SHORT FICTION

Some were surprised that the show, which never captured more than a one percent viewer share, lasted as long as it did. The Haworth twins looked nothing alike; then there was Joan Didion’s Esquire piece ravaging Carol Haworth’s parenting style and the Connecticut student who noticed the window in McKelvey’s (19th century) stable, home of Wesley McKelvey’s mare Firecloud, revealed the top of a Burger King sign.  

We ate and made useless chat. The Best was bland that day. All I could taste was the vinegar. Katie had cut her hair short. Truthfully, she looked beautiful. I made the conscious decision not to look at her socks. After the sandwiches were eaten things got quiet. 

Then Dad started to miss birthdays and funerals and anniversaries. When our cat, Sasha, and our turtle, Jamba Juice, died, Mom dug up the graves. My brother and I prayed for Sasha and Jamba Juice. Dad was still inside, playing video games.  

My Aunt Sharon gave me a whole shelf-worth of conduct guides when I turned ten. She didn’t call them that, of course. And unlike Victorian conduct guides, none of them said my ovaries would shrivel if I read too much (although, my ovaries did eventually shrivel, or more accurately, they exploded, but that was years down the road yet. At 13 my ovaries were still intact, as far as I knew).  

“I’d like to take a look at that book.” He wraps his hand around the nape of her neck, and they lock unblinking eyes like children in a staring contest. When she is the first to look away, Ted says, “Why don’t I give you a ride home.”  

Emily acted as guide, her arm around Nathan’s, until they sat opposite each other. Her eyes scanned the menu lazily, already knowing she would get the flauta plate and as many free margaritas as they’d serve her. Nathan’s eyes flickered up to her face then back down to his phone, fingers never ceasing the algorithm-perpetuated doom scroll.  

In addition to being a lovely person, my sister also possesses a great memory, meaning the slightest hint of something you might drop in discussion can turn up in a lovely gift at any time. Staring down at the gleaming rendition of Abe Lincoln I remembered how the last time we spoke I told her about how I was getting into coin collecting after reading an article about this one particular printing of penny that had just sold at an auction for an exorbitant price. This one didn’t have the defect that made that one so valuable, but it was rare nonetheless. 

I put my pants on like everyone else: throwing my pants in the air mid-handstand the pastor preached to his congregation. Edward Fortyhands with the monkey’s paw the congregation preached back.  

Sarah enters the castle. Carmen takes over and helps her get acclimated. Come to find out, she’s missing from the Center for Wayward Girls. Family died in a fire. A troubled kid bounced around in foster care homes.

What should I do? I know she met the judge. I mentioned him. She couldn’t stop shaking.

I arrive 15 minutes early because that is what the flier says to do. The address has brought me down an alleyway between a church and a nail salon. It’s dark and wet. A car pulls up and a man gets out. He is tall and has pecs that push through his t-shirt. He asks me if I’m here for the fitness class. I hold up the flier. He says his name is Derek and tells me to follow him.  

My day began with a cup of coffee. A dash of caffeine was what I needed to kick start my day—a software engineer's job involved long hours of staring at the screen, making me susceptible to drowsiness. Lunch would comprise a sandwich filled with oodles of cheese, and dinner would be a burger, besides the alcohol at those local bars during happy hours. 

“Thank you all for being here to celebrate my lovely wife, Julie.” He smiled at her mother, then Bri and the rest of the gathered party. “I know your love for Shakespeare, dear, so I thought this would be something you’d enjoy.” With an overly-dramatic flourish of his hand, he sat on the loveseat with his wife.  

But what about the fact that her father believed in nothing? No afterlife, no reincarnation, no heaven or hell. No God. Just dead emptiness. Could he be right? So, what was the purpose of life then? Just the here and now? Each moment. If there’s nothing, what about right and wrong?    

She looks away, staring toward the forest behind the garden wall. Kendell takes his time and takes a few photos.  

“There, I trust you now,” says Deidra, holding her hand for Kendell to help her down. “Be careful. I do not want to ladder my fishnets.” 

That was true. I confess that when the NSA woke me at 2 AM asking for my assistance with an urgent legal matter, it was difficult to refuse. First, they'd tried calling my business cell, next calling my private cell, then knocking on my door, and finally, calling my private cell again. That's when I caved in and answered. 

