[RF] A Beautiful Paradise . shortstories

You look at the beach and wonder how a war could ever reach such a beautiful paradise. The beach is dotted with craters where missiles wearing your country’s flag fell and detonated. You walk along the pale yellow sands among the bodies. You’ve seen it before, but it still gets to you. Children ripped apart by shrapnel. A young mother holding her three children, but the lower half of their bodies is missing. Another man paralyzed by shock as he struggles to stand but doesn’t realize his legs are gone. Some are still breathing, but they won’t be too long. You tell your men to leave them alone. Save ammunition. The blood of the bodies begins to mix into the crystal blue water, washing back up into the beach in waves. A young lieutenant approaches you. The air raid was successful; we’re one battle closer to winning the war, he says. You notice his boosted morale. Good, you reply. You tell him to prepare second squad for a search party. He acquiesces. You walk towards the farther end of the beach, with three men on each side. You walk over the dead bodies, but you do not make any remarks when some of the squad spit on them and bashes their heads in with the butt of their rifle. Stupid filth, they say. A young petty officer notices your disgusted face, however, and tells the rest of the squad to shut the fuck up. Again, you say nothing. Seagulls caw in the sky above you. The beach seems to be clear. You order the petty officer to return and to organize the entire platoon for a search.You tell the rest of the squad to break formation and to search the bodies for anything useful. Any ammunition is invaluable. Food is a priority. Leave any jewelry and personal items on the bodies. They can’t carry all of it. They disperse evenly away from you, walking from body to body. You walk away form the beach towards the tree line to piss. As you walk through the trees, some devastated by the missiles you ordered, you see a small pale hand on the floor. Curious, you walk towards it to see the body the hand is attached to. Your heart begins to pound in your chest. You feel the heartbeat in your head. A sharp pain and moisture forms behind your eyes. You remember the first day of first grade. You remember that you cried because it scared you to leave your mother, and you remember feeling embarrassed that all of the other children saw you crying that day. So you laid your head down on your desk so that they couldn’t see you. You remember how the bell rang, and how you heard fifth graders read announcements through the intercom. You stand only for the national anthem, still covering your face with your right hand, because your left hand is on your heart. You hold your gasps in during the moment of silence. After the announcements are over, you lay your head down on your desk. You don’t remember how long it was, but you remember feeling a tug on your blue polo shirt your mom bought you because your school required uniform. You looked up to your side, and you saw her. She had the biggest brown eyes you’ve ever seen, slick black hair, and dark eyebrows. She wore a blue skirt and a red vest over a white shirt, and polished Mary Janes. You noticed the red ribbons holding her pigtails together. She smiled at you, with a beauty mark on the left side of her upper lip, and she asked, “are you okay?” You remember how embarrassed you felt, but you remember how you suddenly felt an awesome wave of relief wash over you. “I’m Natalie,” she had said, holding out her hand. “What’s your name?” You remember her telling you how she was new. She’d been in a private school until her father passed away over the summer. But you couldn’t tell. Her smile lit you up that morning. You remember how over the next few days she sat next to you again. You remember talking to her every chance you could, and how she never came across as anything but nice. You didn’t know it then, but she was your first crush. She played tag with you and your friends during recess, and you noticed how beautiful she still looked with her cheeks red and the top button of her shirt unfastened, even though she was sweating. Everything seemed to be okay for her. And you remember feeling like you had a real friend. You remember the time you went to her house over the summer to her birthday party. Less than half of the kids showed up, but you remember the big smile on her face as her mother walked the cake over to the dining room table. You remember her embarrassed face while they sang “Happy Birthday” to her, and how she closed her eyes to make a wish. You remember staying after the party because your mother was running late to pick you up. She sat in her living room with you as she opened the GameBoy she received as a present earlier. You remember how she went the kitchen to get you grape juice, but when she took a long time you got up to see if everything was okay and you found her crying as she looked at the picture of her father that was on the refrigerator. You wanted to comfort her, but your home life was perfect and you didn’t know how. You remember you left because your mother had arrived and didn’t know how to say goodbye. You remember how on the first day of second grade your face lit up when she walked into your classroom, and how her hair smelled like cherries when she gave you a hug. She was wearing the same clothes that day, and she did as the school year carried on. She went to the library with you during lunch and read “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” with you, instead of playing near the swings at recess with the other children. You remember her asking you why you didn’t go to recess, and how when you told her you liked to read, she said, “you’re so smart!” You remember how when your teacher, Mrs. Alcala, called for the class to line up, Natalie would always be right in front of you. You remember how she would flick her hair into your face playfully. You called her “the Devil” and you remember how she turned around, shocked, but simply replied, “no, you’re the Devil!” And laughed. You remember how Anthony Mead would pick on her. He liked her, you could tell, but you remember when he shoved her playfully on the staircase and she had to get stitches on her head that day. But the next day she wasn’t sitting next to you in class. She wasn’t there the next day either. You remember feeling worried, like she’d left a void in you that you didn’t even know she filled. You remember when she came back the next week, she was more quiet. She didn’t flick her hair in your face anymore. She smiled at you, but during the moments she spoke you felt how she was putting distance between you. You remember how every day after that she looked sadder. She sat at her desk, resting her head on her arms, staring at her worksheets. At recess she sat on the sidewalk next to the teachers by herself. She didn’t show up to school at all for Field Day, and you remember how eventually you began to pretend not to notice her absence when Anthony Mead called her “your little girlfriend”. You remember how her eyes were red constantly. You remember how she didn’t wait for you after the last bell anymore. You remember the last time you saw her, on the last day of second grade, holding her notebook against her chest as her mother picked her up. You remember how you through away the card you were going to give her, that told of how you hoped you would see her again next year. You remember how you threw away the daisy you had picked from the edges of the playground, that you knew she liked because you remember how she’d put them in her hair. You remember how you waited and waited on the first day of third grade for her to walk into your classroom, with her pigtails, her Mary Janes, and her uniform. You remember looking for her at lunch, thinking she had been assigned a different homeroom. You remember looking for her at recess, but Gabrielle Newman told you that she’d moved away over the summer. You were too shy to ask anybody else, until Anthony Mead came up to you at recess in November and told you that he heard Natalie had gotten “something called ‘luke heema” and had moved to Mexico to receive treatment. You remember this was also the only time Anthony Mead was nice to you, because he moved away to South Carolina two weeks later. You remember how you grew up, but you never grew out. You remember your first day of middle school and your first day of high school, and every phase you ever went through. You remember how your music taste changed, you wanted to watch different movies, and how you constantly begged your mom to buy you new clothes to keep up with trends. You remember how you gained a lot of weight but lost a lot of it your junior year of high school. You remember how your family kept reminding you how much taller you were getting, and you remember Maryela, the girlfriend you had in high school, and how she followed you to college. You remember how Maryela supported you when you decided to commission in the military, even though your father was upset. You remember how sometimes when you were alone you’d wonder if Maryela was the one, because as lovely as she was, and as much as your family loved her, you never felt the same as you did with Natalie. You remember all the changes you went through, the friends you made, and even when you started to accept that maybe your memories of Natalie weren’t as glorious as you thought they were, you still though of her every once in a while. You remember coming home from Officer Candidates School. You remember your commissioning ceremony and how proud your parents looked when they saw you uniform. You remembered how beautiful Maryela looked in a white dress she’d bought for the ceremony, and how beautiful she looked under the string lights as you danced. You remember how tears rolled down her eyes when you broke up with her later that night because you thought you deserved better, because you thought you deserved Natalie. You remember feeling foolish, and how by the time you came to your senses, Maryela had married someone else. You remember being at Camp Lejeune and receiving a phone call, and how that phone call told you that your parents, your only living family, had been killed in their home by an illegal immigrant, although you didn’t realize why that detail needed to be said. You remember how you were angry, and how that anger motivated you, and how that motivation allowed you to quickly rise up through the ranks. You remember how you never made any more meaningful relationships with anyone, how you never had the children you dreamed of raising. You remember you were at the military ball when the television displays suddenly tuned to an image of your leader, and how your leader announced that your country had just entered a state of war with another country. You remember the chaos that followed, and how everyone at the Officer’s Club was so drunk they hardly remembered it the next morning. You remember leading your men to victory after victory. You remember how you were assigned to the southern beaches a few weeks earlier, and how the young lieutenant had told you about the civilian village ten miles south. You remember ordering the air raid. You remember hearing the missiles exploding, sending fire, flesh, and sand into the air. And now you’re standing at the foot of a tree, with a lifeless body in front of you. Her beauty mark is bigger, and you realize that her hair is different, but her dark eyebrows and mousy little nose is the same. For a second you try to convince yourself it isn’t her, until you find her wallet on her breast and you open it. NATALIA DUERRE VILLASEÑOR She’d gotten married, you realize, because her maiden name came after Duerre. Perhaps he was French. You notice she has light scars on her wrist and you wonder what she went through after she left you on the last day of second grade. Her eyes are still open, so you close them. You heart beats harder. Natalie. Your Natalie. After all these years… Natalie. You hear footsteps behind you, but you don’t pay attention to them. You stare at her lifeless body, watching as blood begins to pool on the soil to her right. You hear the voice of the petty officer behind you, as he asks you if everything is alright. You simply nod without turning around to face him. You close your eyes. They’re burning now, as you hold back tears, and hope that you can control yourself so your men do not see you as vulnerable. You hear a young soldier walk up next you. “Shame. She was hot,” he utters. You don’t think about it. You punch him in the gut. He falls to the ground and struggles to catch his breath. His surprised eyes try to fixate themselves on you. After a few moments, he begins to get up. When he’s on one knee, you take out your revolver and unload six shells into his head. His body takes a while to fall backwards. You look towards the rest of the squad, who looked scared, but you put your revolve away. You walk back out onto the beach and tell the squad to go back to the base. As they leave, you find daisies growing in the grass a few feet away. You pick up the prettiest ones and lay them next to Natalie. For the first time in ten years, you begin to cry. You think about the first time she smiled at you. How she hid her sadness under a smile everyday. How she had fought cancer and survived. You realize that she eventually fell in love and got married, but you’re confident she remembered you sometimes. You think about how years of dodging death had been rendered pointless because of the air raid you ordered. Because of the false power you had. Because you wanted to win a war. You look back out towards the beach as the sun begins to set. The glare illuminates the sea in a bright yellow color, and only by standing in it you watch how the blood washes away from the bodies, but keeps washing back. You contemplate how a war could ever reach such a beautiful paradise. 

