Every night when she got home, Aubrey would pull out the sheets of paper--hundreds of pages, connected at their edges by Scotch Tape--on which she calculated her happiness. Thousands of variables multiplied and divided, sqaured and subtracted preceded an equals sign which preced a value of 100,000. 100,000 was the nubmer that signified her optimal happiness, and she was working to solve for all the variables that came before it.

These variables represented all the myriad factors in Aubrey's life. Some were set in stone, like n₁, which was her birth name. Aubrey had no intention of changing her name, so n₃ carried the same value, as n₁, though it might be changed, should it prove necessary.

So every night she sat in front of the coffee table in her bedroom, rearranging numbers and operations and little letters with numbers under them.

The difficulty of this long equation was not only that she didn't know the necessary values of the variables (and a hundred always changed each time she changed one), but she didn't know the proper formula to begin with. She was constantly rewriting sections of the equation, recognizing the flaws.

One night, Aubrey's roommate, Susan, observed Aubrey working on solving for g₅ (the number of years of an undefined foreign language she should take in college).

"Oy gevalt," Aubrey moaned (she had until six months ago been a non-practicing Catholic, but had recently converted to Judaism per her conclusions on r₁₆ and was injecting Yiddish vocabulary into her speech to smooth the transition--till the dictates of r₁₉ would make her an atheist in 2014), "g₅'s in the wrong spot entirely!"

"Hey, Aub," Susan suggested, leaned up against a doorjamb, casually sipping a cup of tea, "what if you just plugged in all of the variables that sound best, and just go with whatever you end up with?"

"I've tried that, Susan!" Aubrey snapped, "and I end up with 79,846.43333 and on! Does that sound like 100,000 to you?!"

"Just a thought," Susan shrugged. "Don't gotta bit my head off about it."

Aubrey sighed. "Sorry I snapped, Susan. I just know I can get it perfect, and I can't stop till I do."

"Alright. I'll leave you to it, then."

"Thanks."

Susan walked away. Aubrey erased g₅ from the equation, and began sifting through the pages, tattered from age and revision, and searched for where it belogned.

______________
This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Davey Morrison, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, and William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden. This week's theme: 'Algebra'.

Labels: coordinated content, short stories

Two eighteen-year-old boys, unable to return home.

Two eighteen-year-old boys, trying to make it on their own in the big city.

Two eighteen-year-old boys, cute but unlucky.

Two eighteen-year-old boys, selling their bodies for money.

Two eighteen-year-old boys, each surprised at the youth and beauty of tonight's tricks.

Two eighteen-year-old boys, taking turns screwing each other in a dark apartment.

Two eighteen-year-old boys, anxious, sitting across from each other in the quiet with not a penny between them and pimps expecting their four hundred dollars.

Labels: short stories

Charlie skipped home with an extra spring in his step. Today was Wednesday, after all, and every Wednesday, his mother would take him to the supermarket and buy him an ice cream cone, scooped from one of the sixteen tubs of ice cream behind the glass. Fifteen of these tubs contained consistent flavors of ice cream week by week, day by day. One tub, though, cycled through an unknown number of flavors every week, something he had not picked up on until eight weeks ago. He was only seven years old, he reasoned, so even though he and his mother had been honoring this ritual for the entirety of his school career, his observational faculties had only recently provided for detecting such patterns.

Charlie wondered what flavor would be in the sixteenth tub this Wednesday, and whether or not it would be intriguing enough to sway him from his desired rocky road cone. He wondered what flavor could convince him to

As usual, Charlie rounded the corner the separated the living room from the kitchen, where he expected to find his mother either sipping some afternoon coffee and typing on her laptop computer. Instead, he found his mother seated next to a slight whisp of a bald man, dressed in a dull gray suit, both surrounded by sheets of paper, stacks of paper, strips of paper.

"Hi, Charlie," his mother smiled, looking up from the papers in her hands. "This is Geoff, our accountant."

"Hey, Charlie," the accountant said without looking up. He was pressing buttons on a calculator that noisily spat out receipt tape.

"Hi, Mom," Charlie said, touching his hand to the wall. "Are you ready to go to the supermarket?" he asked. "It's Wednesday."

"Oh, honey," his mother sighed. "I'm sorry, but today's Tax Day. We've got to finish these tonight and I can't take the time away to get to the supermarket."

"But it's Wednesday," Charlie

"I think Tax Day supercedes Wednesday," the accountant looked up and chuckled to himself.

"I know, sweetheart," she said from across the kitchen. "We'll go tomorrow, okay?'

Charlie was an agreeable child. "Okay," he nodded. He let his backpack slide down his shoulder, turned around, and walked back into the living room.

That Wednesday was the day on which Charlie learned that traditions are merely fragile constructs of human design, that life's pleasures can easily be derailed by life's obligations, and that all things are impermanent.

Labels: short stories, taxes, Wednesday

At long last, after a separation of years and oceans and fields and mountains, the man and the woman were reunited. Their correspondences had sustained each other with the warmth of love through the biting realities of life, cold and dark, hungry and alone. The memories of each other's faces had become ever more obscure and, they feared, idealized. But when they laid eyes on each other, they were immediately struck with how no image in their minds could compare to the real things. And together, they were more beautiful than they were alone. They embraced, and the warmth they carried inside of them fused and burned with the intensity of a thousand suns. Zing! went the strings of her heart.

They spent the day together, the night together. Zing! went the strings of her heart. They laid in each other's arms one day from sunup to sunrise, staring out at the horizon, speaking only of their love for one another. Zing! went the strings of her heart.

They walked along the beach, hand in hand, bathed in moonlight. They leaned into each other, they supported each other. Zing! went the strings of her heart.

"Are your heart strings going to keep doing that?" he asked.

Their steps halted. "I believe so," she stammered, suddenly fearing, doubting his devotion.

He took a deep breath, mustering up every ounce of tolerance he could. "In time, I hope that I shall accept it, and maybe even grow to love it," he said to the waves. Then he turned to her and smiled.

Zing! went the strings of her heart.

Labels: love, short stories, song references

We regret to inform you that you have fallen into a bottomless pit. The pit you are now falling through is indeed bottomless and you will continue to fall from now until eternity. The magical powers employed to create this human-engineered anomaly have endowed the shaft with the capability of sustaining the basic nutritional needs of its victims. You will not hunger or thirst, though you will age normally. Eventually, you will meet with a natural death, though your corpse will continue to fall until it finally wastes away.

As you continue to fall, you will find no objects or people here in this bottomless pit. There are no exits and there is no chance of escape, by your own hand or another's. The blackness you see around you will be your only company from here till the end of your life. Please, make your best effort to utilize this time to reflect on your life, and to enjoy the fall.

BEEP!

We regret to inform you that you have fallen into a bottomless pit. The pit you are now falling through is indeed--

"Oh God!" cried Herman as he continued his free fall through imperceptible space. "Will it never stop looping?!"

--eternity. The magical powers employed to create this human-engineered anomaly have endowed the shaft with the capability of sustaining the basic nutritional needs of its victims. You will not hunger or thirst, though you will age normally. Eventually, you will meet with a natural death, though your corpse will continue to fall until it finally wastes away.

As you continue to fall, you will find no objects or people here in this bottomless pit. There are no exits and there is no chance of escape, by your own hand or another's. The blackness you see around you will be your only company from here till the end of your life. Please, make your best effort to utilize this time to reflect on your life, and to enjoy the fall.

BEEP!

Labels: short stories

"The golden evenings of my Summer at the ancestral beach house initiated their too-hasty retreat into the past. And soon enough, we had but two weeks left. Still, though, faced with the imminent return to our studies, my cousins and I found ourselves growing bored with our freedom.

"One afternoon after lunch, however, we found a curiously shaped shell while my cousin Tabitha was carelessly kicking her feet in the sand. Something about it caught our attention and we began speculating as to its origins. Little Geoffrey incorrectly identified it as "coral," but the name took.

