This was what the job had become. Not the white-knuckle struggle his father had described. A kind of seated vigilance. Waiting for something to go wrong.
MYTHS AND MISGUIDANCE · PRACTICAL NONFICTION
For CDL New Hires.
You have the license. Now comes the job.
First-night packing, a solo-dispatch checklist, your first week, what to buy, and working with a trainer. Read the free excerpts on the dedicated trucking guide page.
A writer can explore a state of mind without living in it all the time.
Read the poem
Nobody listens. No one cares. Compassion dwindles; no one spares The time for what they do not know. What is the point in going? Go?
I’m faking happy, all for show. Depression isn’t theirs to know. For children, damsels in distress, Emotions count. Who hears the rest?
“Your feelings do not matter.” So I keep what hurts from those I know. Fake happy is a way to live. The work takes all I have to give.
Write down your thoughts. Let feelings out. Be shallow. Keep away from doubt. Don’t say what no one wants to hear. Write down the truth. Don’t let it near.
Those who can fake it, they are fun. They are the experts, every one. Don’t be unhappy at each turn. How many bridges must I burn?
Did someone say to feel this way? Suppositions led me astray. Did they think that, or was it me Who judged what they had come to see?
Are these my thoughts, or what I’ve heard? Did I supply the unspoken word? I doubt my thoughts; I doubt what’s said. There’s nothing certain in my head.
I judge the things I cannot flee. I keep my own views close to me. I hold my loved ones dear, but doubt How much to give when they lash out.
I’m happy being who I am. My honest faults were not a sham. Mistakes were made; no malice meant. I question how those words were sent.
My thoughts are scattered through the day. Still, other things help fill the way. My mind may wander; I must seek The peace I find when none need speak.
Life holds much more than misery. Some moments stay in memory. In finding peace with time alone, I relish quiet time at home.
Dark fiction by Cobalt Stone
CRAVITZ ROAD REPAVED
A road through the pines. A deed on the ground. People who know more than they say.
Near the old ammunition plant in East Texas, the pines crowd the road. A disappearance leaves more than one account behind. People have years to account for what they said, concealed, and let happen.
PlaceEast Texas pine country
At its centerA disappearance and its aftermath
The territoryPsychological horror · moral pessimism
Inside the story
The worst thing here may be what ordinary people can live with.
Cravitz Road · Work in progress
An excerpt
One of the chainsaws lay in the pine needles five steps away, with no chain on the bar. The chain lay embedded in “Low-Boy’s” face and right eye, extending into his hairline.
Written by
Cobalt Stone
Fiction about guilt, bad choices, and what survives the official account.