Submitted January 15, 2018 at 02:13AM by danieldlp http://ift.tt/2DwCOmx shortstories

[RF] A Beautiful Paradise . shortstories

You look at the beach and wonder how a war could ever reach such a beautiful paradise. The beach is dotted with craters where missiles wearing your country’s flag fell and detonated. You walk along the pale yellow sands among the bodies. You’ve seen it before, but it still gets to you. Children ripped apart by shrapnel. A young mother holding her three children, but the lower half of their bodies is missing. Another man paralyzed by shock as he struggles to stand but doesn’t realize his legs are gone. Some are still breathing, but they won’t be too long. You tell your men to leave them alone. Save ammunition. The blood of the bodies begins to mix into the crystal blue water, washing back up into the beach in waves. A young lieutenant approaches you. The air raid was successful; we’re one battle closer to winning the war, he says. You notice his boosted morale. Good, you reply. You tell him to prepare second squad for a search party. He acquiesces. You walk towards the farther end of the beach, with three men on each side. You walk over the dead bodies, but you do not make any remarks when some of the squad spit on them and bashes their heads in with the butt of their rifle. Stupid filth, they say. A young petty officer notices your disgusted face, however, and tells the rest of the squad to shut the fuck up. Again, you say nothing. Seagulls caw in the sky above you. The beach seems to be clear. You order the petty officer to return and to organize the entire platoon for a search.You tell the rest of the squad to break formation and to search the bodies for anything useful. Any ammunition is invaluable. Food is a priority. Leave any jewelry and personal items on the bodies. They can’t carry all of it. They disperse evenly away from you, walking from body to body. You walk away form the beach towards the tree line to piss. As you walk through the trees, some devastated by the missiles you ordered, you see a small pale hand on the floor. Curious, you walk towards it to see the body the hand is attached to. Your heart begins to pound in your chest. You feel the heartbeat in your head. A sharp pain and moisture forms behind your eyes. You remember the first day of first grade. You remember that you cried because it scared you to leave your mother, and you remember feeling embarrassed that all of the other children saw you crying that day. So you laid your head down on your desk so that they couldn’t see you. You remember how the bell rang, and how you heard fifth graders read announcements through the intercom. You stand only for the national anthem, still covering your face with your right hand, because your left hand is on your heart. You hold your gasps in during the moment of silence. After the announcements are over, you lay your head down on your desk. You don’t remember how long it was, but you remember feeling a tug on your blue polo shirt your mom bought you because your school required uniform. You looked up to your side, and you saw her. She had the biggest brown eyes you’ve ever seen, slick black hair, and dark eyebrows. She wore a blue skirt and a red vest over a white shirt, and polished Mary Janes. You noticed the red ribbons holding her pigtails together. She smiled at you, with a beauty mark on the left side of her upper lip, and she asked, “are you okay?” You remember how embarrassed you felt, but you remember how you suddenly felt an awesome wave of relief wash over you. “I’m Natalie,” she had said, holding out her hand. “What’s your name?” You remember her telling you how she was new. She’d been in a private school until her father passed away over the summer. But you couldn’t tell. Her smile lit you up that morning. You remember how over the next few days she sat next to you again. You remember talking to her every chance you could, and how she never came across as anything but nice. You didn’t know it then, but she was your first crush. She played tag with you and your friends during recess, and you noticed how beautiful she still looked with her cheeks red and the top button of her shirt unfastened, even though she was sweating. Everything seemed to be okay for her. And you remember feeling like you had a real friend. You remember the time you went to her house over the summer to her birthday party. Less than half of the kids showed up, but you remember the big smile on her face as her mother walked the cake over to the dining room table. You remember her embarrassed face while they sang “Happy Birthday” to her, and how she closed her eyes to make a wish. You remember staying after the party because your mother was running late to pick you up. She sat in her living room with you as she opened the GameBoy she received as a present earlier. You remember how she went the kitchen to get you grape juice, but when she took a long time you got up to see if everything was okay and you found her crying as she looked at the picture of her father that was on the refrigerator. You wanted to comfort her, but your home life was perfect and you didn’t know how. You remember you left because your mother had arrived and didn’t know how to say goodbye. You remember how on the first day of second grade your face lit up when she walked into your classroom, and how her hair smelled like cherries when she gave you a hug. She was wearing the same clothes that day, and she did as the school year carried on. She went to the library with you during lunch and read “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” with you, instead of playing near the swings at recess with the other children. You remember her asking you why you didn’t go to recess, and how when you told her you liked to read, she said, “you’re so smart!” You remember how when your teacher, Mrs. Alcala, called for the class to line up, Natalie would always be right in front of you. You remember how she would flick her hair into your face playfully. You called her “the Devil” and you remember how she turned around, shocked, but simply replied, “no, you’re the Devil!” And laughed. You remember how Anthony Mead would pick on her. He liked her, you could tell, but you remember when he shoved her playfully on the staircase and she had to get stitches on her head that day. But the next day she wasn’t sitting next to you in class. She wasn’t there the next day either. You remember feeling worried, like she’d left a void in you that you didn’t even know she filled. You remember when she came back the next week, she was more quiet. She didn’t flick her hair in your face anymore. She smiled at you, but during the moments she spoke you felt how she was putting distance between you. You remember how every day after that she looked sadder. She sat at her desk, resting her head on her arms, staring at her worksheets. At recess she sat on the sidewalk next to the teachers by herself. She didn’t show up to school at all for Field Day, and you remember how eventually you began to pretend not to notice her absence when Anthony Mead called her “your little girlfriend”. You remember how her eyes were red constantly. You remember how she didn’t wait for you after the last bell anymore. You remember the last time you saw her, on the last day of second grade, holding her notebook against her chest as her mother picked her up. You remember how you through away the card you were going to give her, that told of how you hoped you would see her again next year. You remember how you threw away the daisy you had picked from the edges of the playground, that you knew she liked because you remember how she’d put them in her hair. You remember how you waited and waited on the first day of third grade for her to walk into your classroom, with her pigtails, her Mary Janes, and her uniform. You remember looking for her at lunch, thinking she had been assigned a different homeroom. You remember looking for her at recess, but Gabrielle Newman told you that she’d moved away over the summer. You were too shy to ask anybody else, until Anthony Mead came up to you at recess in November and told you that he heard Natalie had gotten “something called ‘luke heema” and had moved to Mexico to receive treatment. You remember this was also the only time Anthony Mead was nice to you, because he moved away to South Carolina two weeks later. You remember how you grew up, but you never grew out. You remember your first day of middle school and your first day of high school, and every phase you ever went through. You remember how your music taste changed, you wanted to watch different movies, and how you constantly begged your mom to buy you new clothes to keep up with trends. You remember how you gained a lot of weight but lost a lot of it your junior year of high school. You remember how your family kept reminding you how much taller you were getting, and you remember Maryela, the girlfriend you had in high school, and how she followed you to college. You remember how Maryela supported you when you decided to commission in the military, even though your father was upset. You remember how sometimes when you were alone you’d wonder if Maryela was the one, because as lovely as she was, and as much as your family loved her, you never felt the same as you did with Natalie. You remember all the changes you went through, the friends you made, and even when you started to accept that maybe your memories of Natalie weren’t as glorious as you thought they were, you still though of her every once in a while. You remember coming home from Officer Candidates School. You remember your commissioning ceremony and how proud your parents looked when they saw you uniform. You remembered how beautiful Maryela looked in a white dress she’d bought for the ceremony, and how beautiful she looked under the string lights as you danced. You remember how tears rolled down her eyes when you broke up with her later that night because you thought you deserved better, because you thought you deserved Natalie. You remember feeling foolish, and how by the time you came to your senses, Maryela had married someone else. You remember being at Camp Lejeune and receiving a phone call, and how that phone call told you that your parents, your only living family, had been killed in their home by an illegal immigrant, although you didn’t realize why that detail needed to be said. You remember how you were angry, and how that anger motivated you, and how that motivation allowed you to quickly rise up through the ranks. You remember how you never made any more meaningful relationships with anyone, how you never had the children you dreamed of raising. You remember you were at the military ball when the television displays suddenly tuned to an image of your leader, and how your leader announced that your country had just entered a state of war with another country. You remember the chaos that followed, and how everyone at the Officer’s Club was so drunk they hardly remembered it the next morning. You remember leading your men to victory after victory. You remember how you were assigned to the southern beaches a few weeks earlier, and how the young lieutenant had told you about the civilian village ten miles south. You remember ordering the air raid. You remember hearing the missiles exploding, sending fire, flesh, and sand into the air. And now you’re standing at the foot of a tree, with a lifeless body in front of you. Her beauty mark is bigger, and you realize that her hair is different, but her dark eyebrows and mousy little nose is the same. For a second you try to convince yourself it isn’t her, until you find her wallet on her breast and you open it. NATALIA DUERRE VILLASEÑOR She’d gotten married, you realize, because her maiden name came after Duerre. Perhaps he was French. You notice she has light scars on her wrist and you wonder what she went through after she left you on the last day of second grade. Her eyes are still open, so you close them. You heart beats harder. Natalie. Your Natalie. After all these years… Natalie. You hear footsteps behind you, but you don’t pay attention to them. You stare at her lifeless body, watching as blood begins to pool on the soil to her right. You hear the voice of the petty officer behind you, as he asks you if everything is alright. You simply nod without turning around to face him. You close your eyes. They’re burning now, as you hold back tears, and hope that you can control yourself so your men do not see you as vulnerable. You hear a young soldier walk up next you. “Shame. She was hot,” he utters. You don’t think about it. You punch him in the gut. He falls to the ground and struggles to catch his breath. His surprised eyes try to fixate themselves on you. After a few moments, he begins to get up. When he’s on one knee, you take out your revolver and unload six shells into his head. His body takes a while to fall backwards. You look towards the rest of the squad, who looked scared, but you put your revolve away. You walk back out onto the beach and tell the squad to go back to the base. As they leave, you find daisies growing in the grass a few feet away. You pick up the prettiest ones and lay them next to Natalie. For the first time in ten years, you begin to cry. You think about the first time she smiled at you. How she hid her sadness under a smile everyday. How she had fought cancer and survived. You realize that she eventually fell in love and got married, but you’re confident she remembered you sometimes. You think about how years of dodging death had been rendered pointless because of the air raid you ordered. Because of the false power you had. Because you wanted to win a war. You look back out towards the beach as the sun begins to set. The glare illuminates the sea in a bright yellow color, and only by standing in it you watch how the blood washes away from the bodies, but keeps washing back. You contemplate how a war could ever reach such a beautiful paradise. 

Submitted January 15, 2018 at 02:13AM by danieldlp http://ift.tt/2DwCOmx shortstories

[RF] Creations shortstories

Creations

The drive back from the hospital was long and awful. Margie sat beside her husband Harold without looking at him. Her long face, long from so much worry and defeat, looked out the window onto the asphalt that raced away from her as they drove. After a slow thirty minutes, Harold pulled into the garage. He and his wife sat in silence for a moment. He looked at her and registered the lines on her face; she had always looked younger than her fifty years but the last two months seemed to have carved ten times their length into her skin. Then, after no more than a breath, they opened their doors and walked into their home. “Dinner?” asked Harold. “What?” said Margie. “Should we eat dinner?” “Oh,” she ran her hand slowly over the counter, as though the wood grain contained the answer. “I don’t know.” “I think we should,” said Harold. “I don’t want to cook.” “I’ll order something.” Harold and Margie sat across from each other at the table with a box of pepperoni pizza between them. Both of their slices of pizza were untouched, the grease seeping was into the paper plates. Harold wanted to take a bite, to eat something for the sake of normalcy, but he could not shake the feeling of absence at the table. Margie gave up any hope of eating, she stared at a picture of her son on the shelf next to the table. She wondered if it was going to be like this from now on. Bedtime at least brought relief from the unbearable silence of dinner. Harold and Margie got into their bed together as they’d done for thirty years. But neither slept—it was impossible. Margie hoped that Harold would take a pillow downstairs to the couch, like he had the time he confessed to a stolen snog with a coworker at a retirement party. But, of course, this was nothing like that. It was not her husband who had betrayed her but the universe. When the doctor told her what happened she had not believed him. He had looked into her eyes, held onto her shoulders, and said, “Your son has died.” 