"In the course of our whimsical speculations, it was determined that the shell must have possessed some magical properties. Soon, we found ourselves concocting some loose rules and assuming roles for a new game."

*
While he continued his story, the candles on their table shed their wax and the other patrons of the restaurant left and took with them their contribution to the warm evening ambience. While he detailed the rules of his impromptu childhood game, their waiter made several visits to the table, but was always shooed away with a flick of hand, unwilling to let his tale be interrupted.

*
"At last, the rules were finally codified for maximal enjoyment for each one of us. The rules were complex and challenging but elegant and fair. It was a tremendous amount of fun, and we all agreed that it was the highlight of our Summer. Indeed, we played our Coralball until the sun began to set and our grandmother summoned us home. All smiles and laughter, we vowed to resume the game after breakfast the next day.

"Yet when we congregated at the beach the next morning, the magic of the game had The exhilarating feeling of invention and adventurous spirit of discovery had been drained from our dear Coralball, leaving us with an overwrought set of rules that was as dry and boring as the shell we had once celebrated so. We lied to ourselves for a few hours, pretending to enjoy what we believed we should, but ultimately could not--"

"Okay, I get it! Fine," she snapped, picking up her purse, "you don't want to see me anymore. Whatever. Fuck you." She stormed out of the restaurant.

Labels: short stories

Last night, I laid in bed in the same manner I have most nights since adolescence. Restlessly, I tossed and turned, fluffed my pillow, and contorted my spine, seeking a comfortable spot in which to fall asleep. These efforts were futile, of course, because it was not my body that sought comfort, but my mind. For hours I was prodded by the myriad demons that haunted me during my waking hours but became heavy and articulate with nightfall.

I had my beliefs, my opinions, and my ideals. Still, I knew that billions of other people had their own sets of beliefs, opinions, and ideals that differed from mine. Whose could be reight? Self doubt filled me with anguish. Perhaps my entire moral universe was askew, and who could know how much suffering and setback the world suffered at my ignorance? In the darkness of my small room, the cries of one or a thousand people erupted from my skull and echoed off my walls.

This morning, though, I awoke with the dawn, energized and clear of mind. The world had snapped into clear and shining focus; the burdensome mantle of my self doubt had been lifted from my shoulders. I was right. About everything. My impulses had never and could never lead me astray. A smile is now fixed upon my face and I employ my peerless certainty as both sword and shield.

Prepare thyselves, motherfuckers of the world, 'cause I'm fucking right. About everything.

Labels: short stories

A plan initially made some months ago in haste and in jest, Sundae Sunday finally arrived this March 1st, 2009. It was cute and it was ironic, and by God, Shirley and Dan were going through with it--a whole day dedicated to these happy homophones, a whole day of sundaes for every meal.

"Sundaes all Sunday long!" they said in unison, imagining the marketing campaign for such an event.

"Perhaps," Shirley said, "if this turns out well, we could make the first Sunday of every March from here on to forever Sundae Sunday."

As Dan rounded the corner into the dining room with the lunch sundaes, his suspicions were confirmed by the grimace on Shirley's face that mirrored his own. Sundae Sunday would be a day to forget, not remember, and it would not continue on.

Labels: ice cream, short stories

Becky's shift started at nine o'clock. She shared an office with Janice, whose shift started an hour later. Becky would be well engaged in her work--typing memos, emailing reports, reviewing spreadsheets--by the time Janice would drop her mighty purse on her desk, noisily swing the door to hang up her jacket, and make a loud, tired pronouncement about whatever day of the week it was. These pronouncements would echo in everything Janice would say to her officemate or passersby for the first and last two hours of her shift, when she seemingly had an acute awareness of the day of the week. Becky liked to keep communication with Janice to a minimum and dreaded her ten o'clock arrival.

Recently, Janice had taken to complaining about her "case of the Mondays," a term she happily and unironically confessed to lifting from Office Space. This "case of the Mondays" apparently had infected the neighboring Tuesday. Thursday was the interminable countdown to Friday and Friday was the interminable countdown to five o'clock.

But Wednesday was "hump day." And this day was Wednesday.

Becky stared into her computer monitor, unable to concentrate on the scores of emails that required her attention. Instead, she was fixated on the time: "9:59 AM." Right on schedule, she could hear Janice's voice approaching from down the hall. The sound of Janice's feet hitting carpet were amplified in Becky's ears, thunderous and malicious. Becky's fingers, at rest on the home row, tensed and involuntarily typed "jafkl;d" into a report to the district supervisor.

Without looking up, Becky knew Janice was now in the office with her: the air was stuffier; it reeked of cheap perfume. Becky grinded her teeth. Janice slammed her purse down on her desk, its contents jingling and crinkling in cacophony. Becky's eyes strained and her vision blurred.

"It's Hump Day!" Janice croaked melodically. Becky moved her lips mockingly. Janice maneuvered around the office. "I made cupcakes!"

Becky looked up from her monitor. Janice towered over her desk, grinning generously. She extended to Becky a plastic container populated with chocolate and vanilla cupcakes. Atop each one, inscribed in icing, were the words, "HUMP DAY!"

Becky smiled in return. She delicately plucked the chocolate cupcake nearest her from the container. "Thanks, Janice,"

"You're welcome, hon. We're halfway there, aren't we?" Janice chirped. Becky had already stuffed her mouth full with cupcake. She nodded. Janice laughed. "We'll get there. Hump Day's just two days away from Friday!"

Janice made delicious cupcakes.

Labels: cupcakes, short stories, Wednesday

Three friends decided to take a semester's break from their busy college schedules, to regroup and recalibrate their energies. Still, they did not wish to let their sharp minds dull. As such, they enjoyed meeting to discuss art, literature, and other academic pursuits.

"Hey, Jake," Ben said. "What you reading now?"

"As we discussed," said Jake, "I just recently finished reading Goethe's Faust." Ben and Dave both nodded. "So I haven't really started anything yet. But I think I'm going to tackle this next," he indicated the volume on the table.

"Dude," said Dave, suddenly smiling, "Is that title 26--?"

"Damn straight! It's the United States Tax Code." said Jake. "Y'know, I've been meaning to get around to it for a while."

"I picked up a copy of last Fall but still haven't cracked it," said Ben.

"It's apparently a tough one to crack," said Jake.

"I don't think I'd want to read it cover-to-cover," said Ben, "but there are certainly some sections I'd like to read."

"Like?" asked Dave.

"Section 501," Ben grinned with a knowing tone.

"Dude! Non-profits?" Dave said, sitting up in his chair.

"You know it!" Ben replied. They high-fived.

Labels: short stories

The Wednesday light seeped into the royal chamber through thick, velvet curtains. A sliver of light divided the throne. Though most of the room was in shadow, it was plain to see that the chamber was a mess. The King of Wednesdays let out a sigh, set down his briefcase, and went to the window.

The parted curtains revealed the kingdom that was, today, his. His edicts would govern its people and his judgments would decide their lives. On the horizon, he could see a grand procession of several dozen soldiers and attendants. Ah, yes, today, he would be negotiating a treaty with the kingdom of Lavanshire.

Looking back into the chamber over his shoulder, though, revealed a room in severe disarray. Torn pages of books adhered to the floor tiles by some sticky substance. A waste bin had been the target of much vomiting, though the vomiters must have had poor aim. Empty bottles were strewn about the room, many in pieces. "Tuesday," the King of Wednesdays grumbled. He covered his nose with his sleeve to block the perverse cocktail of odors that hung heavily in the room.

"Pardon me, your majesty," one of the castle's janitors squeaked from the doorway. "The entire castle staff has been working on cleaning since the King of Tuesdays's departure at dawn, but last night's party left an abnormally large amount of byproduct."

The King of Wednesdays sighed. "Understood. Carry on. Is Morris here?"

Morris, the Kings' Supervising Attendant, ran into the room as if he had been waiting in the hall. "Yes, your majesty?"

"Did the King of Tuesdays make any proclamations or decrees or anything during his reign yesterday?"

"Aye, your majesty. I will bring you a summary promptly."

