Missing Logan

Fifteen minutes after turning out my light, Dad is back in my room. I simulate the breathing pattern of a sleeping child as he lies down next to me and puts his hand on my back. I don’t know where Dad’s darkness is, but he finds comfort in mine. He whispers I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I want to tell him he is my mushroom. When Mario collects a mushroom, he doubles in size and the world becomes much easier to complete. I don’t know how long he stays there because eventually his breathing grows heavy and then, so does mine.


Our three-year-old is poorly so I didn’t have time to work on a brand new piece for today. Instead I have adapted this scene from The Last of Logan. I wrote here last night about my plans to turn this 3,000-word piece of experimental fiction into something more substantial. I feel like I’ve cheated today, but I do like this scene. Perhaps I’ll write two today or tomorrow, Calpol and snot permitting.