She responded, “What?” needing repeating. She wished she hadn’t, because he said it again, “I’m so sorry Ms. Roberts, Michael has died.” “That’s impossible,” she thought, “That simply could never happen.” Doctor Martin disappeared into the hospital, leaving her to decipher his message. “Impossible.” The word spun around in her head until it dissolved into anger. “Impossible,” it was outrageous that this could happen. How could this happen? Who could let this happen? The doctors? But no, they had been so kind and accommodating. And Harold liked them so much. Someone else must be to blame, someone else was responsible, it couldn’t possibly be her.

 In the hospital, Margie remembered a conversation she had with her sister when she was pregnant. Susan had asked her if she planned on having another baby after little Michael was done being born. “Don’t tell Harold, but I don’t think I can,” Margie had said. “Oh Margie, I know the pregnancy has had its ups and downs but I’m sure you’re exaggerating! A little morning sickness won’t make you barren,” Susan had responded. “No, it’s not that I don’t think my body can, I don’t think that I can.” “What do you mean?” “I’m already so worried about this one. No, it’s true—Susan I am up all night worried that I haven’t taken the right vitamins, that I’ve slept too much on my side and squished him. And then I’m up until morning wondering about what will happen when he’s here. How will I make sure he takes the right vitamins and how do I make sure he won’t get squished?” Margie looked at her sister, as if her question were entirely legitimate and in need of response. Susan’s nature hardened a little as she looked into the petrified eyes of her baby sister. “Well, I guess I shouldn’t plan on a niece then.” Susan dropped the subject there but Margie suspected it continued in her mind: she ran into Susan buying child vitamins at target that weekend. Without a good answer on how to keep her son safe, Margie went on worrying. She worried for twenty-seven years that Michael would get hurt. The first years were the hardest; when he was an infant Margie had the distinct feeling and compulsive thought that anything could be fatal. Suddenly, play toys resembled Kevorkian death-tools, a playground might as well be Guantanamo. Harold was always pleading with her to let the boy be young and careless. When she did let Michael play freely, she was likely to be impressed by his aptness. She would watch his little body roll around with play-trucks and tumble down slides; sometimes he would wobble a little but his head always stayed upright. As he grew from a toddler to a kid, his confidence in staying on his feet led him to all sorts of physical hobbies. When he asked for a skateboard for his tenth Christmas, Harold had to sit down with Margie for some convincing. “Margie, it’s a skateboard, it is not a torture device,” he said calmly to his wife. “You think I’m being crazy, you think I’m some sort of crazy control-freak. I’m not Harold. Skateboards are dangerous, he’s more likely to break a leg than to not if he’s riding one of those things,” she said. “I’d rather him break his leg than to never ride a skateboard.” Harold put his hand softly on his wife’s shoulder. She hated him for saying it. She hated him for accepting that her son would have to be hurt. It was such a ridiculous idea—why were men always boasting about bruises and scrapes? Why did they show off their casts and talk about the times they’d passed out? Did they ever consider what those cuts and bruises meant to the people, the mothers, who loved them? To Margie, every cut or bandage she saw on a child gave her the image of a mother somewhere gazing out a window with a look of terror. She would not accept that Michael had to hurt. Michael was understanding of his mother’s concern. In high school, he would text his mother every hour when he went out. He got creative with his messages, saying things like, “Walked through a landmine and did NOT get blown up” with a big thumb’s up and a heart. She would chuckle and respond that he was so much like his father, but she could never fully silence the worry that seemed permanently in her stomach. His acceptance letter to NYU made things even worse: she developed night terrors and panic attacks, she was convinced by a psychiatrist to start taking Xanax at bedtime. When Margie woke up the morning after the world’s saddest pizza party, she found herself alone in her bed. Harold’s side of the bed was cold and the sheet had been pulled up over the mattress. She did not wonder where he was; she closed her eyes and sobbed into herself. She stayed there sobbing until her stomach let out a deadening growl. Harold was in the kitchen with a cup of coffee, he was reading the newspaper. She had no interest in breaking the silence so she went to the refrigerator and took out a yogurt without a word. She sat across from her husband and stared at his head. She wondered lightly why he insisted even now on checking the scores of his favourite sport’s teams. She wondered more if every morning would be like this. At noon, the hospital called. Harold answered and dealt with the conversation. Margie could not stand to hear any of it so she went into the den and sat with her coffee, looking out onto the trees in their backyard. A light snow had fallen during the night and covered the treetops with the most delicate and innocent powder. She thought of how at night she would sit in the den and wonder what Michael was doing. After college, he moved into an apartment with Jessica in the city. He got a job at a start-up, doing something with computers that Margie would never understand. He got engaged, he got a promotion, he got hit by a car and died. Margie could feel the sensation of the crash and recoiled, spilling coffee onto her lap as Harold walked in. “Oh dear, oh dear, here, let me grab a towel.” Harold exited and returned quickly with a white dishcloth. “No, that’s fine,” said Margie. She did not want to stain the dishcloth over lukewarm coffee on an old, tattered night gown. “So, I suppose you know who that was on the phone,” said Harold. “The hospital?” “Yes. Yes, indeed,” Harold joined Margie in looking out the window. “Apparently we have to sign some paperwork.” “A death certificate?” The question surprised even Margie. There was a somber pause. “Yes, among other things.” Harold looked down, disappointed, and left the room. She felt a brief pang of guilt for having said the words out loud for the first time, Harold was upset and it was sort of her fault. But then she thought, “I think I feel bad enough right now,” and she let it pass. Michael did not die right away. Impact put him into a coma. Then there were surgeries—terrible ones. They drained his brain, they reset his jaw, they re-broke both legs. Some surgeries went well and others did not. Margie could not remember which one had killed him. Instead, she remembered the time he fell off of the skateboard he got for his eleventh birthday and broke his arm. Harold was there when it happened and called her from the emergency room. He said, “At least it wasn’t his leg.” Margie tried to stay angry but a laugh of relief escaped her. She let Harold’s joke give her some comfort but when Michael came home with his cast she burst into tears. It was Michael who held her with his small body and told her that he would be more careful for her. She kissed him on his head and pulled him tight against her. “Thank you.” 

That was the only bone Michael broke until he broke most all of them—and all at once.

For the next two weeks, Harold and Margie hardly ate and hardly slept. By some chemical understanding, Harold started to sleep on the couch. That left Margie to cry alone in the mornings, she wondered if Harold cried at night. Visitors began arriving with casseroles. They talked to Harold; Margie took no comfort in their sincere eyes and gentle hand-holds. Her husband seemed to love it—she heard him indulging every guest who stopped by. When Mark and Amy brought a meatloaf, he told them about how empty the house felt: 

“It’s just so hard, you know, now that it’s just us. I miss him, I really do.” And then he cried. Right there, in front of them. Margie was disgusted. She could not stand that Harold would let other people see him mourn their son’s death. It was not because of her prudishness, it was not because she wished he would be more open with her. She could not stand to see him share this grief over their child, their creation, with people who had no part in him. She found herself wishing that she had created Michael all on her own, that her body could create sperm for its eggs to create a whole being by itself. But for what? For it to die all over again? Before they were banished to the garage fridge, Harold would have a portion of the casseroles, meatloaves, pies, cakes, and edible arrangements with whoever brought them. He would sit with their neighbours and friends at the dining room table and slowly make his way through a plate between sighs and sobs. Margie stayed in the den. She was happy to see him feeding himself, even if he did so while airing his side of their loss for the world to observe and have opinions over. Margie still could not eat and did not think much of it. Mostly, she shuffled around the house with her own shadow—drifting like a ghost.

 One night, she dreamt about Michael. In the dream, Michael was no older than fourteen, just on the edge of puberty. He was running through their backyard only it was ten times larger than reality. He was covered in bruises and casts, but somehow he ran with fluidity and grace. Harold was watching him from the other side of the lawn. She looked over at Harold and he said, “You see that? He’s fine.” Just then, Michael fell to the ground and began to howl in pain. In outrage, Margie turned to her husband and screamed, “He’s not fine at all!” But as she looked at Harold’s face it distorted into someone else—she thought maybe it was the face of the fat man who once refused to make change for her twenty at a grocery store. Whoever it was, he bore no resemblance to her husband. She looked back at Michael and he was gone. She stood by herself in the giant field before waking up in a panic, alone in her bed. After a month, they stopped receiving visitors. Harold began bringing out the dishes from the fridge and cutting larger and larger portions for himself. He sat eating in front of the TV, watching comforting shows from his childhood. Once, he tried to get Margie to come join him: “Hun, you ever rewatch Happy Days?” he asked. She let out a snort. She still could only manage a single bowl of oatmeal at lunch time, she had not left the house, she had not spoken to her family. Sure, she would eventually re-enter the world but she would not be starting with Happy Days reruns. 

Harold waited for a response beyond her grunt, when nothing came he slammed his hand against the door frame. “Holy hell, Margie. Are you ever going to talk to me again?” “I don’t know the answer to that, Harold,” she said. "Listen Margie, I know it’s awful. God, I know it’s real fucking awful what happened. But we have to go on. You sit here like everything else has stopped forever but it hasn’t.” “Harold, I wouldn’t know what else to do.” “Get up, for a start. Get up, go see some people, talk about it, talk.” He stood with his arms out in frustration, pleading with his wife. “You’re wasting away Margie.” She was, of course, quite literally wasting away. As Harold’s food-variety indulgence expanded his belly and arms, Margie was shrinking. Her clothes hung loosely over her and her cheeks were sinking a little further into her face each day. But she knew it would all pass, she knew one day she would wake up and know what to do and where to go. She tried explaining that that day was not today and, by all of her calculations, would not be for some time. Harold walked back into the living room and sat in front of the TV, defeated.

 Margie had never wanted Michael to be a mama’s boy. She had hopes and dreams of raising a well-rounded, independent man. But she could see with his first girlfriend that her constant worry had had an effect. The girl’s name was Pauline and she was lovely. They met at their school and Michael was crazy for her. Margie felt far more comfortable knowing that Michael was spending his free time with someone she knew, someone she liked and respected. Pauline was responsible if a little bold. Margie even knew her parents, they were part of the same parent-circle that had begun when the kids were in elementary school. Margie loved to see the two together, to see her son so happy. But then, Pauline broke up with Michael. Michael told her the circumstances of the abrupt break-up one night during a family trip to the beach. Harold had gone to sleep early and Michael was still reeling from the separation. Usually, Margie avoided this sort of talk with her son, she thought his father should be the one for him to discuss these things with. But Michael was in pain and she wanted to soothe his sorrow, so she asked him what the matter was. “She said I’m too clingy,” he said, his eyes beginning already to water. “What did she mean by that do you think?” Margie asked. “Hell if I know—I mean, I guess I know a bit. I would call her a bunch sometimes, kinda freak out if she didn’t respond you know? But if she really hated it that much she coulda told me before just dumping me out like that.” His eyes were fully watered and he put his face in his hands. 