The King of Wednesdays retrieved from his briefcase a handwritten to-do list he had prepared and tore it up. These days, he prepared it only as a matter of course and for the symbolic act of tearing it through. His morning would, as usual, be spent undoing the damage done to the kingdom the King of Tuesdays had inevitably wrought, sneezing and coughing at the foul chemical and biological odors that would persist until noon. Matters of state with Lavanshire would occupy him into the early evening, leaving him just enough time to dash of a couple of notes and suggestions for the King of Thursdays.

The King of Wednesdays had grand plans for his kingdom--social programs, heierarchical reform, improved synergy with the other six Kings in the High Order of Rotational Monarchy. These plans had been kicking around in his head for years, but the most important thing he had yet achieved was a standardization of monetary value for calves and pickaxes. "Well," thought the King of Wednesdays, "I'll never get anything done if I don't get down to business." Morris was entering again from the hall, several scrolls in hand. The King of Wednesdays moved for the throne.

Wadded up on the royal throne was a pair of panties. They still looked damp.

Labels: royalty, short stories, Wednesday

The formal dissolution of their romantic relationship some five years ago was not tainted by vapid cliches such as "It's not you--it's me" or "We'll still be friends." There was no need for any of those things because two things were obvious: 1) neither one could be at fault, and 2) they would always be friends.

She worked from home and he worked in an office building down the street. Between the two buildings was the deli where they terminated their relationship one Balmy Wednesday. Every subsequent Wednesday, they would meet at that same deli, order one of three pairs of sandwiches, and talk about the sorts of things old friends talk about.

One Tuesday he called her to tell her that he had a meeting that would require him to be across town during the lunch hour the next day and proposed moving their weekly lunch to Thursday. She declined.

One Wednesday, she wiped her lips, looked out the window and said, "I look forward to Wednesday all week."

"Perhaps we should meet some other day, too," he said. "Perhaps Fridays?"

"No," she said. "Just Wednesdays."

Labels: short stories, Wednesday

One evening, two adventurers were the sole guests of a roadside inn, each hailing from disparate lands and traveling in opposite directions. When suppertime came, they sat at the same table.

"Hello traveler," said one, "I am Trinthin of the Democratic Amalanti Republic."

"Greetings," said the other, "and I am Menwilk of Te'aba."

"I have heard of Te'aba in my travels," said Trinthin. "I have even met a handful of your merchants and diplomats."

"Yes," said Menwilk, "we made quite a stir some years back."

"Indeed, I remember."

"Seventeen years ago, we abolished our democraticallly elected Legistlature and Executive in favor of a dictatorship, governed by the kingdom's most tremendous idiot. Every eight years, the king abdicates the throne to the most feeble-minded citizen as determined by a series of tests and our universities' most accomplished minds. Last year, we instated a barkeep that could not even

Trinthin nodded and sipped at his stew. Menwilk continued on.

"At the time of the transition, Te'aba was in dire straits, in both our internal and foreign affairs. And our democracy was a national joke. Our Executive at the time was corrupt and a dunderhead to boot, so one Ingthorp, a satirist, proposed replacing him with our literal biggest idiot. The idea caught fire and was implemented within a week. Our surrounding kingdoms and trade partners were very concerned when we abolished our democracy. Nearly two decades later, yes, we are still suffering. However, I can tell you one thing for sure--we're no worse off than we would've been under your old broken democracies."

Said Trinthin, "Yes. Your countrymen are quite cynical about their politics. It's really quite tiresome."

Labels: politics, short stories

The Sage of Fire burst into the room.

The Sage of Earth emerged from the ground.

The Sage of Water poured in through the window.

The Sage of Air floated in and took a seat at the table.

"Let us begin our conference," they said. And thus they began to discuss matters of great import. Many hours passed as they sipped their tea, reported, and planned. Suddenly they fell silent; they all knew why.

"We're not here," mouthed the Sage of Earth.

"I know," said the eyes of the Sage of Water.

The lock on the door rattled. A fist pounded against the door. "Come on, guys I know you're in there." A moment passed. "I mean, the door's locked. Obviously, someone's in there and I know it's you." Another moment passed.

"Guys?" the Sage of Ether asked again from the other side of the door.

Labels: short stories

The moon gazed at Earth, its expression forelorn and wistful.

A traveling spacecat, pilgrim to parts unknown, saw the moon. "What troubles you, moon?" it asked.

The moon sighed. "On that planet below are the children of men, numbering in the billions. Some 40 trips around the sun ago, they sent representatives of their kind, several times over. I was a happy moon."

"They visit you no longer?" asked the spacecat.

"No. It has been many an age since human foot has graced my surface."

"Moon," said the spacecat, shaking its wizened head, "you must not expect these people to carry the entire weight of your relationship. Perhaps they have not the time to visit you. Perhaps you must visit them."

The moon lit up. "Why, dear spacecat, I had never thought of that before!"

The traveling spacecat nodded sagely, bid the moon farewell, and continued along its journey.

And thus the moon descended to Earth. And with its impact, thus ended the human race.

Labels: short stories

Julia stood at the closet's door as if it were the portal out of here--this city, this house, this home. Him. In a way, it was. Next she knew, she was packing her clothes.

Predictably, Eric soon entered the room. He stood awkwardly between the doorway and the bed, watching her haphazardly shove ten years of marriage into a too-small suitcase. Say the right thing, Eric, she thought. If you could only say the right thing, we could stop this madness. We could save our marriage. We could be together again, you and me. We could be twenty again.

Instead, Eric put his hands in his pockets and shifted his weight to his left. "Well, then," he took a breath. "What's the plan, Stan?" he asked, cocking his head to the right.

"Oh God," she fumed, whipping her head around, "I can't believe I once thought you were a worthwhile human being!"

Labels: short stories

"I shall skin you alive," announced the tiny fiend.

The fiend was so tiny that Bartholomew was surprised he could see it with his naked eyes. It stood with its feet planted on Bartholomew's wrist. "Who are you?" he asked.

"I am a fiend," said the fiend, turning its attention to his wrist and making staccato plucking motions with its hands, as if tearing out imperceptible weeds. "Should I succeed in your skinning, you shall surely die."

"When shall you skin me?" asked Bartholomew, alarmed at his own steadiness in the rather alarming situation.

"I have commenced the skinning already," said the fiend. "I am about my work even now."

"You say you are skinning me now?"

"Indeed. I am beginning by removing the dead skin cells. Then I shall skin you alive, cell by living cell, until your skin shall be no more."

"But if that is the rate at which you will proceed," Bartholomew protested curiously, "my skin shall produce new cells much faster. Your plan can never come to fruition."

"It is true. And as I myself age, I shall slow down, and the work will never be finished. You will forever have skin on your body. Even were I to somehow progress in my task, you would surely die of some disease, external force, or natural cause before I ever effected a visible change."

Bartholomew thought for a moment. "Fiend," he asked, "why must you skin me alive?"

The fiend never distracted from its task. "I have looked upon you, Bartholomew. And I have determined that this is the only relationship that we can have," said the fiend. It continued to cast away Bartholomew's dead skin and they spoke no more.

Labels: short stories

In the darkness, the assemblage of Hebrews watched the flashing lights with great interest. The strange and jaunty sounds filled their ears and faded into silence. The display over, they shifted in their seats, murmuring amongst themselves. Was the plea they had heard good and just? Or was it as dark and sinister as the heart of Pharaoh? Their eyes all shifted to their leader, whose furrowed brow signaled deep thought and prayer.

Moses whispered something into his brother's ear and stood up, casting his eyes about the throng always with him. Once the prophet was on his feet, Aaron stood up next to him, his stature, as always, purposeful and commanding. The Hebrews hushed in anticipation.

Aaron raised his hands. "Children of Israel, followers of the one true God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, mine brother Moses has spoken, and in accordance with the will of the Lord they God," he paused dramatically. "Let us all go the lobby, where we shall get ourselves some treats!"

And thus the Hebrews departed en masse for the lobby.

