I’m sitting in the park on an early summer day. There’s a little girl, probably a toddler, running around picking dandelions. I’m smoking a cigarette and drinking straight whiskey from a travel mug. The little girl picks a dandelion, squeals, and does the weird toddler walk to the next one, which is like six inches away. Still, she is filled with wide-eyed excitement and I wonder what it’s like to have that sense of joy and wonder. Dandelion after dandelion, the excitement remains unquenched. Then a large bird of prey swoops out of the sky and plucks out one of the girl’s eyes. The girl begins screaming and I wonder where her guardian is. The bird comes back and tears open the girl’s jugular before flying off again. There is a large jet of blood as the girl falls to the ground. The blood continues to spurt into the air and I have the vague notion I’m missing an opportunity. I set my mug on the bench, clench my cigarette in my lips, and hurry over to the dying girl. I strip off my shirt and lean into the fount, a wave of elation washing over me as I bathe in the girl’s blood. This, I think, this is as close as I can get to feeling what she felt before the bird ripped out her eye and tore open her jugular. This, I think, this is what being a child feels like.
Tag: free stories
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Sticky
My phone rings for the first time in months. It’s my ex-girlfriend.
“I’m sticky,” she says.
I think about this for a few seconds.
“How sticky?”
“Really sticky,” she says. “The stickiest I’ve ever been.”
“How did this happen?”
“I don’t know. I really just don’t … Can you come over?”
“I’m pretty comfortable right now. I’ve changed a lot since we were together. I sleep, like, twelve hours a day now. And I wear more comfortable clothes.”
“I really need your help.”
“The comfortable clothes … I don’t like to go outside in them.”
“I still live in the same building as you. All you have to do is take the elevator up two floors. It’s late. No one’ll see you.”
I think about this. I’m surprised she hasn’t moved in with somebody else. It’s been over a year.
“Pretty comfortable,” I say.
“Really sticky,” she says.
I sigh. “Give me a few minutes.”
“Do you still have the key?”
I don’t know if I do or not. I do not recall having thrown the key away in a fit of rage or giving it back in an act of kindness. “Are you unable to open the door?”
“I’m so sticky I can’t even get off the floor. I’m not doing well.”
I pause for a while, for effect. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
“You will? You don’t know how relieved this makes me.”
I look for the key. The comfortable clothes make it a little easier.
I find the key in the corner of the bathroom. How do I know if this is the key? It’s something I should have used a couple times a day for a few years, but it’s not giving me familiar vibes. I decide it’s not the key to her apartment and throw it in the trash after bending it a lot.
I call her back.
“Are you on your way?” she says.
“No. I can’t find the key. I think I gave it back to you.”
“Do you hear that?” she says.
I don’t hear anything. “What is it?” I say.
“That’s me trying to get off the floor.”
I imagine her there. I’m glad I couldn’t find the key. Now, close to bedtime, the idea of taking my comfortable clothes out into the garbage-smelling hallway and up to her floor, and then doing whatever I had to do to make her less sticky feels exhausting. I can’t even imagine myself in that situation.
“I’m really sorry,” I say. “I need to get to bed.”
I hang up before she can protest and block her number.
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Crimes
Armrest darts into the bathroom. The shower runs. It always runs. He rips his clothes off and flings himself into the shower. The water is scalding hot. Vigorously, quickly, he scrubs his entire body. Fewer than two minutes later he emerges from the shower, red and steaming. Wrapping a thick robe around his body, he goes downstairs. He opens the door to his library. Inside, a dust storm rages. Swirling, dark and foreboding, it threatens to spill out and infect the rest of the house’s sterility. With a brief cry of alarm, Armrest slams the door, charges over to the couch and sits. Hopping up and down, he beats his hands against his thighs and chants, “Unclean. Unclean. Unclean! UNCLEAN!” Already, he has worked up a sweat and can feel the particles of the dust storm rubbing against his fingertips. He has to go take another shower. The front door flies open and an army of twelve men, all wearing black sweatsuits and bright red running shoes, pulls him from the couch and out into the street.
“Filth! Filth!” they shout in unison. One man (they all look the same, have the same bland and smiling face) brandishes a bucket of tar at Armrest.
“No!” Armrest shouts.
“Yes!” the twelve men cry in unison.
They strip him from his robe and coat him in the warm tar. Another man exposes a pillow he has hidden behind his back. He rips open the pillow and showers Armrest in the feathers. Armrest doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know the meaning of this. The men all strip off their sweatshirts and tie them around their waists. They stand in a half- circle. One man toward the middle pulls out a pack of cigarettes and passes it around. Armrest creeps away from the men. They make no attempt to catch him.
Armrest watches the men from the front door, standing around smoking and laughing. He wants to go up and take a shower. The tar is hardening on him, the feathers becoming mired in its solidity. Armrest likes the feeling. It becomes like a suit of armor. Brazenly, he throws open the door to his library. The dust storm swarms him but he can’t feel it, the granules unable to penetrate the thick layer of tar. Armrest pulls a book filled with gibberish and lacking a title or an author from a shelf. He sits in his chair by the front window and looks out at the circle of smoking men. They are now taking turns punching each other in the face. Armrest flips open the book and begins to read, knowing, one day, he’ll have to shower again. He wonders how many showers it will take to remove all the tar and feathers and dust and realizes he doesn’t care.
