Evening Breezes

The rain fell hard on the roof of the car, heavy but hollow as I was driven to the funeral. I sat in back, alone. My friends were there but not one of us spoke. I was alone in my grief; selfishly refusing the possibility that anyone understood, or that anyone cared or could care. Somehow the rain helped, made it easier not to cry. It was cold when we arrived; the kind of cold that begins in your bones. I stepped out of the car and saw a clock with no numbers over the entrance. Was that a joke? I flashed angry, but it was only a spark and it went out as quickly as it started. There was no strength in me to react more. A gentleman in black hurried over to me. After a few seconds and an incomprehensible greeting, the man offered me his umbrella. I didn’t think it was much of an offer considering that the stranger had been paid to usher me inside, and his insistence felt non-negotiable. So, he walked with me. I hated him completely. Inside, a somnambulant dirge was already in progress. I sat and listened. People came and went from the podium. They praised and rationalized, and told stories from a book that didn’t relate to anything. But they were behind the lectern for themselves not for me, and not for him. The more they spoke the more I realized that not one of them had ever had a meaningful conversation with him. The rest of the funeral flashed by like a storyboard. Hugs from strangers and friends. Ushers helped me to the door. More rain and an umbrella appeared and blocked out the sky. A car, I sat in the back. Conversation, but I said nothing. Then, there was a restaurant. There was a round wooden table with a candle burning in an amber glass at its center. There were friends. There were beers for each of us. We talked awkwardly until closing time. We talked about nothing in particular.

The rain fell hard on the roof of the car, heavy but hollow as I was driven to the funeral. I sat in back, alone. My friends were there but not one of us spoke. I was alone in my grief; selfishly refusing the possibility that anyone understood, or that anyone cared or could care. Somehow the rain helped, made it easier not to cry. It was cold when we arrived; the kind of cold that begins in your bones. I stepped out of the car and saw a clock with no numbers over the entrance. Was that a joke? I flashed angry, but it was only a spark and it went out as quickly as it started. There was no strength in me to react more. A gentleman in black hurried over to me. After a few seconds and an incomprehensible greeting, the man offered me his umbrella. I didn’t think it was much of an offer considering that the stranger had been paid to usher me inside, and his insistence felt non-negotiable. So, he walked with me. I hated him completely. Inside, a somnambulant dirge was already in progress. I sat and listened. People came and went from the podium. They praised and rationalized, and told stories from a book that didn’t relate to anything. But they were behind the lectern for themselves not for me, and not for him. The more they spoke the more I realized that not one of them had ever had a meaningful conversation with him. The rest of the funeral flashed by like a storyboard. Hugs from strangers and friends. Ushers helped me to the door. More rain and an umbrella appeared and blocked out the sky. A car, I sat in the back. Conversation, but I said nothing. Then, there was a restaurant. There was a round wooden table with a candle burning in an amber glass at its center. There were friends. There were beers for each of us. We talked awkwardly until closing time. We talked about nothing in particular.

Aaron Safronoff was born and raised in Michigan where he wrote his first novella, Evening Breezes.

In his early twenties, he moved to California to attend culinary school. He fell in love with the Bay Area and has never considered leaving, although he did eventually leave the school.

During a ten year stint in the games industry, he worked at various levels and for several disciplines including quality assurance, production, and design. All the while he was writing a novel, short stories, plays, and poetry. Aaron was working for Cryptic Studios when he finally self-published, Spire, in 2011.

His career in design introduced him to amazingly intelligent, fun, and creative people, many of whom he considers family today. But when he won a Discovery Award for Science Fiction in the summer of 2012, he began making plans to drop everything and free fall into fiction. Cryptic encouraged and blessed his decision to leave at the end of that year, and he was able to publish both Evening Breezes and Fallen Spire in the following three months.

Today, Safronoff is co-founder of Neoglyphic Entertainment and working on his fourth release, an illustrated novel.