for the zombie apocalypse.
By Jason Edwards2 years ago in Humor
Onanismus cum Exegesi. Content Warning.
If you're reading this entry in your preferred digest of literary criticism, it's probably because you are a student of Guy de Mont Chalice and want to know as much about him as possible, via further study into the life of his third cousin, Gregory Shellaq. This thin article, then, will be an utter disappointment to you, as there is nothing more to know about the author of Grendal's Progress, Adolescence in Constantinople, A Queen's Reverie, and Forgetful Minions of Flower's Last Dance. By now you've read Watson, you've read Everly, you've read Tates. If you haven't, do so. And once you have, come back to this page, and be assured: you have it all. So stop reading, put this rag down at once, and go chase women or sniff daffodils or do whatever your sort of person does.
By Jason Edwards2 years ago in Fiction
The Wet Spot. Content Warning.
The wet spot. Something you don't want to roll over into. Jimmy on guitar, Lester on guitar. Kevin on the other guitar, but no one ever pays any attention to Kevin. Dave on bass, slapping it around like it's his ex-wife. Not that he ever slapped around his ex-wife. When they were married she outweighed him by 50 pounds and he was more or less constantly terrified of her. After they split she joined the Cross Fit and lost 75 pounds and now if she and Dave went to blows she'd kicked his ass thoroughly and her instructor would say, "Sorry Linda, I'm going to need another 15 minutes with the medicine ball or the climbing rope before I can give you your points today." Paul Fabrizio on skins.
By Jason Edwards2 years ago in Fiction
