An opened up blue ironing board used as a bedside table is something I saw once inside of someone’s room, and I couldn’t shake off that image. So much goodwill in owning the thing, having it open and yet – for that room to have been so disorderly.
When writing this story, I wondered if an entire story could rise and fall inside of one room. Days spent in bed can be strangely all encompassing. I had this idea too about places and spaces, and the (maybe) difference between them, and also about memories living inside of spaces like ghosts. Everything else in this story is happy accident.
Read the full story here.