Margie rubbed her sons back as he convulsed in tears. His first heartbreak, and she felt entirely responsible. She knew that clingy mothers made clingy sons. And clingy sons apparently got their hearts broken by girls called Pauline who described themselves as “staunch-feminists.” She felt just awful while Michael cried for a month over Pauline. Eventually, he began to pull himself together and stopped crying over her, then he stopped talking about her altogether. He was resilient the way that teenagers are, even when they have been crushed. His mind and body could repair themselves. Why couldn’t Margie do that? Anyway, Michael met Jessica in college and she didn’t leave him. And that would forever be the end of that.

Another three months and the funeral passed before Margie left the house. She went to the grocery store looking for some bread, butter, and sugar. They were things they already had at the house; Harold had been going to the grocery store a few times a week. Margie figured he did so to run into people, to suck in their sympathetic eyes, and to cry some more for them. Margie walked into the store wearing sunglasses. She wanted her own bread, her own butter, her own sugar. She would make her first meal entirely new. She would buy her ingredients without saying a word to anyone. A few familiar faces recognised her in the store but her desire to be left alone was palpable,—no one bothered her. She got home and toasted two pieces of bread. While they were hot, she smeared them with butter. Then she carefully caked them with sugar. She got out a ceramic plate from the cupboard and set some water on for tea. When her meal was prepared, she went into the den and sat down to it. She balanced the plate on her lap and sat the tea on the coffee table. The first bite was perfect: the bread was crunchy and the taste simple and sweet. After the first slice of bread, her stomach hurt from the unusual sensation of fullness. Still, she pressed on with the second and finished the meal. She set the empty plate on the table and held the warm tea in her hands. No thoughts entered her mind as she sipped at it, she just looked out of the window at the trees that were beginning to grow leaves. Harold came in from the living room and looked at her. He had stopped his obsessive eating and had begun fixing things around the house. He had been the one to plan the funeral and after the ceremony he started back at work. He had stopped asking Margie to do anything, but he was visibly glad to see her leave the house that morning. “How was it?” he asked, his eyes gesturing to the empty plate. “Just fine,” she said, still looking out the window. “That’s good Margie. It’s nice to see you—well first it’s nice to see you eat something.” “I told you it would come in time.” “I’m delighted that the time has come. Maybe now we can start getting things back to normal.” “Harold, that will never happen.” “Not normal-normal, you know what I mean,” he said. “I know what you mean, and it will never happen.” “Why would you say that, Margie? Why are you making everything a thousand times worse?” “I can’t make this any worse. I couldn’t if I tried.” “So you’re intent on staying entirely broken then? You’re fine with this.” “I’m not fine with anything. But I accept that our old life together is gone.” “And what will our new life look like?” “I don’t know.” “What am I supposed to do while you don’t know?” “I don’t know that either.” Harold turned to leave but turned back after the first step. He looked at his wife sitting on their sofa with all these new lines on her face. “You know, a lot of couples get divorced when these sorts of things happen,” he said finally. “I know that.” “Is that what you want?” “Please stop asking me questions,” she said. The morning of the day Michael was born, Harold was fired from his job. As Harold sat in their kitchen confessing his failure to his wife, Margie went into labor. From that moment, Harold forgot about the whole thing and shuffled his wife to the hospital where she gave birth to their beautiful and healthy baby Michael. Margie could not believe the look on her husband’s face when he got to hold his son. It was like watching real magic the way his face lit up like a sun. He held the boy and cooed over him, slowly rocking him in his arms. Margie looked at the two of them and felt overwhelmed with fruition. Harold never mentioned his firing after that: he took a few weeks to stay home with Margie and Michael, doting on the pair with every free breath, and then he found himself a new job that payed better than the last. For those few weeks that they lived together, without any other responsibility but to evolve into a real family, things were incredible. Margie woke up each morning feeling full in every inch of her body. She spent all day with her boys, feeding them and laughing with them. She loved watching Harold make faces at Michael, loved even more the way the tiny infant giggled at his father’s buffoonery. She spent all day in bliss. She knit a hideous child’s sweater, she cooked hot meals, she made love to her husband, and kept the house cozy. When Harold went back to work, the worry set in again. Left alone in the house with the baby, she worried constantly that something terrible would happen. It was a relief when Harold came home from work and she could tell him about all the ridiculous things that had worried her throughout the day: “And then he tried to climb right out of his crib, I was only a step away but imagine if I hadn’t been!” Harold would laugh lightly and adoringly, he would calm his wife and assure her that God could never have created a better, or at least safer, mother. He would kiss her and peck at her until she smiled and laughed. By dinner, she was full again with contentedness and joy. She would tell Susan that she was starting to believe she should have another child. But, when Harold left for work again in the morning and the worry took over, she would know that it was impossible. After the divorce, neither wanted to keep the house. Both sides of the family were understanding of the decision and forgiving of the separation. No one could imagine what it must be like for them and they did not care to try. Instead, they accepted everything that Harold and Margie did and expected very little explanation. Harold went ahead and got himself an apartment in town. He decorated it with sport’s memorabilia and mahogany wood furniture. He went to the gym three times a week and joined a single’s group. Margie rented a small condo in the next town over. She had a kitchen, a bathroom, a bedroom, and a sunroom. Most days, she would wake up early to watch the sun rise over the trees while sipping on tea. She had begun working as a first grade teacher and had to be up plenty early to enjoy some solitude. Once she got to work, it was chaos. The children were full of energy from eight in the morning to three in the afternoon. They called her Ms. Margie and drew her pictures of dinosaurs and princesses. One day, on her way to work, Margie was hit by a car. She rode in an ambulance and had an IV stuck in her arm. The injuries were not serious and she only had to spend a night in the hospital. When her sister came to see her, she was shocked by how calm she was. “I’m fine, Susan, the doctor said so himself.” “But you must be terribly shaken,” said Susan, holding tightly onto her sister’s hand. “No, not terribly. My neck hurts. Mostly I’m just sick of hospitals. I’ve seen enough of these white walls and florescent lights for my lifetime. Plus, I should have another five or ten years before I start needing monthly check-ups.” Susan looked at her with confused but loving eyes. “Margie I need to ask you something,” Susan looked at her sister waiting for the okay to continue. Margie gave a slight, encouraging nod. “It’s Harold. He wants to see you. In fact, he’s in the waiting room. Now, normally I’d tell him to leave but I wasn’t sure you wouldn’t want to see him. I don’t know, I just thought he might be a comfort, I’m sorry.” “No, Susan, don’t be sorry. I would like to see him.” Harold walked in. He looked strong but weathered. He sat down in the chair next to her. He planted his feet on the ground, as if preparing for anything, as best he could. “Hi Margie,” he said. “Harold, you look good.” “I wish I could say the same for you,” he said. They both let out a calming laugh. “But really, you do look well, IV and bruises aside.” “Is it bad?” she asked. She had not yet looked in a mirror. “Oh no, not really. You got yourself a shiner, you look pretty tough. But the smile is there, that’s good.” He sighed and relaxed a bit into the chair. “So, tell me, how have you been?” she asked. “I’ve been good, I really have. Started working a bit less so I can help out my parents with the house and what-not. I’ve been keeping busy.” “That’s good, Harold,” she said. She smiled at him and he blushed just slightly. They held their stare in each other’s eyes. “You know, Susan told me you started working with kids. I gotta tell you, I was more than a little surprised.” “Oh?” “Well yeah. I mean, with the worrying you did over Michael,” he paused at the name of their creation, “I just never thought you’d start worrying about other people’s kids too.” “I try not to worry so much these days,” she said. “You’ll save yourself a lot of trouble. And me too, come to think of it—I don’t wanna be paying anymore hospital bills for you,” he said. “Oh you’re not paying a penny Harold,” she said. “I insist, Margie. I have nothing else to put the money on and you know I still want to take care of you when I can. I’m not asking you to be grateful, I’m not even asking you to think of me or anything like that. Just let me take care of you a little.” Margie let Harold pay the hospital bills which otherwise would have been covered by her half of the divorce settlement. Both left the hospital in good shape and spirits. Margie didn’t mind Harold thinking he was taking care of her. She went back to her condo and had a few days of rest before starting at work again. Harold went back to his apartment and soon met a nice woman from the single’s group. Margie went to the wedding. She met Harold’s grown step-children and drank three glasses of champagne. She danced with Harold and his friends, she laughed hysterically at their jokes. Over the coming years, Margie continued working at the school and met a few men here and there. She kept herself busy creating lesson plans. She became a decent cook and was close with the other teachers from the school. Still, she appreciated ample time on her own, she never tired of the ever-changing view of the trees. Every so often, a few times a year, Harold would come over for a dinner. Margie came up with elaborate dishes and poured fancy bottles of wine. They made beautiful conversation for a few hours; the laughter they created bore no necessity. And then, at a reasonable hour, Harold would leave. He would kiss Margie on the cheek and say goodnight; they looked each other in the eyes. And, for a moment, they would remember the life they created. 

Submitted January 05, 2018 at 10:55AM by Louise9511 http://ift.tt/2EadxNM shortstories

[HR] Connection Lost shortstories

Drew Goffrey, AKA the Community Crusader, moaned as his vision cleared and the last vestiges of darkness slipped away like mist in the wind. Sleep vanished, and he grudgingly opened his eyes. As the room in which he sat came into focus, a congealed, icy feeling settled into his stomach.

‘Where am I?’ he asked aloud, not much caring for the waver in his voice as it echoed around the large room, off the dull surfaces of what appeared to be washing machines and refrigerators turned on their sides and piled up in one far corner. The air smelled musty, like old dust and rusting things, but most of the vast warehouse seemed empty. And dark. A single lightbulb dangled on a length of wire high above his head, illuminating the chair to which he was tightly tied and a small circle around him. A few metres away and facing him sat another washing machine, this one with a camera set up on top of it. Its little red light stared unblinkingly at him. A laptop sat on the floor next to the machine, its screen simply displaying a counter set at ‘00000048’. As he stared at it, the panic within him fluttering higher and higher like a bird trying to escape his body, the counter clicked to 00000049. In spite of himself, he felt a bizarre rush of relief at the thought that if it was a bomb, then it had a long way to go.

On the heels of that panic-induced thought he lost control and began to scream.

He shouted for help until his stomach clenched and his muscles ached, the sound of his voice echoing back at him across the dark expanse of the warehouse serving only to increase his panic. Eventually he collapsed against the metal chair, his throat raw and his chest heaving. He could feel blood pounding through his veins. On the laptop screen, the counter had now reached 163 and was rising.

‘Well well,’ a high, reedy voice chuckled from the shadows behind him, ‘if it isn’t the Community Crusader. So good to meet you finally, hero, I’m quite a fan.’ The sneering way the voice lengthened the word ‘hero’ told Drew everything he needed to know. He’d finally gone too far, and he’d attracted the attention of a maniac.

‘Look man,’ he said, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of his captor. The dim shadow behind him slunk back into the darkness, with a hunched, scuttling movement. ‘I just try to make a difference, ok? I’m not a hero, I’m not trying to hurt anyone. Do you work for one of the companies? Is that it? Then I’m doing it for you too bro! You deserve to know that they’re acting ethically and –’

‘Spare me, Crusader,’ the voice sneered, ‘I’ve seen the tweets. Read the blogs. Seen your endless, interminable videos. You don’t need to preach to me. Or to the hundreds watching.’

