WELCOME
Elliot / 21/ any pronouns
Hello! This site stores some of my writing that I wanted to share. Thank you for stopping by!
pattersonelliotn@gmail.com for inquiries.
TO READ
DEATH
OF THE
AUTHOR
art and love and artists in love / 2.7k words
I need to confess something to you.
That is, writing is a deeply confessional act. Writers confess something and readers consume it. Readers annihilate it. That’s our deal.
The confession might be a lie disguised as the truth, of course, or the truth disguised as a lie. And if I write a story about a murderer, is the confession that I dream of killing or that I dream of being killed? Or is it just that I dream of being that close to someone, the way two bodies are when one has a knife against the other’s throat?
elaborate ruse to share fun facts about fish / 3.2k words
FISH II
If the world stopped spinning tomorrow. If you were beautiful, if I were beautiful, if no one was. If I could invite anyone who’s ever lived to dinner for just one night, if I found myself in a hole and I kept digging, or if I stopped digging, if I could walk on water, if I could speak any language, if I could bring three things to a deserted island, if the timing was always right, or if it was never right. If I see you tomorrow I’ll tell you about fish. I spent all last night reading on them.
WILD RABBITS
a narrator who I don't trust telling me a story about other people who I don't trust / 8.9k words
The summer after my sophomore year of college I dreamt nearly every night of chasing wild rabbits.
On my late-night walks home from Russell’s apartment, I would only ever see the brown ones, but in my dreams I would see blonde ones, and white ones with black spots. A gray one, sometimes.
I told my mom this story when I went home for Thanksgiving. I meant to tell her everything, get it all off my chest, but some parts of it, I found that when I opened my mouth, I couldn’t get anything to come out.
I’m sure she noticed. But she was kind enough not to pry about the gaps and the inconsistencies. Or maybe she could just fill them in for herself. A mother always knows.
CHASING
ACROBATS
god is dead and the angels are leaving vienna / 3.3k
You can try to run from divinity all you’d like, Cassius had told me once, but it’s difficult to run from your own bones. Your own blood, your own teeth. (Is it the same thing? I had asked him. Running from divinity and
running from Vienna? I don’t know. Maybe it is the same thing. That is to say, it is to a degree, but perhaps divinity is such that it cannot be split into parts, only taken or left in absolutes.)