Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been? by Joyce Carol Oates

Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been? by Joyce Carol Oates — The Aftertaste of Short Stories

There are some stories you finish… and then there are stories that stay.

This one didn’t just stay—it lingered, like a shadow in the corner of the room that you keep checking, just in case it moved.

Arnold Friend.

I still can’t get him out of my head.

At first, he almost feels ridiculous. The way he talks, the way he looks—it’s slightly off, slightly strange. But then something shifts. The more he speaks, the more the air changes. It’s like watching something reveal itself slowly, and realizing too late that it was never harmless to begin with.

There’s this quiet dread that builds. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… inevitable.

Connie feels so real. That in-between space—wanting to be seen, wanting attention, playing at being older than she is. And then suddenly she’s faced with something she doesn’t understand, can’t control, and can’t escape from.

That’s what made it so terrifying for me.

Not anything supernatural. Not anything graphic.

Just a girl, a house, a man outside—and the growing realization that something is very, very wrong.

And then something even more unsettling happens.

Her house—the place that should feel familiar, safe—starts to feel distant. Almost like it doesn’t belong to her anymore. Like it’s already slipping away from her. Nothing about it has changed, but the way she experiences it has. It’s as if she’s already been separated from it before she even steps outside.

That part stayed with me.

Because it doesn’t feel like a choice anymore.

It feels like something has already shifted inside her. Like the moment has already passed, and she’s just catching up to it.

And the worst part?

That feeling that he knows things he shouldn’t know.

That he has power in ways that don’t make sense.

That no matter what she does… it’s already decided.

By the end, it doesn’t even feel like a decision.

It feels like surrender.

I think what unsettled me the most is how real it feels. How easily something like this could happen—not in the exact way, maybe, but in the way fear works. The way manipulation works. The way someone can slowly take control of a situation without ever stepping inside.

I closed the story, but it didn’t close with me.

Arnold Friend is still there.

And I don’t think he’s leaving anytime soon.

Comments

a life so small – A poem inspired by A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara

How much can one achieve in a little life? a life so small How do you go about the day always getting in your own way? Clinging to skyscrapers tall Your friends are there yet you don't know why they care Jumping from fire escapes you're so used to the fall The bruises, broken bones, bleeding you think they don't see when you've held the shining thing to your torn-up skin a certain kind of dependency You let yourself shiver in spite of the arms that long to cradle you Cry yourself a river until your hollow spaces leave no traces Forlorn jungle eyes gaze at portraits that, despite their beauty, bring you shame soothes and destroys just like your name because you were baptised in the kind of water that doesn't cleanse but drowns What colours do you use to paint a lost cause who's also a patron saint?...

What It Means To Be An Optimist 🌻

Image source: Pinterest I'm the kind of person who believes that the world is a beautiful place. I choose to see the best in a situation. No matter how gloomy things may appear, there must be a silver lining somewhere. As an optimist, I want things to work out and I keep that hope in my heart. This doesn't by any means indicate that I'm blind to all the catastrophy and cruelty that goes on in the world. I've seen things and heard things that have shaken me to my core. Often I read books and watch movies that don't sugarcoat suffering and that depict life realistically. Being an optimist doesn't mean turning away from reality in order to live in an injustice-free utopia. When I read stories where the characters go through painful events, I feel their pain and frustration. But throughout, I hold the faith and hope that they will rise up and their lives will change for the better. In spite of the sheer hopelessness that surrounds them, I refuse t...

Wit Heinings(An Afrikaans Short Story)

Die trein kaartjie. Dis al waaraan sy kan dink. Die trein kaartjie; dis haar sleutel tot vryheid. Tot asemhaling, ja dit sal haar longe weer lug laat proe. Binne haar handsak – die glinsterende bottelgroen een wat sy verafsku, die een wat hy vir haar as geskenk vir hulle eerste huweliksherdenking gegee het (nie noodwendig oor die kleur, of die gehalte, of die prys nie, maar eerder oor die sentiment wat daaragter skuil) – tussen die voue, lê die vierkantige papiertjie. Sy vroetel met haar vingers binne in die bottelgroen mond, haar hand Jona en die 'geliefkoosde' handsak die vis. Uiteindelik voel sy die kaartjie– dit was darem nie ingesluk en weggevoer nie. En blaas saggies uit. Die agterkant van haar skedel raak aan die koel muur. Daar's niemand langs haar nie. Haar oë gaan toe en prentjiemooi beelde van 'n paradys neem haar verstand oor. Alleen lê sy op 'n goue strand, geniet die ligte somer briesie oor haar vel. Sal iemand haar as mal beskou indien sy nou '...

Row From The Heart

Search This Blog