______________
This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick of Modern Revelation!, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, and William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden. This week's theme: 'Exodus'.

Labels: biblical, coordinated content, short stories

Saint Peter shuffled the papers on his desk. More nervous fidgeting. Two millennia should have made this easier than it was. He returned the neat stack of charts and lists to the fat manila folder and aligned the folder square with the edge of the ivory desk.

Looking up, he saw the perpetually-replenished line of the newly dead. The head of the line stood some two hundred yards away, safely out of earshot. To the angel guarding the velvet rope, he nodded. The angel lifted the rope and let through the next of the deceased.

He glanced at the name on the folder again: Erica Grace Lee, an Asian-American woman mortally injured in a car accident on her way to her daughter's ballet recital. She had been speeding, running late. Oh, the morbid details! By the look of her, she had been taken much too young. Oh, the tragedy!

As Erica drew closer to him, Saint Peter pretended he had some important communication to attend to on his computer. When she arrived, she stood behind the chair, eyes cast upward. Saint Peter greeted her with an index finger.

"There we go," he said, making a pronounced click of the mouse. "Please, have a seat my dear. I'm Saint Peter."

She glanced at him, gave him a smile, and took her seat. Still, she gazed at something above and behind him. "I just can't believe they're so grand," she said. "They're beyond my imagination."

Saint Peter turned to look and chuckled nervously. "Oh, right. The Pearly Gates. I forget they're there sometimes. You know, eyes always straight forward," he gestured.

"I know how that is," Erica said. Her smile was kind and warm. Saint Peter was already emotionally involved. "It was the same way with my work. I lived South of the building and my window faced South, but on the North end of the block--" she stopped herself short. "Sorry. I'm stalling. Let me get right to the point." She took in a deep breath and spoke with much maturity. "My mother raised me Christian. I know what that's all about. I stopped believing when I was sixteen and only went to church again for her funeral. I've tried to live a good life and be a good person, but as I'm sure you know," her eyes indicated the file under Saint Peter's hand, "I didn't always succeed. And my life has been fraught with sin. If I don't meet what is required for forgiveness, I can accept that." She looked at her hands folded in her lap.

"Erica," Saint Peter started. He bit his lip. "Erica, this file is not your sins." He opened the file. "This is a record of your attendance."

Saint Peter left a pause. "Attendance?" Erica asked at last.

"God," Saint Peter shuffled in his seat, "is a stickler for attendance, above all else. What I have here is a record of all your absences and tardies. School, work, um, dates, even."

It was a familiar look, one that Saint Peter had seen on billions of different faces. But it pained him so to see it on each one. Disbelief and remorse. Guilt and shock.

"It's not good, is it?" her voice quivered. Her moist eyes moved to connect with his.

Saint Peter could bear to return her look no longer.

Labels: short stories

"There are so many ways by which to ruin your life, my king," said the jester. "What made you choose this one? It hardly seems pleasurable."

"It is not," said the king [PARTICIPATING IN HIS SELF DESTRUCTIVE BEHAVIOR]. "But afford me this one vice."

Labels: short stories

Jacob's bedroom is always filled with humming and blinking and whirring and noise. Every night, he falls asleep watching the television at low volume, the whine of the screen almost surpassing the dull sound of human voices selling him vacuum parts. The windows are left open, letting in the roars of passing cars and the yelps of cats in heat. His desktop computer stands by the television, running all night, rumbling louder and louder as it gets older. While he sleeps, it downloads music or porn, but most often simply waits for Jacob to check his email first thing in the morning. Sometimes, he even leaves the radio on, tuned to static.

His friends look at him like he's a little crazy when he tells them about his sleeping habits, and his flatmate has demanded that Jacob pay for a full two-thirds of the electricity bill. Jacob can't tell you when he started sleeping this way, but as time and technology and money have given him more gadgets to keep in his quarters, they have filled his nights with an obscene amount of noise.

Lately, Jacob has not been sleeping very well. Perhaps it was the mattress, perhaps it was anxiety about his love life and his grades, perhaps it was his diet. Or, as a coworker suggested earlier in the day, perhaps it was all the damned noise.

Tonight, Jacob will achieve silence. He turns off the television. He shuts down his computer. He unplugs his video game consoles to shut out even the red LEDs on their faces. It's Autumn, so he turns off the central air. He shuts the windows tight, hushing the crickets. At last, the only sounds Jacob can hear are the sound of his own breathing and the humming of the incandescent lamp above his head. He switches that off.

Silence.

Jacob jumps underneath the covers, eager to take in what promises to be the most peaceful, refreshing night of sleep since he was an infant. Pulling the covers tight, he wonders why he didn't make this change years ago.

The darkness speaks to him, "Hello, Jake. It's your demons again. Long time no talk."

Jacob grabs for the remote control and switches the TV on.

______________
This post is another in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with a post from William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden. This week's theme: 'silence'.

Labels: coordinated content, short stories

"You sure you gonna be okay all weekend, Mr. Hollingsworth?" Luisa asked, standing with one of her legs already in the black cab commissioned to take her to the airport.

"Don't you worry about me, Luisa," Maynard Hollingsworth grinned. "You just enjoy seeing your family and the sun while you're away."

"But with the Missus in France and Chef gone--" Luisa said, and then repeated, "If you need anything at all, I left my cousin's name on the fridge in the servants' kitchen."

"Of course. I don't think I could forget that now," laughed Maynard. Though he would be spending the next week alone, he was still clad in a fine Italian suit. At last, they bade their farewells.

Inside his mansion, Maynard picked up the cup of tea that Luisa had insisted on brewing for him. Still warm. He wandered into the hall. Never had he seen his home so empty. The stillness soaked into his body.

Maynard retreated to the large green armchair in his study, already heavy with the sounds of a Vivaldi record he liked to leave playing when he was absent. Leaving his books alone, he sipped the tea slowly, until it had cooled to a temperature too cold for his tongue. He rose from the sweat and walked the long distance to the main kitchen to deposit it in the sink. The clock next to the window displayed the time: 3:45 p.m. Luisa's plane should have left fifteen minutes ago.

Maynard could feel the smile burning on his cheeks. With a sprint in his step unseen since his days as a schoolboy, he hurried upstairs to the third guest bedroom; its closet doulbed as the repository for all of Maynard's eccentric collections and sentimental effects. Upon entering the room, Maynard shed his suit jacket, then his tie, then his shirt. Bare-chested, he threw open the mirrored closet doors and pulled all the boxes out of the closet. The closet's floor carpet was loose. He peeled it back to reveal a package wrapped in brown paper, nestled into a depression in the floor.

"It's been too long, my beauties," he said out loud.

Inside the package were three items of supreme value which he knew he could never expect his wife, his attorney, his country club friends to ever understand. Their mystique and majesty were unrivaled but so frequently misunderstood by those in his elite circle. Each garment was lovingly detailed, and imbued with a special, shimmering power. While his wife and his servants were away, that power would be his and he would lord over his house, proud. Maynard donned the first one, its color a regal purple, bearing the image of three proud beasts. He stood up to examine himself in the mirror and was much pleaesd with what he saw.

Maynard's reflection returned his gaze proudly. Indeed, his gaze was nearly as proud as that of the six delicatley impressed eyes on the wolf shirt he wore.

Labels: short stories

The condemned peasant knelt on the carpet before the King, his hands bound, waiting the arrival of his fate. The King sat upon the throne, his expressionless eyes fixed on the peasant who had so audaciously sought an audience to quibble with the amount of his tribute. All the noblemen and ladies of the court anxiously chatted in hushed tones, stealing glances at the peasant and the large glass window that occupied the East wall.

From outside the throne room, a fanfare was played. In strode the Royal Defenstrator, a hulking, handsome figure. His cape, a river of shining purples and pinks, was supported by a page, carrying it some eight feet behind him. Knowing full well his responsibilities, the Royal Defenestrator marched directly to the peasant without a word, picking the quivering figure up by the back of his neck. The peasant would never see his executioner's face.