The counter clicked to 487. It was rising fast now.

Drew fell silent and looked around, noting as he did so that he was still wearing his costume. Essentially a pair of red pyjamas on which he’d sewn a cartoonish ‘CC’, some wellington boots and a Halloween cape. He’d lost his mask somewhere between leaving the photo-shoot last night and waking up.

I remember a van, a parked van. I turned the corner, not far from home. It was dark, no one around the streets. And then…

‘You have a problem with the Crusader, man? No problem. I’ll stop. I promise. I only do it to help out, I swear. Just let me go.’

He’d created the character mainly as a way to highlight social issues; the homeless and the greed of large corporations. Harmless stuff. He’d turn up at swanky corporate dinners, disrupt parties, attend the homeless shelters in his costume. It was only meant to be a bit of fun, to spread a message of social change and make people laugh…

‘You’d leave the job half-done?’ the unseen voice asked in mock-outrage, ‘on the verge of making a real difference?’

‘I have a family to think about, please just let me –’

‘At least you admit it. Oh I am pleased’ the hidden figure chuckled, ‘I did worry you might think you were making a difference.’

‘I…’

‘No,’ the voice hissed, ‘I mean a real difference. A generational change. A genuine mobilisation of voices and thoughts and hearts and minds. Something beyond tweets about the environment and social justice sent to people who think exactly the same. Beyond selfies at corporate events and sanctimonious statements heard only by those who already agree...’

‘You’re insane! I’m just one man and I’m trying to help–’

‘Help?!’ his tormenter shrieked, his nasal voice turning the word into little more than a screech.

‘You are symptomatic of a generation of people who consider themselves enlightened because they know what needs to be done but won’t lift a finger to make it happen!’ The voice was rising into a shout, the unseen owner of the reedy voice spiralling into a full-fledged rage.

‘You and those like you do nothing but allow good people to become smug, self-satisfied, ineffective fools! Disconnected to the reality of the world through their connection to you and your disingenuous, half-hearted, self-serving concern! You keep them blind to the true evil they think they oppose but in fact do nothing to stop!’ This tirade delivered, the screaming maniac leapt into the circle of light with the acrobatic flexibility of a ballet dancer.

Drew gaped at the man, his mouth moving soundlessly. Temporarily he forgot where he was, the sight was too bizarre. The tall, lanky figure wore a domino mask, made of gnarled and twisted material like old leather and sporting a very long nose. Horns rose from the top of it above a mop of stark white hair which must have been a wig. The face beneath the mask was painted in red and white diamonds, and the mouth that grinned from within it gleamed with very white teeth. The apparition wore a grey motley tunic and tight black-and-white checked stockings. The figure froze, like a player on stage, and then exploded into a flourishing bow, chuckling wildly all the while.

Drew stared at the harlequin, lost for words. Behind the hunched, cackling figure, the counter was clicking through the high thousands. The red light from the camera continued steadily.

‘I am the Masque Master, the villain for your hero,’ the madman declared in his high-pitched voice, gesturing to his outfit, ‘I thought it fitting to match the conclusion of your fantasy to its overture–’

‘Look, mister I swear I’ll –’

‘Silence!’ the maniac screamed, actually stamping his feet like a petulant child. ‘You will not interrupt my introduction!’

Drew fell silent, wriggling his hands within their bonds as the spindly lunatic drew himself up and stepped delicately to the side, gesturing to the camera with an exaggerated grin.

‘The performance has now entered its final act, hero, and you and I shall rescue it before it concludes. Never fear!’

His hands were sweaty, and as he twisted them, he felt the ropes give a little. He struggled to keep his composure as the masked dancer continued to rave.

‘The audience is displeased!’ the figure in grey cried, crouching low and spreading its long arms wide, ‘the hero cannot triumph if his whole journey was conceited and ineffective! But I have a twist for this tale, to rescue it from itself. The twist is that the hero was the villain all along! A pantomime of good, advancing the cause of evil!’

The figure drew itself up again and crossed its arms, head cocked slightly to the side.

‘And so obviously he has to die,’ he added offhand, making a dismissive gesture towards something off in the darkness.
The counter on the screen was rapidly accelerating into the millions.

Soon, Drew told himself, someone will be coming soon. The authorities would have been alerted. They can trace the computer or something, I’ve seen it on TV…

But somehow, he couldn’t seem to convince himself. His hands shook too badly to pull free of the ropes, and the maniac was watching him so intently he wouldn’t get far even if he managed it.

He’s going to kill me…

The certainty settled into his mind like an icy mist, gentle and inexorable, filling him with cold and draining his strength.

‘Please,’ he whispered through a choked throat, ‘please don’t...’

His captor turned – swirled – around, bending low to his face. Drew could smell the leather of the old mask; his skin crawled at the touch of the loathsome nose against his cheek.

‘But I must,’ the madman crooned in a soft voice, ‘you are the icon for all those who feel good about themselves because of one pithy gesture in the right direction which – far worse than ignoring the root in favour of the branch – merely prunes a dead-head, allowing another to grow.’

‘Please…’ Drew was lost in terror, the grotesque mask swimming before his eyes, the words barely making any sense.

‘For every one of your followers who shares one of your homeless-person-selfies, how many walk by the real homeless person they pass, comforting themselves that they’ve done their part? For every tweet that draws a sincere nod and a re-tweet instead of an action, how many suffer for that lack of action? You are the figurehead of that smug, circular, useless mentality; for those who wonder why the world around them is falling deeper into ruin with each passing day.’

From somewhere within himself, Drew found a kernel of anger and grasped it like a drowning man, shouting at the masked fool and rattling his bonds frantically.

‘I’m doing my part! What else can I do?!’

‘Die, Crusader!’ the ghastly apparition giggled happily, bouncing to its feet and twirling on its toes. The counter was now over five million.

‘And in so doing you shall drive those silent thinkers, bonded to their keyboards, blinded and paralysed by their superiority, out from the dark. Consider this your greatest achievement.’

He moved slowly towards the camera, reaching behind the washing machine and pulling a long handled axe from the shadows. Its wicked blade gleamed in the dull overhead light. The masked creature stared down at it, the nose bobbing gently. It began to giggle.

Drew began to scream, shouting for help, shrieking desperately at those who watched silently through the unblinking red light of the camera.

‘Are you surprised,’ the harlequin asked softly, turning back to Drew, ‘that in a world such as this, where goodness is represented and expressed only in closed communities behind screens, evil can flourish unchecked and unopposed?’

‘In the real world,’ the masked thing said in a sing-song voice, hefting the axe in both hands, ‘bad things happen no matter how many people look on horrified, no matter how many express their outrage or solidarity in tweets and texts and blogs. Just look at that little counter go! Ha! Millions of eyes watching, millions of fingers tapping. But here I stand, giggling with my axe, unopposed.’ It let out a titter of unhinged laughter.

‘And you will finally show them what you should have shown them all along! If they want change, they need to change. The real world exists, and they cannot pretend otherwise. Because this is happening, and they let it happen! Made it happen! I am a product of them! But with your death, they will finally understand their failure. The failure of a whole generation of brilliant and wasted ability. Be glad! Your grand finale may yet unleash the change you claimed all along to desire.’

And before the eyes of countless horrified observers, heedless of the petrified screams, the figure in grey scampered quickly forward and chopped Drew Goffrey into steaming pieces, singing in its ghastly voice all the while.

The counter continued to rise.

Submitted December 08, 2017 at 07:32PM by StevenDJackson http://ift.tt/2jc7UKh shortstories

[HM]Drunk and Disorderly shortstories

When I was a younger man, my friends and I were a bunch of drunken hoodlums. We never did anything overtly illegal. Just a lot of stupid shenanigans. I’m going to catalog a few I can think of for your enjoyment.

Superman

I used to be really into martial arts. The Master instructor was a close friend, and also a massive alcoholic. Well he would throw these bi-weekly keggers and invite a bunch of the other instructors and myself over for drunken fun. I have a massive alcohol tolerance and am not exactly the best at gauging how drunk I am. So I have a tendency to sprint at where I think my limit is and horribly overestimating where it was. I drown an entire bottle of Southern Comfort and just collapse on the couch. We sat there just cracking jokes and laughing our asses off. When they all decide to go play foosball, which is downstairs. They all scurry there quick. I on the other hand, am moving at a pace that makes a snail look like a Porsche. I’m walking, and just keep collapsing. Finally I get to the staircase. I eye it up. There’s no way on God’s green earth I am walking down these stairs. First off I would most likely stumble down and break my hip or something. Secondly, if I do walk down them, it’s going to take a week and a half because of slow I’d be walking. I lean against the wall and see there is a bit of a hallway behind me. Lightbulb! I’m going to walk down it a few steps, try to get a running start, and just Superman dive down these motherfuckers. I back up, gain my composure for a minute, line up my trajectory, and just bolt. I get to the top step and I leap head first down the stairs. I narrowly miss headbutting the top of the doorframe. I land in the middle of the room in a big crash and everyone jumps and yells, “what the fuck!?” They check on me to make sure I’m not severely injured, they insist I go to the hospital. I tell them no I’m fine, someone grab me a goddamn beer and let's play some fucking foosball!

Mudflap Rick

Rick used to be a real close friend. But he was also a bit of a prick. Well one day Rick and his brother come over to my house. We’re going to do a bit of drinking and play some Playstation. My cousin was also over, he had been staying with me for a while. So he had stocked up on food which was all stored in my refrigerator. Now Rick absolutely HATES my cousin. Rick has a love for Jackass, particularly Dave England. Rick decides he’s going to play a prank on my cousin, I ask him not to, because I honestly didn’t see this going well. As the night goes on Rick eventually interrupts the game cause he has a storm a brewing and needs to go relieve himself. After about a half an hour Rick comes back. We all crack jokes about how things worked out. We all laugh and have a good time. Some amount of time later my cousin announces he is hungry and decides he’s going to eat some cantaloupe. He heads into the kitchen, grabs a kitchen knife. Grabs his melon, cuts into it, drops everything and starts screaming like a little girl who just saw her cat die. This cantaloupe was completely filled with liquid shit. Rick stands up starts bowing and says, “take that you fucker!”