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Office Party
I’d forgotten all about it until I see the text from Robin:
office party
No exclamation point. No emoji. Not even a period. Absolutely no caps.
I load my car up with trashy girls from the neighborhood. The car is immediately filled with the scent of bubblegum, mint schnapps, cheap perfume, weed and cigarette smoke. Also, it smells like one of them ritualistically lets her cat urinate on her.
“Where are you taking us?” they ask.
“The office party,” I say.
They think this is hilarious. They spend the entire ride to the office making fun of me. I think about kicking them out but what kind of entrance could I make without them?
A few minutes later we get to the office. It’s in a strip mall on the outskirts of a suburb. All the lights are on and the parking lot is full so I have to park on the street. One of the girls has passed out so we leave her in the car.
“She has a condition,” one of the girls says and I think that condition is probably being drunk.
I swipe my fob to unlock the door to the office and hold it open for the girls. They charge through the doorway and immediately go wild, running inside, laughing and screaming before disappearing into the part of the office no one ever goes. It’s dark back there and not safe.
Raucous sounds are coming from the breakroom. I’m not ready to go in yet.
Pete is standing next to the restrooms, holding a mixed drink and looking disheveled.
“Hi Pete,” I say.
He says, “I’ve sexually harassed almost everyone here tonight.”
“Office party,” I say.
He uses his free hand to reach out and gently grope my chest.
“Consider yourself harassed,” he says.
I think about fighting him but know I’ll need to save my energy. Besides, Pete has some pretty serious problems at home.
“Have you seen Robin?” I ask.
“She blacked out and went home,” he says.
“I think I’m going to go into the breakroom,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s where almost everyone is.”
I go into the breakroom and Missie hands me a plastic cup of beer and I drink it quickly. Music is blaring from somewhere and there are way too many people crammed into a breakroom that only has a couple of tables and a few chairs. All the people are trying to act like they are not old and gross. The boss is wandering around in his weekend clothes and something he calls his “blow hat.” It’s really just an upside down cone filled with cocaine and a tube he occasionally inserts into his nostril. He offers it to any takers, of which there are many.
“You like Kenny Loggins!” he shouts over the music.
“I don’t think I’ve met him yet,” I say, feeling claustrophobic.
I notice Paul lying on the floor.
“Good lord, what has happened to Paul?” I don’t even know if I’m talking out loud.
Disco Linda says, “Paul ate all the food in the refrigerator. I think he’s bad sick.”
Charlotte starts a small fire, maybe around the microwave, and nearly everyone files back into the office, drinks in hand. We leave Paul behind. No one knows him very well.
Ben wheels the keg out on a dolly. Lori’s carrying all the bottles of liquor.
I try to relax and have a good time but I feel preoccupied. I make small talk with several people who I haven’t talked to in weeks. The fire alarm starts and the boss flips out, trying to figure out how to shut it off. No one has put out the fire. The alarm continues to blare so someone turns the music up louder.
Johnny, the office toddler, is drunk and belligerent and challenges me to a fight with as many words as he knows, which isn’t a lot. I’m not really sure how he works in customer service. This has been escalating for nearly a year and is exactly why I had to conserve my energy.
I follow him outside and give him a swift beating before tossing him in the dumpster. He’ll make his way out eventually. He always does. Even with those little arms and legs.
Around midnight, Missie breaks her belly out and we all have a feel. It’s like a meteorite covered with a marshmallow covered by Silly Putty if Silly Putty could sweat.
Pete has now gone full thunderdrunk and alternates between dancing, falling down, spilling drinks, and having shouted conversations with people that mostly include him making fun of them.
I drink several more beers and try to go to the bathroom but there’s a sign on the door that says “No Laughter in the Tear Zone” and I imagine it’s just full of sad people having breakdowns. I like to keep my breakdowns private and decide it’s time to go.
I venture to the shadowy perimeter leading to the back of the office, afraid to go any farther, and listen for the sounds of the girls.
I don’t like to shout so I just stand there clapping my hands. There’s a commotion behind me but it’s just the breakroom door melting and buckling inward.
Eventually the girls emerge from the shadows. I think they’re the same ones I came with. I don’t know.
We head out into the parking lot and the ugliest one tells me she thinks she’s pregnant so I take them to an abortion clinic and drop them out front.
“It’s not open yet, so you’ll have to wait,” I say.
As I pull away, they throw rocks at my car. I drive home really fast, weaving through the quiet suburb. Once home, I’m not ready for the party to end so I stay on the front porch and drink several more beers and start feeling pretty alone until the sky lightens just a little and all the birds come out to make noise and I run around the yard shouting “Whooo!” and now it feels like I’m having a really good time.