The crowd parted to allow a path between the Royal Defenestrator and the window. Silently and briskly, the Royal Defenestrator sped to the window and threw the peasant out, leaving his arm suspended in the air for heightened dramatic effect. The peasant's cries mixed with the shattering of the glass and the whooping and high fives of the King's court.

"Hell yeah!" the King exclaimed, rising to his feet. The Royal Defenestrator faced his majesty, bowed, turned, and exited. The court cheered and applauded. A couple lords slapped his ass.

* * * * *
The Royal Janitor passed the Royal Defenestrator in the hall. With an expressionless face and an expressively powerful walk, the most esteemed and celebrated servant and his page whisked past the lowly janitor with an air of importance that only accompanied execution by defenestration--the fourth one this week. Extra chores. Messy chores.

The Royal Janitor hated the Royal Defenestrator.

* * * * *
In his luxurious quarters in the South tower, the Royal Defenestrator sat on the side of his bed. He stared at the large glass window and wondered.

Labels: short stories

Lucille stood at the window, her pale face shining with the reflected light from the fresh fallen snow. With both hands delicately balancing a small, fragile cup, she moved her morning tea to her lips. From the kitchen table, looking over his morning paper, Gerald admired the graceful movements of her slender arms.

After taking a sip, she exhaled audibly. Flatly, she intoned, "There are zambonis."

With a start, Gerald lept to Lucille's side. "Where?" he asked, scanning the horizon.

"Out there," she nodded. "In the world."

Gerald nodded, too. There was truth in her words. He put a strong hand on her shoulder. For the first time, Lucille did not shudder.

Labels: short stories, winter

Ben sat with his head on his desk, waiting for English class to start. Most students were still in the halls, socializing and fraternizing in short, six-minute bursts. But immediately upon hearing the third period bell ring, Ben was eager to run the short distance from his biology class and take his seat, relishing the few minutes of daydreaming he could steal from a busy school day.

Ben was very close to having a great idea. The idea was floating around the recesses of his mind, not yet articulated, just waiting for Ben to seize it and do great things with it. Whatever it was, it was genius.

He pictured himself chasing after it, the grand idea taking the shape of a shining, lavender butterfly. With light, playful swipes, he tried to catch it in his glowing white net. The net and the butterfly were the only objects of light on this otherwise dark landscape.

With a loud screeching of metal on tile, Heather took her seat in front of Ben, her blonde ponytail almost brushing his nose. As usual, she chatted loudly to some dumb girl she'd known since the first grade, babbling about a stupid jock or whatever it was she was always on about. No one saw, but Ben was shooting eye daggers at the back of her skull.

The idea! Ben remembered with a fright. He shut his eyes. The butterfly was gone. The net was heavy in his hands.

Ben dramatically opened his eyes, heavy with sorrow and loss. Surely his genius would blossom if it weren't for Heather. Heather was always crushing and spiriting away his beautiful ideas.

Labels: short stories

Nick inches the toes of his shoes toward the edge of the open doorway. Though gloved, he can feel the knuckles in his hands turning white with the firm grip he holds on either side; it excites him. Though his head is nowhere near the top of the frame, he imagines himself a glorious, custom-built widget, perfectly designed to keep the aircraft's walls from collapsing on themselves. He peers down on the slow moving valley below. No, he reminds himself, the valley doesn't move. The plane moves. He moves.

The thrill of the sight consumes him. Mere moments ago, precariously seated against the trembling wall not five feet away, he had been fraught with concern about the irresponsibility and impracticality of this excursion. Money was tight; it always was. The debts he owed stacked up in his mind like a comically animated graph. Fucking student loans. His last-minute sick calls at work had raised the eyebrow of more than one among the management. Furthermore, he knew all too well that while the precious few minutes hurtling toward the ground would be exhilarating, it would be almost impossibly fleeting. A jump never sated Nick's craving for long. Within a week, this jump would be pushed into the same murky bog in his memory with all the other jumps, losing any distinctive definition, a mere drip in the basin.

Now, though, if he were even capable of concerning himself with such concerns, he'd be able to dismiss them with the pure, simple fact that everything else he does is in his life is to facilitate these very moments. Yet standing here, he is wholly enraptured in anticipation of the jump. He knows nothing of monetary woes, job strife. Only skydiving. Though he cannot nor would not conjure up memories of any other moments in his life, this would moment here most assuredly be the greatest.

The shadow of the plane effortlessly glides over the fields beneath like a dark wind. He muses with a smirk: were he to hesitate even an instant longer, he might miss his target completely.

Now!

Nick has never witnessed himself in the grand leap out of an airplane, but he cannot imagine it being any less graceful or majestic an act than that of an Olympian diver. Dropping downward, he draws his strength from the air currents forcefully absorbed into his face, stimulating the adrenaline coursing through his veins. If his mouth weren't locked into a grin, his teeth vainly attempting to congeal, he'd belt out a triumphant laugh.

Countdown. "Zero," he whispers in the back of his throat. In a dramatic gesture, he yanks at the ripcord, propelling his mighty parachute into the air, like the triumphant fist of a Black Panther, like the explosion of Mount Vesuvius.

"You've never been skydiving," Nick scowls.

The author, embarrassed, quickly shuts up.

Labels: short stories

A young man stood on a bridge, looking to the sea. Beneath his feet ran a stream, pouring into the large body of water that sprawled out into the distance. The old man could see the young man gazing wistfully into the distance. The wind battered his precious, full head of hair and his cheeks were moist. The old man pursed his lips with empathy. He could feel his own eyes beginning to well up with tears; he knew that look.

The wizened old man hobbled up to the side of the desperate young man, the sounds of his irregular footsteps and thuds of his cane drowned out by the howling of the wind and the crashing of the waves against the rocks running up and down the coast. The old man put his hand on the young man's shoulder, receiving a mild shudder of surprise. The young man turned his head to look at him.

"There, there," the old man said, patting the young man's shoulder. "She's not the only one. There are plenty of women out there. And above that, there are so many reasons to live beyond love. Take it from me. I know," he smiled warmly, attempting to convey the years of heartache and triumph he had experienced.

"What?" the young man asked, puzzled. "I don't know what you're talking about, good sir. But if you don't mind, and since I have your ear, I've been looking for the Red Tinsel Inn all morning and can't seem to find it. I'm supposed to meet my fiancée there. I had hoped some local might point me in the right direction. Do you know where I can find this inn?"

"Oh." The old man withdrew his hand from the young man's shoulder. "No," he said, "I'm afraid I'm just traveling through myself."

"Oh, well. Perhaps I'll inquire at one of those farms a mile from here. Now was there something troubling you that I might help you with?"

"Thank you, but no. I'll just be on my way."

"Happy journeys, then, friend."

"Happy journeys," replied the old man, scuttling away.

Labels: short stories

God, I'm really bad at this, thought Eric the bandit.

His shoe lodged and contorted in between the links in the fence, Eric tried to heave his weight to the right, up, and over the top. Instead, he landed a feeble kick slightly above his waist.

Already on the other side of the fence stood Alanna, Eric's girlfriend of two years and partner in crime. The left side of her face was outlined in the light coming from the nearby freeway. She had jumped this fence and all the fences before it without the slightest hiccup. Eric himself had had a better go of it than usual until now. This fence wasn't unlike any of the others, except that it was kicking his ass.

As Eric experimented with a little bouncing, Alanna took a drag off her cigarette, studying him, expressionless. Finally she asked, "Eric. How much do I mean to you?"

A seemingly unprovoked question to be sure, but by no means out of character for Alanna. Eric halted his attempts to conquer the fence to look her in the eyes. "I love you, babe." He smiled sweetly, then adjusted his grip on the fence.

"No, I know you do," she replied. "But how much do I mean to you?"

The cuff of Eric's black sweater snagged on a protruding piece of wire. "A lot, babe. Like, a shit-ton." He twisted his elbow to assist in unhooking the garment.

God, I'm really bad at this.