Red Bull Run

My cousin, a buddy, and I all decided to get an apartment together. We moved in, fairly common stuff. We decided that Friday night we were going to throw a housewarming party. As mentioned earlier, I have quite the alcohol tolerance. I issued a blanket challenge to everyone there that I will go shot-for-shot with them and drink them under the table. Not only that I upped the odds and said I would do two shots for each one they did. They all accept. So now I’m drinking two shots every time one of them does a shot, and there’s 6 of us in this apartment. We had 3 bottles of Jager and a case of redbull. We started doing Jager bombs. I drank around a bottle and a half of the Jager. We had to save one bottle for my cousin for when he got home for work. But we were completely out of Red Bull. I decide I’m going to be a hero and go on a Red Bull run. Now at this time I was no longer a person. I was alcohol incarnate. Because in addition to all these Jager bombs, I also consumed a fair amount of Jack Daniels. In combination with the Red Bull, it was just a recipe for disaster. I should in all fairness be passed out. But I can’t sleep because I have wings. Now another important thing to note, there are 6 people crammed in the living room of this apartment, it is as hot as the devil’s nuts. I get outside and I need to cool off. It’s the middle of January, in Wisconsin. It must have been -10 with the wind chill. But not to me, I’m burning up. So I start stripping as I walk to the convenience store down the street. My friends trailing behind me grabbing my clothes and trying to get me dressed again. I shove them and say fuck this shit! I go running down the street “What’s My Age Again” style. I get to the convenience store, buck ass nekkid. I bust in like I’m Ric Flair, “WOOO!!!” Walk back to the Red Bull, grab a case, and head to the counter. I plop the drinks down. The attendant, a female I’ve been crushing on for a minute, just scanned the drinks and kept eye contact with me. (So thankful she didn’t call the police) I pat my chest and butt. “I think I forgot my wallet… My friends should be here soon, they’ve got money.” I stand there awkwardly for about 5 minutes, my friends are standing outside just shaking their heads. They come in, they apologize for my actions. I pay for the Red Bull. After the transaction was complete I decide I’m Casanova all the sudden for some reason and just start laying down a real smooth play at the clerk. Trying my hardest to get her to come back to the party. She declines, repeatedly. We then left. At this point I think it’s my friends fault so I bolt off again yelling, “Fucking cock blockers!” I make it about a block and I pass out in the snow. Woke up the next day in the bathroom.

The Incredible Hulk takes the biggest shits

One night in our hometown, Mudflap Rick, his brother, and a buddy of ours are walking down the main street each of us killing a sixer and a bottle of super cheap vodka. I believe we were on our way back from a Halloween party, because I remember Rick being painted green and wearing a pair of Hulk hands. We come upon an unattended police vehicle. We lived in a small town, so we knew exactly who the car belonged to. Well earlier that month Rick got pulled over and got his license suspended. Rick decides he’s going to get a little revenge. So climbs up on the hood of the Crown Vic. Pulls his pants down to his knees. Squats down and drops the biggest shit I’ve seen in my entire life on the windshield of this car. We hear someone coming so we all book it to some nearby bushes and hide. It’s the cop, he’s getting ready to head to his shift. Miraculously he doesn’t notice this massive dook in the middle of the windshield. He hops in and starts it up. After a minute he looks out the front. His face contorts into a look that is a cross between horror and disgust. We all start laughing hysterically. We weren’t even remotely prepared for what happened next. In an attempt to clear the feces, the officer turns on his wipers. It didn’t have the effect I think he intended cause it just smeared streaks of crap back and forth across. We lost it at this point. He must have heard us then, because he leapt out of the car and started running toward the shrubs we were in. We all scatter and just run. We all met up at my apartment later. Upon Rick showing up we all laughed ourselves to tears.

Submitted December 06, 2017 at 10:37AM by utternewb http://ift.tt/2AWGzmf shortstories

[HM]Drunk and Disorderly shortstories

When I was a younger man, my friends and I were a bunch of drunken hoodlums. We never did anything overtly illegal. Just a lot of stupid shenanigans. I’m going to catalog a few I can think of for your enjoyment.

Superman

I used to be really into martial arts. The Master instructor was a close friend, and also a massive alcoholic. Well he would throw these bi-weekly keggers and invite a bunch of the other instructors and myself over for drunken fun. I have a massive alcohol tolerance and am not exactly the best at gauging how drunk I am. So I have a tendency to sprint at where I think my limit is and horribly overestimating where it was. I drown an entire bottle of Southern Comfort and just collapse on the couch. We sat there just cracking jokes and laughing our asses off. When they all decide to go play foosball, which is downstairs. They all scurry there quick. I on the other hand, am moving at a pace that makes a snail look like a Porsche. I’m walking, and just keep collapsing. Finally I get to the staircase. I eye it up. There’s no way on God’s green earth I am walking down these stairs. First off I would most likely stumble down and break my hip or something. Secondly, if I do walk down them, it’s going to take a week and a half because of slow I’d be walking. I lean against the wall and see there is a bit of a hallway behind me. Lightbulb! I’m going to walk down it a few steps, try to get a running start, and just Superman dive down these motherfuckers. I back up, gain my composure for a minute, line up my trajectory, and just bolt. I get to the top step and I leap head first down the stairs. I narrowly miss headbutting the top of the doorframe. I land in the middle of the room in a big crash and everyone jumps and yells, “what the fuck!?” They check on me to make sure I’m not severely injured, they insist I go to the hospital. I tell them no I’m fine, someone grab me a goddamn beer and let's play some fucking foosball!

Mudflap Rick

Rick used to be a real close friend. But he was also a bit of a prick. Well one day Rick and his brother come over to my house. We’re going to do a bit of drinking and play some Playstation. My cousin was also over, he had been staying with me for a while. So he had stocked up on food which was all stored in my refrigerator. Now Rick absolutely HATES my cousin. Rick has a love for Jackass, particularly Dave England. Rick decides he’s going to play a prank on my cousin, I ask him not to, because I honestly didn’t see this going well. As the night goes on Rick eventually interrupts the game cause he has a storm a brewing and needs to go relieve himself. After about a half an hour Rick comes back. We all crack jokes about how things worked out. We all laugh and have a good time. Some amount of time later my cousin announces he is hungry and decides he’s going to eat some cantaloupe. He heads into the kitchen, grabs a kitchen knife. Grabs his melon, cuts into it, drops everything and starts screaming like a little girl who just saw her cat die. This cantaloupe was completely filled with liquid shit. Rick stands up starts bowing and says, “take that you fucker!”

Red Bull Run

My cousin, a buddy, and I all decided to get an apartment together. We moved in, fairly common stuff. We decided that Friday night we were going to throw a housewarming party. As mentioned earlier, I have quite the alcohol tolerance. I issued a blanket challenge to everyone there that I will go shot-for-shot with them and drink them under the table. Not only that I upped the odds and said I would do two shots for each one they did. They all accept. So now I’m drinking two shots every time one of them does a shot, and there’s 6 of us in this apartment. We had 3 bottles of Jager and a case of redbull. We started doing Jager bombs. I drank around a bottle and a half of the Jager. We had to save one bottle for my cousin for when he got home for work. But we were completely out of Red Bull. I decide I’m going to be a hero and go on a Red Bull run. Now at this time I was no longer a person. I was alcohol incarnate. Because in addition to all these Jager bombs, I also consumed a fair amount of Jack Daniels. In combination with the Red Bull, it was just a recipe for disaster. I should in all fairness be passed out. But I can’t sleep because I have wings. Now another important thing to note, there are 6 people crammed in the living room of this apartment, it is as hot as the devil’s nuts. I get outside and I need to cool off. It’s the middle of January, in Wisconsin. It must have been -10 with the wind chill. But not to me, I’m burning up. So I start stripping as I walk to the convenience store down the street. My friends trailing behind me grabbing my clothes and trying to get me dressed again. I shove them and say fuck this shit! I go running down the street “What’s My Age Again” style. I get to the convenience store, buck ass nekkid. I bust in like I’m Ric Flair, “WOOO!!!” Walk back to the Red Bull, grab a case, and head to the counter. I plop the drinks down. The attendant, a female I’ve been crushing on for a minute, just scanned the drinks and kept eye contact with me. (So thankful she didn’t call the police) I pat my chest and butt. “I think I forgot my wallet… My friends should be here soon, they’ve got money.” I stand there awkwardly for about 5 minutes, my friends are standing outside just shaking their heads. They come in, they apologize for my actions. I pay for the Red Bull. After the transaction was complete I decide I’m Casanova all the sudden for some reason and just start laying down a real smooth play at the clerk. Trying my hardest to get her to come back to the party. She declines, repeatedly. We then left. At this point I think it’s my friends fault so I bolt off again yelling, “Fucking cock blockers!” I make it about a block and I pass out in the snow. Woke up the next day in the bathroom.

The Incredible Hulk takes the biggest shits

One night in our hometown, Mudflap Rick, his brother, and a buddy of ours are walking down the main street each of us killing a sixer and a bottle of super cheap vodka. I believe we were on our way back from a Halloween party, because I remember Rick being painted green and wearing a pair of Hulk hands. We come upon an unattended police vehicle. We lived in a small town, so we knew exactly who the car belonged to. Well earlier that month Rick got pulled over and got his license suspended. Rick decides he’s going to get a little revenge. So climbs up on the hood of the Crown Vic. Pulls his pants down to his knees. Squats down and drops the biggest shit I’ve seen in my entire life on the windshield of this car. We hear someone coming so we all book it to some nearby bushes and hide. It’s the cop, he’s getting ready to head to his shift. Miraculously he doesn’t notice this massive dook in the middle of the windshield. He hops in and starts it up. After a minute he looks out the front. His face contorts into a look that is a cross between horror and disgust. We all start laughing hysterically. We weren’t even remotely prepared for what happened next. In an attempt to clear the feces, the officer turns on his wipers. It didn’t have the effect I think he intended cause it just smeared streaks of crap back and forth across. We lost it at this point. He must have heard us then, because he leapt out of the car and started running toward the shrubs we were in. We all scatter and just run. We all met up at my apartment later. Upon Rick showing up we all laughed ourselves to tears.

Submitted December 06, 2017 at 10:37AM by utternewb http://ift.tt/2AWGzmf shortstories

[FN] 'Heaven sent a hellish scent' shortstories

"Is that lavender I smell?"; He pondered out loud.

"How would you know?"; His wife chortled. "You wouldn't realize if a dead cat was in here! You have the worst sense of smell of anyone I know. I've worn this perfume for six months. Why would you just start noticing it now?"

"I have no idea. When I woke up this morning my nose was filled with a plethora of odd fragrances. It was as if you had sprayed a potpourri air freshener in the room. I could smell dozens of different things lingering in the room. I noticed fabric softener on my pillowcase, your lavender-based perfume from the bathroom counter and also the horrible stench of my morning breath. Heck, I even got a whiff of the burnt toast from downstairs in the kitchen. I know that's a pretty distinctive odor but I've never been able to smell it so far away before. I can't explain the sudden sensory overload. It's kinda overwhelming."

"I don't know what you think you smell but I didn't burn any toast."; She replied with annoyance. Alice was a little defensive about her cooking.

As if on queue, the smoke alarm downstairs began to incessantly beep. Mrs. Gowan opened the door and yelled to the kitchen. "What's going on down there?"

"Sorry Mom. My toast got a little overdone."

Stuart grinned at her. "See, I told ya." She just rolled her eyes at the incredibly convenient confirmation.

Later that evening and for several days later he was graced with an uncharacteristic sense of smell. He finally understood the reputation of the office 'stinker' and was grateful that it wasn't him. The powerful scent of coffee filled his nostrils and even the flowers at the reception desk 'called out to him'. He rapidly found himself eavesdropping on a secret olfactory world which he had no previous awareness of. It was both overwhelming and strangely addictive. He had to force himself to stop stealing whiffs of his attractive, twenty-something secretary's hair. "That's basically what got King David in trouble."; He remembered from last Sunday's church sermon. "David couldn't stop thinking about the dazzling charms of Bathsheba."

No sooner than he walked into the door to his home, he scrunched his nose up. To no one in particular, he announced that the milk in the fridge had went bad. Only when his wife opened up the refrigerator door was she able to verify his proclamation. She looked at him with a suspicious look.

