You Doin’ Alright?

A short, simple fiction about healing.

Critical Country
3 min readJan 9, 2022


Photo by Waldemar Brandt on Unsplash

The layers of snow and ice crunched under his buckled ice cleats, as he stepped outside for the first time since she left.

He had no idea what he was going to do, but he knew he needed to get out of that god forsaken house. He’d been drinking himself to death, and the walls only grew closer each day.

He inhaled deeply, and the cold air cut into his lungs. Even though it was a sharp pain; he could feel again.

On the edge of the porch was a snow-domed, clay flower pot — she had used it for planting her chrysanthemums last spring. He stared at it for a couple seconds. When he finally broke his gaze, he took a step back, and hauled off to kick the pot as hard as he could. As soon as he raised his leg, his ice cleat came unbuckled and he slipped. His ass hit the frozen-over concrete, and all he could do was laugh.

“What am I doing?” He thought to himself, still smiling from the fall. He gazed out at the frozen tundra that used to be his driveway, and realized how dumb he probably looked. His Toyota Corolla wasn’t going anywhere in these conditions. He gave the flower pot one last look and lightly knocked it over with his hand. “I never liked chrysanthemums.”

He picked himself up and went back inside. He didn’t look at the temperature before he went out, so his bones were already rattling under his measly two layers. He went to the bathroom and grabbed the old hairdryer she’d left behind, and used it to melt the snow off of him, and warm up. The red coils within flickering like a campfire.

He didn’t even stop this time to loathe the two, hot pink walls she’d insisted on painting in the bathroom; only to end up leaving unfinished.

As he went to the kitchen to microwave some coffee he got a text from one of his buddies. “You doin’ alright?” He began to type the go-to answer he’s had for the past month; “nope,” but paused.

He began to think about the fact he laughed earlier when he fell. He thought about the fact he’ll never have to see chrysanthemums and hot pink walls again, and just as her memory began to creep back in; it was abruptly cut off by the microwave beeping — coffee’s ready. He clutched the free TD Bank mug between both his hands, and took a sip of the steaming brew.

“I think so.” He typed out on his phone, after erasing the n and o he had previously typed. “I think so.” He mumbled to himself.

This was my first real shot at anything fiction on this account. It’s not the most innovative thing ever, but I just felt like writing it! I’ve been wanting to do a little fiction so this was the first. It won’t be the norm but don’t be surprised if you see it reappear from time to time! Thanks for reading!



Critical Country

I’m Ethan, and this is my (mostly) country music blog: Critical Country | Top Writer in Country Music and Music | Contact me at