Labels: short stories

How quickly a snowball can roll into an avalanche. Erik walked over to the copier, still collating dozens of copies of some spreadsheet. Erik pulled out some twenty sheets of paper and ran them down length of his sword, cleansing it of blood. He sheathed the sword and looked for his target.

The bodies strewn about the room had been violently dismembered at his own hand. Most of the office workers had been men, so their white shirts and blood-stained ties did little to differentiate them. Bummer about that late night deadline, you poor simps, Erik thought as he bent down next to a body, fishing the corpse's wallet out of its back pocket. The drivers license within disclosed his identity as Evan Cartwright, the target. Erik thought to compare faces to be sure, but at this point he couldn't tell which one went to which body. "Why couldn't you have been working alone tonight?" he muttered to himself aloud.

He kicked the corpse as if it was a flat tire and sighed.

"Erik McClelland?" a voice came from the doorway. A heavy-set man Erik's own age stood in the door, his body language signaling a return from the restroom. "Is that you?"

"Yeah." Erik recognized the guy as Davis Ryan from his childhood neighborhood. "Small world, right?"

"Jesus Christ. Did you do all this?" Davis winced at the sight of his mangled coworkers.

"Yeah. I did. I'm an assassin these days, y'know. Pretty much entry-level shit, though."

"Oh, my god," Davis snapped, adopting a rather indignant tone, "I can't imagine what your mother's going to say when she finds out about this. She still plays cards with my mom, you know. This is gonna get back to her."

"I don't think she should know," Erik withdrew his sword. "It would devastate her, I'm sure."

Labels: short stories

The couple, a man and wife, entered the hotel room, both a little inebriated and somewhat amorous. As they wound down their conversation about the night's dinner party, he immediately went to draw the curtains.

"Is that what they really want?" she asked, tilting her head in the mirror to unclip her ears. "You think so?"

"That would be my guess, though of course I really can't say." He bent down to untie his feet.

"They never cease to amaze me. Honey, can you help me out of this?" she asked, gesturing to her back. He crossed over to her and unzipped her spine. "Thank you," she said, "much better."

"Of course, dear," he smiled, then unbuttoned his sternum. She slid down her waist.

The couple shed their skins and their vapors expanded to fill the room.

Labels: short stories

Earlier today, a good friend of mine made a post about his current projects. Among some other interesting-sounding things, he mentioned a "badass fantasy novel." Not exactly sure what he meant by this (Lord of the Rings with assault rifles was one image that popped up), I wrote up the scene that formed in my head. It is posted below because 1) the post I had planned for today still needs some editing, 2) I want to go answer some emails, and 3) play video games.

The version I wrote off the cuff this morning was a bit shorter and edited for content. I have replaced my censorship with the originally intended words and expanded and tidied up (not cleaned up) the language.

Warning: What follows is gratuitous and foul. It is an exercise in grotesque and extreme notions of "badass." I even felt kind of dirty writing it.

Reena licked the blood off her spear. "Bastards won't be coming back here any time soon," she grumbled in a low tone, surveying the carnage. "They'll know better," she adjusted the string metal bikini that barely restrained her heaving bosoms.

"Stick it in your mother's twat, bitch," grunted Exqwex, tossing a cigarette into the carnage that surrounded them. "Fuck them and fuck you."

"We don't have time for this motherfucking chit-chat, you cocksuckers," Orgomir muttered in a gruff voice. "Move the fuck out."

To punctuate his imperative, he kicked a child's severed head toward their destination: North.

Gross, huh? Call it parody, maybe?

Perceptions of "badass" vary greatly. Because while I would say that what I posted above is certainly a certain type of "badass," I would also consider President Elect Barack Obama a badass. And word on the street says that he collects Spider-Man comics and loves Moby Dick. That's kicking it old school?

Labels: short stories

Good God. This sweater is hideous.

I mean, what if I actually wore this sweater? And then, while wearing it, I were to die. I don't want to be a dead man wearing this sweater. Imagine the look on the coroner's face when he sees my lifeless body swathed in this obscenity. Immediate disdain.

Or what if while, on some miserable day when I deigned to wear this sweater, I were to at long last meet the one, true love of my life? If she really were, in fact, the one, true love of my life, my soul mate, she surely wouldn't give me a second's thought in this sweater. No woman I could ever love could ever love a man who would wear such a sweater.

Of course, the probability of dying while in this sweater is pretty minuscule. Besides, there's always the off-chance that it could prove beneficial. Like, maybe on the day I choose to wear the sweater, I could stave off unwanted attention--some crazy woman who would otherwise become my stalker, perhaps? These things are impossible to predict.

But that's beside the point. It's an ugly sweater. I'm not going to wear it.

Labels: short stories

Bartholomew J. Pinafore--that wretched cad!--tied his last knot, affixing dear Rosaline, fair of both skin and heart, to the railroad tracks. With an elegant hand gesture, he produced a handkerchief, flamboyantly embroidered with the villain's initials. He had no issue with the townspeople discovering whose handiwork had sullied the landscape and destroyed the girl.

Lashed to a tree overlooking the grisly scene, simple yet noble Floyd watched helplessly as the girl for whom his heart had spent many a moonlit hour pining was gagged, her cries for help stifled. How desperately Floyd wanted to bargain for the girl's life! To appeal to Pinafore's humanity! Or, at the very least, damningly paraphrase Paster Gimsby's last hellfire sermon. But alas, his mouth too was silenced by one of the bastard's perfumed handkerchiefs.

With a flourish, Pinafore turned to face Floyd, a wicked grin stretching the boundaries of his face. "See now, boy, that you and the rest of the townsfolk take this as a lesson that it is I, Bartholomew J. Pinafore, who makes the rules around here!" Pinafore let loose a diabolical cackle and twirled his magnificently waxed mustache, black and shining in the midday sun.

"Now, please excuse me, boy. Mother always said I had a weak constitution when it came to blood and guts. Besides, I do believe I have an appointment with your own mother." With that, Pinafore leaped onto his horse and shot off across the plains. By Floyd's estimation, in no more than two minutes, Pinafore would pass the very train scheduled to decapitate dear Rosaline. One minute later, it would pass the tree, having already performed its wicked deed.

Naturally, within two minutes and fifty-five seconds, Floyd had loosed himself from his bonds and saved the life of dear Rosaline, carrying her in his arms back to town. Together, they would lead the townspeople to stand up to Pinafore and end his dreadful influence. And at long last, they would be married.

Nonetheless, the image of Pinafore twirling his magnificently waxed mustache, black and shining in the midday sun, would stay with Floyd for the rest of his life. For truly, it was a magnificent and beautiful thing to behold.

Labels: short stories

"I'll never forget you!" cried the boy. And how could he? With her at his side, he had just completed what was surely the greatest adventure of his life.

The fairy continued her return to the heavens, slowly ascending, bathed in a sourceless green light. "Nor I you!" she promised, masking the tears streaming down her own face with a faint laugh. "Remember always the advice I gave you! Always keep your fears and frustrations and anger locked deep within you. Share them with no one. Keep them bottled up!"

"I will!" he choked, waving. Heeding her advice would be the only way to honor her memory. "I will!"

Labels: short stories

This is a sequel to A Query for a Man of Refinement

At long last, Nigel drove the towncar to a stop in front of Lady Angeline's manor. Wanting to spend as little time in the cold as possible, Quincy J. Applethorpe, III, Esquire, dashed through the door, running stiffly and awkwardly, but still projecting an impression of poise and grace to the statuary that flanked the walkway.

Nigel, always precisely as quick as the needs of his master, had already positioned himself in front of Quincy's door. Flashing faithful Nigel a warm smile and a chocolate truffle he had procured for his most faithful manservant, Quincy ducked into the back seat. "Thank you, Master Quincy," nodded Nigel, his black cap getting damper.

As Nigel drove the young gentleman home, Quincy found dwelling on the words of the raucous youth he had strangely encountered in Lady Angeline's vestibule. Leaning back in his leather seat, he began to conjure up the images of his past lady loves, taking a mental inventory of the women with whom he had romanced or shared a bed.