"How could you possibly know the milk had spoiled? It was still in the fridge with the door closed and the lid on. I couldn't even tell until I stuck my nose over the spout. If you knew it was bad last night, why didn't you just go ahead and pour it out? There's no point in pretending you have some sort of 'divine sniffer' now. No one is going to believe that about your nose."

"I swear, something has happened. Its a modern day miracle. It's been like this for a couple days now. Ever since I noticed Sean's burnt toast in the kitchen, I've been bombarded with hundreds of olfactory queues that I couldn't detect before. I can't even identify most of them because I have no past field of comparison but it's a real thing. For whatever reason, I've been blessed with a new gift from the Lord. I must be living right, eh?" He chuckled at the realization of his good fortune.

Alice glared at him with skepticism. She was deeply devout in her faith, and didn't like to take the possibility of modern day miracles so lightly. It seemed blasphemous to assume that mundane things like that would be given by the almighty while far greater needs would not be granted. She didn't take his true, divine gifts for granted.

"As a matter of fact, I can sense a cigarette burning around here."; He added confidently. "Come with me. Let's get to the bottom of it. Then you can decide for yourself if I'm really imagining the whole thing."

They darted out of the house with Mr. Gowan leading the way. In the storage shed, they discovered their teenage son covertly puffing on a cigarette, as he had predicted. "Lord help me! I can't believe this! You're grounded for a month!"; Alice commanded. "Where did you get that filthy thing?"

He attempted to cover up his tracks but when he saw how it was making matters worse, Sean eventually confessed the truth. It had come from a classmate's Mom's purse. Despite his protests of it being 'no big deal', Mrs. Gowan sent him to his room to reflect on his unacceptable behavior. She was too miffed about his secretive activity to weigh in on her husband's mysterious new 'super power'.

Meanwhile Stuart continued to experience a heightened sense of smell in unexplained circumstances. Everywhere he went, a whole new world of mysterious odors followed him around. It ran the gamut from intriguing to downright annoying. The unfamiliar sensations could be overwhelming at times. Most of the time he just wanted things to go back to normal for him. He noticed the pleasant fragrance of baked yeast rolls and the fresh linens on their bed.

There were also plenty of foul odors he encountered. He had to wait a half hour to use the men's room at the office because of the lingering stall 'funk'. Javier liked to heat up tuna for lunch in the break room and the office manager used far too much cheap cologne. All in all, it was a wash. The pleasant and unpleasant smells were about even.

That all changed the following Friday morning. No sooner than Stuart entered his office building, he was assaulted with a stench so powerful that if felt like a physical blow to his person. He recoiled in horror. The vile odor invading his nostrils was a compound of many, unpleasant things. The first of which was an unmistakable odor of decay and death. It lingered in the air as if the building was filled with corpses and rotting bodies. There was also an unmistakable smell of charred flesh and heavy gaseous fumes. He looked around in bewilderment. All of his coworkers were milling about as if nothing was wrong. It didn't make any sense. He choked and gagged from the putrid stench while they looked at him in perplexed dismay.

"Don't you all smell that horrible odor?"; He grasped. "It absolutely reeks in here!"; He leaned over and vomited. Several of his peers ran over to check on him. "No! No. Don't worry about me. Have everyone evacuate the building, immediately."

The receptionist nervously picked up the intercom and asked for all personnel to exit the office building immediately. Like everyone else, she was oblivious to Stuart's reasoning but took his word for the emergency request. Stuart stumbled over to the fire alarm and pulled it, to further punctuate the critical importance of the announcement. Slowly the staff and executives began to file out of their various offices and into the lobby. Evacuees from different floors dutifully used the stairs instead of the elevators according to posted safety regulations.

Dozens of confused employees questioned the receptionist about her evacuation announcement. She explained that it was Stuart who gave the cryptic order. He stood at the edge of the lobby door and frantically motioned for them to immediately follow him outside. From his well known honesty and character, the staff elected to obey his request without explanation. They assumed he would detail what all the hubbub was about, once they were outside.

As it turned out, that wasn't necessary. No sooner than the last employee had joined the impromptu gathering on the other side of the parking lot, a massive explosion leveled the building! The incredible blast was heard more than twenty miles away. Shrapnel and flying debris caused a few minor injuries but overall, it was the best case scenario. Some of the survivors suffered temporary hearing loss but they were grateful for Stuart's heroic actions. No one could explain how he was the only one who could smell the deadly gas leak. In the end, no one cared. He didn't mention the hellish scent of death he witnessed before the explosion. It was clearly an olfactory premonition he was given to prevent a disaster. Alice fully accepted the miracle after that. It was as plain as the nose on his face.

Submitted October 21, 2017 at 03:13AM by OpinionatedIMO http://ift.tt/2ipzCCy shortstories

[RF] Golden shortstories

“Why are you such a pessimistic asshole?” My date asks once the words leave my mouth.

         I look at her with my “are you actually asking me that?” face. “You’re the one who accepted the blind date honey, you knew exactly what was going to happen because I know for a fact Johnny (My good friend) doesn’t skimp on the details when describing me to people.”

         “All he said to me was you were Jewish (I’m not, I just don’t tip or waste money) and funny but so far all you’ve been is just a melancholy prick over some girl who doesn’t bother talking to you anymore.” She leaves her mouth agape and stares at me in utter awe. Not the amorous awe but the awe of someone who can’t believe who they’re talking to.

         “Ok first off, I’m not Jewish but I have no problem with them, and second off this girl broke my heart and I’m just trying to tell you what to avoid.” The minute that last sentence left my mouth I knew I was in for it. This was it. She was going to destroy me with words just like that. Instead she grabbed her twenty dollar glass of wine and threw it into my face leaving my designer shirt in a purple mess along with staining my suit.

         “Fuck. You.” She says before stammering off out of the restaurant. I raise my finger for the waiter who drops the check. I grab my wallet from my inside pocket and grab the money and put the exact change on the table and walk out.

         “I see your date didn’t go well monsieur.” Says the receptionist. I look at him and shake my head.

         “No shit monsieur. Vous ne parlez pas francais. So don’t fucking try.” The receptionist motions for two goons to get me out but I place my hand in front of them. “I’ve got this ok?” I put my hands down and turn around towards the door but before I could get another step I feel four hand close down on me and pick me up, keep in mind I’m only a hundred twenty pounds and five foot six, and throw me out hitting my nose on the pavement and sending my glasses flying.

         After walking for what seemed like an eternity back to my studio apartment. I slowly make my way to the couch and fall face first. Another plunder I thought in my head. I lift myself up and walk to my bathroom, my intention to take my medications which two of the three I’m out of. Only one I have left is the ones for my allergies. Anxiety and depression will have to wait until the pharmacist is opened tomorrow morning. I sat back on my couch and grab my phone and called Johnny.

         “Ethan I didn’t expect a call this early. I’m with my wife right now at the supermarket. We’re picking up diapers for little Kevin” Oh poor Johnny I think; stuck with a woman who’s cheating on him. “What did you say about cheating?” Fuck…

         “Um….” I really messed up this time. This isn’t the first time this happened but I’ll make something up first before I tell you more stories from my life. “You see the girl you set me up with is a big cheater.”

         “She’s the most catholic girl I’ve met in my entire life…” I could already hear the confusion in his voice. I couldn’t think of anything else so I went to the next big thing.

         “She’s an anti-Semite.” I already knew it would backfire on me.

         “It went bad huh?” That was pretty much my whole life summed up in a sentence the books over folks you can pretty much stop reading here I die at the end.

         I’m just joking please keep reading. “Yeah very bad, she called me a melancholy asshole and threw wine on me. Twenty dollar wine too!” According to my mother my father’s family was full of Jewish heritage but I seriously doubted that since she hated his guts and was too an anti-Semite.

         “Look man; meet me at the bar tomorrow we’ll talk all about it ok?”

         “Alright Johnny I’ll talk to you then.” I put the phone face down on my table and lay back in my couch. I close my eyes and rub them. After a moment of silence the T.V. flutters to life with a press of a button. Then my feet drag me to the kitchen where I look upon the emptiness of my refrigerator. A lone Chinese carton full of rice, vegetables, and chicken that then suddenly is put into the microwave set for two minutes. I watch it slowly turn and turn inside for the remainder while listening to the latest celebrity scandals playing on the T.V. I grab the carton and plop down on the couch. It only seemed like a month ago when she was sitting right next to me.

         Her beautiful dyed hair with her big soulful eyes, her supple bosom that seemed to never be at home inside a shirt, her arms around me and mine around her playing with the piercings that she had put it in herself during high school in southern Texas. It had taken her nearly three years for her to finally see me in a romantic relationship and not just best friends anymore. It was the greatest two years of my life. She was the best I ever had but in a flash she was gone. Gone from my life when a man walked up to her and said those god damned words.

         “I’m sorry I cheated on you.” No not those… “I love you.” Those

         “I Love You.” Is fucking bullshit, especially when it comes from a man who cheated on you and repeatedly does it and you listen to it. When I said to her all those other times she didn’t fall head over heels for me. All she ever did was just look at me and smile and say “I love you too Ethan, you’re my best friend.” BUT TO HIM?! “I love you so damn much babe.” YEAH BULLSHIT

         I wake up from my fever dream and see the T.V. on the fritz and my carton of Chinese empty. Just like my will of continuing to date while the love of my life is with a cheating bastard who’s just a carbon copy of all the other boyfriends she’s had throughout her entire life. Some lowlife piece of shi-

         A knock from my door? Who would want to visit me? The mail slot slowly opens letting the light from the hallway cut through the darkness of my apartment and letter is handed to me. “Rent due by next week.” Oh of course. None of my friends but the damned landlord Takanewa or something like that. I open the letter and see twelve thousand dollars in finances listed. I grimace and put the letter on my coffee table and walk to my bed and try to forget things for a while.

         It didn’t work

         “I had a dream where I was being eaten by a woman who looked eerily similar to my ex. Then once she had eaten me I was in her stomach and inside I could only see a bunch of digested me’s.” Johnny raises his hand and takes a swig from his beer and just a tiny bit of foam stays in his mustache which he wipes off with his cloth jacket.

         “That’s some freaky shit, but look man… you’ve got to forget about Sarah ok?” I nod and my head and grab my glass of wine and take a swig.

         “I try but I’ve known her for ten years of my life and she still finds ways to appear at the oddest of times.” I rub my head and take another swig.

         “Look you just got to be honest with her ok? Her leading you on and staying in your life for god knows how long isn’t going to do either of you any good. Maybe for her because she obviously enjoys watching you suffer.” In a sense he was right and I knew deep down that he was. That’ why the moment he finished I pulled out of my phone and clicked her contact info and pressed down on the little green phone symbol. “Wait are you calling her right now?” I nod my head yes and Johnny cheers and orders another beer and glass of wine for me. I take the call in a small nook where two bathrooms meet.

         “Hello?” I hear her sweet Latina voice over the line and for a moment I smile as the all the good memories of me and her come flooding back. The times in high school we would be lying in our beds and just be laughing at some stupid video she sent to me, or be showing me the cute outfits she would want to wear. Then it all comes crashing back around me when all the bad memories which far outweigh the good come also flooding back.

         “Sarah it’s Ethan and we need to talk.” I tried to sound serious but it was quite hard to do. Especially since this was the day I never looked forwards to having to do. Leave her behind and not have her in my life anymore.