Though I was starting to feel sleepy like my mother would, I stood and surveyed the cemetery like I knew what losing a friend felt like. Everyone raised their bottles, downed whatever they had left. The headstones began to melt. Part of the ground started to cave in. I wasn’t sure if when I returned home after the wedding, I’d remember slogging through the broken cemetery gates when we were done mourning, feeling warm, welcomed, whole.  

The perfect monster for me was The Minotaur.

I would draw mazes on A4 refill pads in the cafe with my father with the smooth scratching of HB pencil.

The doctor said, “You won’t walk again, Michael,” and poof Jenny Diller appeared looking exactly the same, curly hair parted in the middle with pouted lips concealing gapped teeth. She had enthusiastic eyes that hung above a weak smile, a face that said she was in it for the show, it was all a game.

His poems, she could tell, were bad. She listened intently, however, her ears straining for any hint of voluptuousness or sensuality. But as far as she could tell, his poems were about buildings: concrete, and tarp blowing in the wind, and steel and construction. The word “steel” excited her whenever he said it. She wondered if, underneath it all, it could be about love.

As she pulled on her old navy pea jacket, Ellen could see Lenny at work on the leaves at the side of the house. She figured it would be okay to leave for about an hour. She waved goodbye to him as she walked down the driveway.

He watches him take a sip of his gin and tonic, and it makes him feel uneasy. Another man drinking his drink, tasting what he tastes, foreign lips touching a part where his once touched. Pine trees, incense, lips touching lips.

The second I stepped onto the porch, the Plymouth’s roar rang out, shattering the silence before Chad killed the engine and exited the car in his ripped blue jeans. With his left hand, he presented me with a water-sprinkled rose. Like a ballroom dancer, Chad took my right hand and spun me into his arms. The scene felt unlike anything I had ever read or imagined before.

“Everything makes you sad,” Rickie said.

“I don’t like when things die,” Benjie said.

“Get used to it,” Jimmie said. He looked past the backyard to the tracks. “There’s a lot of death in life.”

The six had been out together several times already, and always had a good time. Allison smiled and waved as she walked to the table. Brad hoped things would lighten up once they joined the others. Their friends seemed to be arguing about something. 

She was the last to arrive. She spread her hands wide in apology. “Nowhere to park.” The restaurant was noisy; Dave, Joey and Annette were noisy. Kathy ordered a glass of pinot grigio and drank it like water.  

He says I can soften the blow by explaining that it’s not her cooking, her sandwich construction, or any other reason associated with her own blame, but that I just don’t like beetroot, plain and simple. My friend says that it could actually paint me the hero, the gentleman, the adorable sweetheart, that for a dozen years I put up with beetroot sandwiches that I detest because my love for Margaret is greater than my hate for the devil’s vegetable. 

Spirit meets me in an ancient red Chevy pickup. She steps out and slams the door. She has to do it twice. A lovely long-haired chick in a tie-dyed T-shirt with her yellow Labrador Retriever, Buck, riding shotgun. Fine gray hair to the base of her spine. Love senior girls who resist those ear show cuts. We hug, of course. A good one, not of the vanilla variety. “Toss your shit in back, brother.” The handsome Lab, with sad eyes, hops in the truck-bed.

The current receptionist, an older woman seasoned with gossip, related this to you. She was there, yes, when her boss wore foundation and blush—one day he’d forgotten it, and she caught him with a red face smeared with tears and snot. That’s how she knows. You don’t question her; there’s more knowledge in her crow’s feet than in your whole wrinkly brain.

Jack had proudly waved his paper cut-out of a ship, painted purple and glued to a double popsicle stick, when she picked him up at 2:00 that afternoon. “It’s the Pinta!” Jack wriggled, patting Lena’s arm and gazing up at her, thrilled to display his preschool creation. 

"You should take Karate!" Julian said, kicking the air. “That's what I do. Then you can beat him up!" He went on to demonstrate a flurry of jabs and impossible blocks, battling an invisible enemy, until we got to the intersection of Highland Avenue and Spring Street, where he had to turn off to go home.