Guinevere, his first real girlfriend and favorite playdate as a child, had always possessed her beautiful blonde locks. The names of nearly all his other childhood friends and acquaintances had long since faded into anonymity, though he retained a dim recollection of turning down the invitation of a certain raven-haired girl with impossibly rosy cheeks to a formal ball.

Louisa, his most recent interest, had been a friend of his family's for years, their fathers being longtime business partners. But it was only this Autumn, when she had bleached and dyed her long red hair, that he had felt compelled to whisk her away for a weekend in Vienna. This spontaneous trip had initiated the most ferociously passionate relationship of Quincy's life.

Among other more fleeting romances, his mind wandered back to Abigail, the maid who had been responsible for maintaining the carpets in the West wing of his grandfather's country estate in his seventeenth year. He had been summering there in preparation for his first semester at Harvard. One afternoon, she discovered him exploring herself, when she removed her bonnet, let loose a yellow fountain of hair, and introduced Quincy to a new world.

Pulling himself out of his nostalgic reverie, the remembered scents of perfumed necks and intimate sweat dissipating, Quincy could not ignore the one trait they all shared. Though he was sure he was not so shallow as to be exclusively attracted to any such superficial feature of the well-bred women in his past, it was true that he had never expressed anything more than a polite interest in any woman without blonde hair. When his polo mates would set him up on a blind date, he never agreed until the color of her hair had been divulged. Curious, he thought to himself, I don't seem to get particularly excited by just the thought of blonde hair.

Attempting to convince himself of his impartiality, Quincy pictured Lady Angeline, who was two years his junior. He imagined her wearing the black dress she wore while hosting this very evening, then mentally removed six inches from its hemline. Certainly, she had a comely smile and a magnificent body. In his mind, she was collapsed on her couch, her auburn curls splashed behind her head on a pillow. He tried to picture her naked.

Nothing. The exercise provided him with nothing.

The window behind his head caught flakes of snow and melted them instantaneously. Perhaps gentlemen did prefer blondes, he thought.

Labels: short stories

Quincy J. Applethorpe, III, Esquire, stood in the vestibule, gazing out at the stillness of the night through the window adjacent the door. In the hours between his arrival at Lady Angeline's elegant soirée, a light snowstorm had moved in, quite unnoticed by himself and his inebriated compatriots, the celebrations of which could still be heard faintly echoing down the corridor to kiss his ear. The snowfall looked as if it had been superimposed, a complementary layer upon the wet, picturesque scene.

As he waited for his manservant Nigel to bring the car round the front of the manor, his eyes shifted focus from the serenity of night to the moody highlights of his own reflection in the window. Quincy, of course, had the most immaculate poise. Positioned as he was, he found his beautiful, twenty-eight-year-old face cast mostly in darkness, only select contours of his face receiving illumination from a street lamp at the edge of the yard beyond him and the dim overhead light, centered on the ceiling of the vestibule. Whenever presented with a partial image of himself, he liked to a play a little mental game: his mother or his father--whose pedigree was most visible?

Representing his mother were his high-set cheekbones, the earlobes that hung free from his head, and the barely suggested dimples that were peculiarly prominent in this configuration. His father's chin, though, was very pronounced, as was the funny strip of skin that ran between his nose and his upper lip. Quincy's eyes (set in his face in the manner of his father and his father's father) were not visible in this light, so on this night, his mother was the victor. Neither team got to claim the nose, the left side of which was most striking in his reflection, he mused, as no one in the family had anything quite like it. Though his understanding of genetics told him otherwise, he liked to think it was his own invention, his own contribution to the family line.

His eyes still fixed on his reflection, he watched himself withdraw a pair of white gloves from within his coat pocket. Tenderly, he donned first the right glove, then the left.

"Dude!"

The voice from behind Quincy caught him off guard, causing him to tug his left glove over his hand in a fashion too snug. Regaining his composure, he whirled around to face two youths standing nearby, both slouching, both plastered, both all giggles.

The youth nearest Quincy wore a baggy sweater and baggier denim pants, and may well have been wearing the contents of his half-empty bottle of domestic beer. His friend, hunched over and giggling uncontrollably wore what Quincy believed was called a skull cap and some ill-applied facial hair. Both stank. Actually, Quincy did not know whether they youths or not--at least in relation to himself--with the dark rings around their eyes and poorly maintained skin belying nothing of their age, but placing them in the wide, vague demographic Quincy recognized as middle-class post-adolescence. Their apparent maturity, however, assured Quincy that "youth" was as fine a word as any to describe them.

Needless to say, they looked woefully out of place in Lady Angeline's abode. Still, he saw no cause for alarm. Perhaps they were friends of some lowly kitchen help. "May I help you, lads?" Quincy asked, his voice cordial but for a playful twist of snide inflection, which he suspected the drunk youths would not detect.

"Dude, ask him already!" the second youth urged.

"Okay, man, okay," the fellow nearest him assured. Sucking in a breath, he struck a more upright pose, cleared his throat, and shifted his voice down an octave. Behind him, the capped one erupted in breathless laughter, as if transporting himself into the future, once his compatriot's stunningly witty quip had entered the annals of history.

"My good man," he coughed out, as if a woman imitating a man, "is it true that... that gentlemen prefer blondes?"

The youths fell to the floor laughing.

Labels: short stories

Simtepkin, son of a hide tanner, stood at the edge of the forest of his youth. This barrier separated the world he knew from the world he feared, its landmarks and inhabitants the stuff of hushed whispers and grotesque legend.

The forest stood atop a mountain, overlooking a valley down below. This valley was the only thing outside the forest of which the strapling young Simtepkin had heard a firsthand account. The Valley of Assholes. But across the valley stood another mountain; beyond that mountain was a stretch of plains and short hills, green and pleasant. Atop one of these hills, crudely marked on the tattered map in Simtepkin's left hand, was the faint promise of a fruit so rare that his people had never named it--the juice of which was now was the only hope to heal his fast ailing sister.

Rumored to share a distant ancestor with Simtepkin's own people, the denizens of the valley, Assholes all, shared at least a common tongue. Even nestled deep in the forest as Simtepkin's village was, they would still hear the bawdy taunting and foul mockery rise up out of the valley

To Simtepkin's ear, the wind carried a whisper of "Fuck your mother, limpdick," slurred and somehow even more vulgar in tone than in words. Simtepkin the tanner's son shuddered.

But Simptepkin the man--the adventurer--steeled his nerves, and stepped out from under the secure canopy of mountain trees.

Labels: short stories

The odd, yellow statues stood in the middle of their torn purple wrappings. Inexpertly crafted from tin foil, they each appeared to be models of the same subject. The children, all aged between four and nineteen, stared at the gifts--first their own, then each other's--in bewilderment.

"Y'all deserve them golden calves," spat Grandpa, his hands in trembling, unclenched fists of righteous rage, "'cause y'all are idolators."

The heads of the children all turned to look at the old man at the head of the long table, their living ancestor, gloomy and feeble in his wheelchair.

"With your iPods and your DVDs, your Nintendos and your hybrid cars..." Grandpa muttered, sinking his head between his shoulders, trailing off into incoherence.

Labels: short stories

God leaned back in the chair, surprised again that it didn't roll with Him when He shifted His weight. The view from this side of the desk was quite different and He wondered how long it had been since He had taken a moment to appreciate His office from this perspective. He also noticed a crude etching. How long had that been there, he wondered. It must have been some time; it was in cuneiform.

Somehow, God couldn't bring Himself to look the accountant in the eye. The old man's delicate, wiry frame looked downright comical in God's majestic office chair. Fidgeting, God considered catching up on some sort of work that wouldn't require sitting in his His His usual seat. There was some mail He could catch up on. But the desktop was already cluttered with thousands of pieces of paper, and God didn't feel like contributing to the chaos. So God fidgeted.

"Where were the aught-three receipts again?" the accountant squeaked.

