I ripped out the knots from my shoulders and strung them together like pieces of popcorn on a string. They lined my screened-in back porch: tiny trophies to my new found fluidity. Without them, I buckled my seat belt without wincing, grabbed my favorite coffee mug from the top shelf of my kitchen cabinet, and swam twenty laps without stopping. I tore down the muscly decorations after my friends pointed at my old trigger points with their Budweisers, hypothesizing that happiness would make me boring. As I flip-turned, I crafted group activities. Trips to pizza gardens. Climbing rocks. Anything besides drinking.
Jason Sprinkle is a writer and software developer from Austin, Texas. He is an Assistant Editor at American Short Fiction, and his work has been published in Trash Magazine, Moon Park Review, and Five on the Fifth.