         “Look Ethan I’ve told you before what’s happening between us and I’m afraid we can’t be together.” Just like the icy knife in my heart that I remembered. Fucking Bitch

         “I know and that’s why I’m telling you I’m done with you.” If I had a dollar for every time I’ve said that to her I wouldn’t be living in a studio apartment. “I can’t keep doing this to myself and I don’t want you in my life anymore.” If I had a full bottle of anti-depressants for every time I said that to her I would have a life time supply and enough for my great grandchildren.

         “What do you mean? Are you finally done with me?” No shit bitch is the first words that pop into my brain.

         “Yes Sarah. This is my final goodbye to you.” If I had a dog for every time I’ve said that I would have a dog waiting for me at home.

         “Can we at least have one more dinner together? For old time’s sake?”

         “No Sarah… no more dinners, meetings in the park, no more anything.”

         “So this is really it between me and you?”

         “Yes…”

         “It was fun while it lasted.”

         “Not for me you sociopathic bitch.” I pressed end call and deleted her as a contact. I take a deep sigh of relief and immediately regret everything I just did. What am I supposed to do without her in my life? Jesus I have to get her back. Somehow I have to…

         In my eyes, masturbating to your ex girlfriend’s pictures isn’t a necessarily bad thing. Morally no it is but it’s justified in this instance. It’s been nearly two weeks since I left her behind in my life and at this point I just want another female in my life. Just to hold someone and feel like I belong. Though it’s going to take a little while since I’ve been ordering nothing but take-out and pizza and the only reason I’ve left is to get some more alcohol. I’m glad my work let me have this month long vacation. Suddenly a cool fan is blowing on my face and I’m asking myself now. When did I get to my therapist’s office?

         “So how have you been Ethan? Anything happen recently?” My doctor says looking at me with an inquisitive look. I think for a moment and I wonder for a moment. Pondering. Questioning. What the fuck is the point of living.

         “Well I finally got rid of Sarah from my life…” My therapist nods and jots something down. Probably something along the lines of ‘fucking retarded why would he give her up? His best friend.’

         “How are you feeling because of this huge change in your life? You’ve known her for ten or so years and now.” I didn’t know what to feel. I admit I did somewhat lie. Her boyfriend is new and I don’t know him at all. Maybe I was wrong? Honestly I don’t have any feelings for her anymore, at least not right now since I haven’t been talking to her…

         “I don’t feel sad about it, but I don’t feel good either. Just stuck in some gray zone I haven’t been able to leave. My vacation is nearly over so at least I can have work to keep my mind off of it for the most part but still. I miss her but I know she’ll just bring pain or maybe something else for a change… I really don’t know.” At this moment I can see him continue writing notes.

         “I think you should keep your distance for good. Especially sense you haven’t talked to her in what? Two, three weeks?” This is another lie I told him, in reality I did take her offer for one last meeting. It was four days ago and I haven’t been able to get it off my mind.

         Four Days Ago

         I walk to the restaurant that me and her agreed to meet at and as I walk I start to second guess my decision I’m making. I close my eyes and take off my glasses and just let my feet walk towards the direction I feel they should go. I picture myself walking to my apartment using the main road but when I reopen my eyes I see myself standing in front of the restaurant. I sigh but a smile goes across my face as I see her car park across the street between a pink Chevrolet and a black… I couldn’t tell what the other one was but she quickly crossed the street with a smile on her face. The both of us were half tempted to embrace and possibly even kiss but before either could take place we just have a light hug and let go after a few more seconds.

         “I’m glad you came here Ethan. I was a little worried you would just leave me for good without proper closure.” I see a smile forming on the corner of her lips and I smile back.

         “I’m glad you didn’t completely ignore my message.” Her smile is completed on her face and it’s a masterpiece before me. She brushes her hair behind her ear as the waiter comes to take our order. It’s almost like all the other times we went on a date together. She ordered some pasta dish and so did I. I can’t exactly remember our conversation we were having though but it was sweet. Once the night ended we embraced and she kissed me. I told her to call me later which she agreed to.

         Present

         “My friend Johnny also got into a bit of trouble and he isn’t talking to me anymore.”

         “What happened between the two of you? From what you’ve told me the two of you were very close.”

         “So are me and his wife.” Yeah… I fucked her. It was during a time where Sarah left me and me and his wife were decent acquaintances. “It was during a rough patch with Sarah and he was on a business trip. She comforted me and it grew deeper than just friends. He was gone for eight days and we made love six of those days.”

         “And you’ve kept this a secret from him?”

         “Yes and so has she. Up until two days ago when Johnny’s life came to a brief stop.”

         “What do you mean exactly?”

         “Guess I’ll start from start.”

         Three Days ago

         I decided to keep the dinner rendezvous with Sarah a secret from Johnny as me and him met at the bar later that day. As we walked inside the bad and sat in our usual space in the corner of the bar in a small booth I could tell there was something wrong with him but I didn’t want to ask him just yet.

         “Two beers.” Johnny finally says after ten minutes of silence. He raises his hand when the bartender looks around who nods and brings two mugs of beer. Frankly I’m mostly a wine person but I felt like a beer would be alright for now.

         “So what’s happening Johnny?” I ask. He looks at me and sighs. I can tell its bad news and I’m afraid to hear it. Could it be about his wife and her trail of pool boys? Or possibly he wal-

         “I had sex with a hooker last night.” Oh no is the first words that come to mind. “It was the best sex I’ve ever had.” He said still with an almost traumatized look on his face. “But she was sixteen.” I pause for a moment and so does he in order to let this to properly process.

         “This has to be some kind of joke…” I say slowly. He shakes his head.

         “Afterwards she showed me her license because I didn’t believe her either.” A tear started running down his face and ran into his mustache. “I have to pay her and her dip shit boyfriend or something like that two thousand dollars or else they’ll find and tell my wife and the police and oh Christ Ethan.” He says nearly breaking down and swigging from his mug. “I can’t just get that kind of money without anyone knowing.”

         “Sell your car.” I say almost immediately. He pauses and thinks about it. The inner workings of our minds start to work. “Do you know if they have any proof you did it?”

         “Boyfriend recorded it… who can I sell it to this short notice?”

         “Me.” I say getting my checkbook from my inside pocket.

         “Look man don’t worry I promise I’ll pay you back.” I nod and hand him the life saving check. He grabs the beer and gulps the remainder down and walks out of the bar with his marriage still somewhat intact. I wanted to tell him of his wife’s affair but I honestly didn’t have the heart just then. Good news is I have a car at the very least.

         Present

         “So he cheated on his wife with an underage prostitute who had her boyfriend record the whole ordeal.”

         “Yeah that’s what happened. He ended up paying her but she still told his wife.”

         “I assume her reaction was less than perfect.” He says with a smile. I couldn’t help but crack up at his face.

         “You son of a bitch Jules. This is supposed to be a therapy session not you fucking around.” He laughs too and we just take a moment to stop. “Maybe I should find a therapist who isn’t my friend?”

         “No no tell me what happened.” I sigh and continue with the story.

         Yesterday

         The day before all I did was be on the phone with Sarah. From nine a.m. to eleven p.m. Jumping topic to topic, watching movies, talking about some books, and talking about the relationship she’s in now. It was all very sweet and we agreed to talk again another time. Then I get a call from Johnny’s wife, Ashley at twelve.

         “Ethan I need you to come here as fast as possible. It’s about Johnny…” I can hear tears through the phone and her stuttering.

         “I’ll be in there in just a few minutes I have a car now, okay?” I wait a moment for her response but all I hear are tears. “Ashley?”

         “I’ll be here.”

         I get up from my couch and grab my coat as I walk out and down to the street below. After hopping into my new car I drive along the busy streets. All the while I’m wondering what could have happened. I’m honestly scared out of my mind at this point. It didn’t help when I finally drove up the driveway I entered the house and was immediately embraced by Ashley.

         “What happened?”

         “Johnny fucked a minor…” Fuck. I didn’t know what to say to this until I turned around and saw Johnny standing there with a tire iron. “Johnny?”

         “You’re not taking my son.” He says. Ashley nods and pushes me behind her. I panic and grab a small ashtray and hold it behind my back as Johnny goes into the kid’s room. I step in front of Ashley and pray to whatever god would listen to me at the moment. Johnny then walks out with his one month old baby in arm. As he turns around to leave the house I jump to action and smash the ceramic ashtray over his head.

         Present

         “Ok well I think I know why he isn’t talking to you anymore.” Jules says writing something down.

         “Yeah… Ashley is making me stay with her and Kevin just in case he ever returns.” I say this while thinking to myself

         “Kevin is her son correct?”

         “Yeah he’s her son… he’s also mine too. At least me and Ashley aren’t too sure. We’re supposed to go to the doctor sometime this week.”

         “That must be rough on you, your possible baby being taken away by a deranged man.”

         “I think that’s why I acted up. I think he was last seen in somewhere in San Francisco but I’m not too sure.”

         “At least he’s two states away.”

         “Yeah thankful for that but still, you’ve got to wonder what he’s doing.”

         Here at the Golden Gate Bridge I’m reflecting on my life now. Police have a warrant out for me for attempted kidnapping, soliciting sex with a minor, having sex with a minor, and for manslaughter of a man I hit on my drive down here. All I’ve got left now is this bridge… always wanted to take my son Kevin down here just like my father brought me. Now I’m here alone. What have I done to deserve this? It was my wife who drove me to this. She never wanted to have sex and never wanted to satisfy me after those two business trips. I’m glad I did that actually. Glad I fucked that little teen bitch. Showed her a damn good time.

         Fuck it. I step onto the ledge on the bridge and let Kevin’s face be the last thing I remember as I tilted off the edge.

         It was a week after they recovered Johnny’s body from the San Francisco bay. With his body already covered in filth and somewhat already decomposing we decided to cremate him. I’ve moved into Ashley’s home when the tests to see if I was the father came in. It turns out I am and Ashley didn’t want her son to be without a father but she didn’t want me like that at least not at that point with Johnny dying. I let her have all the time she needed to heal from her loss and when she needed me I was there to comfort her. It was a rough year after his suicide. My dating life evaporated and Sarah finally left on her own terms. Last I heard she had overdosed on cocaine and lost one of her legs to diabetes. It felt good to hear that though I knew it was wrong of me to not feel bad for her but after all she had put me through? It was well deserved.

         It wasn’t until the year after Johnny died where Ashley slowly started to want me and it was on February Fifteenth Two-Thousand and Seventeen we were married. I was glad I finally found another person. After years of being tormented by constant stream of girls who didn’t want anything serious I finally had someone. As I look at Kevin run around the yard with his friends I can’t help but look at my life before I meet Ashley, before I had him. The few weeks before he was a part of my life, dating person after person, being miserable and struggling to scrape together enough cash for rent, and now I have a family of my own. Though it wasn’t always mine, I’m living in another man’s dream that I’m very much enjoying.

         “What are you thinking about?” Ashley asks wrapping her arms around my shoulder as we watch Kevin play in the snow with his friends.

         “How far we’ve come, and how much that little kid changed my life.”

         “Our lives.” She says I smile when I hear those words.

         “Our Lives.” And I think to myself, My Life is Golden

Submitted September 14, 2017 at 01:37AM by Grekhen69 http://ift.tt/2y0cI7v shortstories