God gestured to a plaid-print shoebox. "Though I think there might be some aught-four in there, too."

The accountant picked up the forms on top of the shoe box and suspended them in the air, searching for a safe place to put them. God extended a hand and the accountant coldly passed them over. God examined the papers only briefly, quickly determining that even if He knew what purpose they served, He couldn't possibly have cared.

"There's some nineteen-aught-three mixed in here," the accountant grimaced. "That would've been nice to know last week."

God gave a tight-lipped nod. "Well, I do work in mysterious ways, you know."

A bit of levity. The accountant smiled and began sorting.

Labels: short stories

"No, no, no!" the little terrorist boy shouted, stamping his feet with each utterance. "You're so unfair! All the parents of the other boys in the madrasah are letting them go!"

"Well," the terrorist mother said, folding her arms sternly, "I'm not the mother of all the other boys in the madrasah, now am I?"

Blocked. The terrorist boy seethed young, impetuous anger. His mother, a good foot taller than him, had the upper hand if only by virtue of size. "What about the neighbors?" she teased with a smirk. "I don't think they'd be letting their son go." She turned away from him, her hand reaching for the telephone.

"I hate you!" he screamed, intercepting the distance between his mother's hand and the receiver. Her son had crossed a line. She turned to look at him, her eyes wide and instinctively welling up with tears.

"I hate you!" the terrorist boy repeated. "I hate you more than I hate precious American freedoms!"

Labels: short stories

Jana had lost the thread.

Of her life.

More immediately, though, she had lost the thread that matched the hem of her black slacks, which in turn matched the pink pinstripe that ran down each leg. "Funky fresh!" Clarisse had cackled three months ago, when Jana modeled them out of the dressing room, arms akimbo, twisting her torso in an exaggerated fashion. "Funky fresh" was a very funny thing for Clarisse to say three months ago, though Jana couldn't tell you why now. Thinking about it, it didn't really even make sense. Still, on the mornings on which she deigned to wear this new fixture of her wardrobe, as she unlatched them from their hanger, she said the words "funky fresh" to herself with a giggle.

For the past four weeks, though, the slacks had been hanging uselessly in Jana's closet, passed over every morning due to a snag—a fishhook embedded in the carpet of her office, of all things!—that unfurled the hem of the right leg. Put out to pasture prematurely, they were consistently passed over in favor of tan and navy-colored slacks and skirts.

But this morning at about eight o'clok, she found herself staring absently at the cotton-polyester blend, whispering "funky fresh" almost mournfully. That did it. After work, she made a point of venturing into the sewing aisle at the supermarket for the very first time.

* * * *
A sheet of Internet-retrieved, freshly printed instructions detailing how to mend a hemline slowly crinkling in her left hand, Jana presses her ear to the carpet, scanning underneath her bed—no spool in sight. Letting out a sigh, she pauses a moment to hear the strains of an anonymous John Williams score coming from the apartment of the neighbors below.

Two thoughts enter her mind. First, that according to her mother, things were always in the last place you looked, which only makes sense, because why would you continue to search? Still, it seems there could only be so many places to look within her apartment. And she's seen them all now, twice, including the fridge. Second, she can't really imagine herself going to the store again tomorrow for yet another spool of pink thread, for which she would have precisely one use, and then discard. The thread couldn't have just disappeared, right?

She rolled over onto her back, staring at her open closet. The hemline of her funky fresh pinstripe pants dangled lower than any other item in her closet.

Jana had lost the thread.

Labels: short stories

"Is the quarter note the one with the tail?"

"What do you mean by tail?"

"You know, with the little tail," he gestured in the air with two fingers to compensate for the lack of new information.

"Like coming off the end?"

"Right," he repeated the gesture with a bit more flourish.

"I think you're describing an eighth note."

"Oh."

"What is it you want? A quarter note or the one with the tail?"

"I can't remember now," he shrugged. "So which one's the quarter note?"

She drew the tail in the air in front of her, a mirror to his action, "The eighth has the tail coming off the stem," her hand became a vertical line and cut the space between them in half, "while the quarter note has just the stem."

"Is that what you'd call that? The stem?"

"Sure, it's what I'd call it," she pulled her hand back to bring her Coke cup up to her lips. "I don't know what it's called, but for the time being, that's what I'd call it."

"Right. So you throw two tails on the stem, that would be what? A sixteenth?"

Lena titled the cup back, but realized it was empty. Jack didn't know that. On some other occasion, she might have told him, and both might have had a good laugh about it. It might have turned into an inside joke. Instead, she carried the motion through, the wide brim briefly obstructing her vision. She even swallowed the nothing that remained in the cup. With a slight breath, she cleared the imaginary, carbonated fizz out of her throat so she could reply, "And a third makes a thirty-second."

"Do they go up to four tails? Sixty-fourth notes?"

"Sure."

Jack noticed he was absently shepherding the stray salt, collecting the granules in the folds of his stained wax paper wrapper, forming the shape of an L. "That's crazy. That's sixty-four notes in a measure."

"They can handle it," Lena leaned back in her chair to signal that it was perhaps time to move to some other part of the mall, some other corner of conversation. "Musicians, they're dexterous like that, with their air."

"Or their fingers," he said absently, noisily compressing the wrapper between his hands.

"Sure," she shook the empty cup to communicate to Jack that it was, in fact, empty. "Sometimes both."

Labels: short stories

The last time she saw Morris, two fingers protruded from the back of his head, beckoning her to follow. Allison nearly did, too. Her knees locked tight as she stepped off the curb. For some reason she would not pretend to understand, Allison could never tolerate—let alone obey—the two-finger beckon.

Morris's departing figure was perfectly lit by the stoplight, outlining his square body in green, then yellow, then red. Rain drizzled in a mist, forming glossy spots on his perfectly tailored coat, yet he held his umbrella closed firmly in his left hand; a briefcase clasped with a symmetrical, military precision in his right. Everything Allison knew he had was stored in that briefcase. Everything that was Morris was making its way across the intersection away from her, passing from her life. Yet, still, the fingers—so inviting, so intolerable.
. Rain drizzled in a mist, forming glossy spots on his perfectly tailored coat, yet he held his umbrella closed firmly in his left hand; a briefcase clasped with a symmetrical, military precision in his right. Everything Allison knew he had was stored in that briefcase. Everything that was Morris was making its way across the intersection away from her, passing from her life. Yet, still, the fingers—so inviting, so intolerable.

Either Morris took naturally small steps or he took deliberately small steps, as it seemed to Allison that he should have passed through the intersection whole minutes before he did. Yet all she could do was bear witness to every little step, her mouth agape, head cocked, eyes wide, brow furrowed, shoulders shivering.

Two things confused her, keeping her petrified: First, why this aversion to the two-finger beckon? Seriously, who has that hangup? Well, Allison, apparently. And for as long as she could remember, too. Second, Morris had two fingers extended, beckoning from the back of his skull. What was with that?

Finally, Morris accomplished the other side of the intersection. In two too-small steps, his feet passed over the white line of the crosswalk. Allison stood in the center of the street, suddenly secure again to breathe. She heaved a sigh which seemed to her to conjure the large truck that stole across the intent line of vision she held on Morris’s retreat. With its passing, Morris was gone.

In the hours Allison spends squinting at the windows in the office building across the street -- the one where she believes her doppelganger works (as a travel agent, she presumes) -- she ponders that night, that September. What would have happened had she been able to overcome her repulsion to the two-finger beckon? Had she too achieved the other side of the intersection? Had she offered to carry Morris's umbrella or his briefcase? Had she stroked the two fingers she had refused? Would her brother have left his wife? Would she have discovered her doppelganger? Would that blouse still have been stained with ketchup? Would her name still be Allison? Would her 10-key skills have slacked off so poorly?

Of course, such thoughts are all for naught. The thought of overcoming her aversion to the two-finger beckon was too fanciful to occupy her mind even in the time spent squinting at the building.

Written in ten minutes. Revised in twenty.

Labels: short stories