I was coming down from an acid trip when I found out my best friend had her first child. Outside of a club at six in the morning, I saw her husband’s texts and photos, a red alien wrapped in a blue-striped hospital blanket.
They said I could come. The cab ride from Bushwick to Morningside was the longest drive I’d taken in years.
My friends were unfazed when I arrived in my platform boots and mesh muscle tee. They just gave him to me, his nostrils so little.
I was airplaning over their lives, trying to understand why other people wanted the things they wanted. I was thousands of feet in the air and the three of them were black specks on a lush field, as indistinguishable as cows. He yawned. Maybe he’d been asleep before being pushed into light. I thought about telling him something. Don’t do drugs. Become a man who feels everything. I rocked him and told him in my mind: I know. That was scary.
I asked if everyone wanted sleep. There were nods. Her husband lay next to her in bed. I couldn’t look the baby in the eye because I couldn’t believe I was looking at a person. Instead, I listened to the room breathe and leaned against the wall so I could see everyone at once. People spend days and nights being born.
“Window Seat” is a finalist in The SmokeLong Grand Micro Contest 2025.
In its third year, The March Micro Marathon will be, as usual, a prompt-a-day whirlwind for 24 days. You’ll exchange drafts of micro fiction, non-fiction, and prose poetry in small groups and gather for a series of online events (all recorded for participants unable to attend live). We’ll finish with 3 competitions, and participants who are not already in SmokeLong Fitness will be invited to workshop with SmokeLong Fitness until the end of April!