All in Fiction
Blonde-in-a-bottle seeks showmance. Fundamentally unlovable due to deep-rooted distrust of anybody stupid enough to fall in love. Willing to engage in sexually gratifying relationship with minimal emotional engagement as long as it benefits me.
Too honest?
It was only when I began high school that I was no longer satisfied with the life I was living. The farm wasn’t enough for me, my parents weren’t enough. I felt sick with isolation, with alienation. My mother told me the things I was feeling were normal. I told her there was nothing normal about me, there never was. She turned from me and stared out the kitchen window, into the distant horizon. Her grey hair was piled into a bun on her head, looking as if she belonged to a century gone. Without a word she left the room and came back with a folded blanket held out before her.
“You were wrapped in this when we found you.”
Seeing the city in the rear-view mirror was a relief. A blessing. I’m no country boy. Don’t get me wrong on that score. But even a bona fide city-slicker like myself recognizes that the metropolitan life is a deviation from a healthy, natural existence. I mean, I enjoy it’s perks as well as the next man. For instance, who can count on a decent curry, some palatable sushi, in the country? Your not going to come across a classy cinema in the boondocks. And I do like me some classy cinema venues. Look, I’m no fashion guru, hell, I’m a bit of a slob…. but I do appreciate that my wardrobe isn’t limited to the town Super Target or the county Walmart.
For years to come, the rest of the night only came back to Brian in pieces. He remembered being nervous about being out so late, but Jeremy had told him not to worry. He remembered laughing so hard at one of Jeremy’s jokes he snorted Dr. Pepper out his nose. He’d later wonder if he’d heard the woman on the highway threaten to call the police, or if he only thought he had because he studied the police report like it was a bible. The last thing he remembered, without any doubt, was giving Jeremy his extra cookie as they walked outside. Then, he was momentarily blinded by the flash of red and blue lights.
You need the world of Netflix, dreamscapes, you think psychiatrists would call it. But at least dreamscapes give you some semblance of control. You can consciously or subconsciously craft your own narrative.
Stop. Pause. Start.
I slam the refrigerator shut and ask myself why? Will keeping it make it fresher? “There’s bananas and oatmeal over there,” I say, gesturing to the space I made near the sink. “And chocolate cupcakes with sprinkles.”
People like the Restless Man always got to enjoy the benefits of admiration without doing the admirable thing. When his father was alive (time since father’s passing is unknown to the Restless Man), he was the same way — always in some hole where he did not belong. People looked the other way, then, too.
"That's a lot of time spent. It's a nice song with something to it." The old man smirked through the crackle and smell of a freshly lit cigarette. "If you like, we could run up the hill here and see. Maybe there's a place for you. A chance to use your gift - a time to call your own - an audience out there. Travel. Lots of people could hear you play."
They move to the back of the store to, thank god, the bathroom that doesn’t really lock. The door is already partially open. White Trash’s foot must have kicked it when he fell. That is where is now; on his back, his face contorting with discomfort. A black pistol is visible on the floor, nudging against the White Trash hat. A gold bullet casing rests in the corner. Everything about the boy is now revealed on the dirty bathroom tile.
Water pours in from the broken window like a geyser. The closer she gets into the low lighting, she recognizes Cake and Willow floating on the water. When they get hungry, they like to hover near the top, their fins and backs peeking out of the water in expectation. But they’re dead.
On top of that, when you stopped at the Speedway, peeing was part of the ritual, but this time with all that Taco Bell you forgot that part, and now, heading in the right direction, you have to find a place to pee, so you stop drinking the Pepsi and just sit there perturbed.
Funny, accessing memories of the old tales has led me to remember how I got here - everything that had lead to this. I made the mistake with intention, to go out there alone and look at the stars. I feel my body again, or felt my body as I slid my hand across the dips in the cold rock where he crouched. Dusk approached and something called me over.
Cal was quiet after. In the dark, he sat in his boxers at the same end of the couch where he’d stood before submitting. I graciously retracted into the other end and reviewed his presentation while wearing his shirt. I pointed out what was persuasive and what wasn’t, why Jefferson knew the client wouldn’t buy it. I typed over his thoughts. Deleted shapes. Inserted slides.
When I came home to Brooklyn, just a few of my friends were still around, and no one even called me “Steve the Shot” anymore. My career was over and I needed to get serious about not just paying off my student loans, but thinking about what I wanted to do for the rest of my life.
Tom had been dead a while, and was now studying the Library, familiarizing himself with the sections, getting to know all the different species on all the different planets who had mastered the science of binding books and filing texts and adapting ink to sunlight while the beings who’d written them had been alive.
Walking toward town, I try to stay on the grass, but all of it is yellowed and crunchy off Sanctuary grounds. No one is in charge outside of that gate, and to be fair, we have been stealing the water for our garden for a very long time. I don’t think it has rained in at least a year either. Where is everyone?
“I don’t want the damn money!” Her desperate plea falls on the deafened ears of the divine. There is no sign of mercy, no holy herald, no miracle.
“What the hell is going on here?” K tries to say, but her tongue flops huge and stupid in her mouth, slurring her words into nonsense. Dr. Fred ignores K. His fingers swarm the keyboard, creating a symphony of clattering keystrokes. The woman in the hallway keeps rummaging through the supply closet.
Don had just finished his daily prayers. After the door was opened, he stepped outside in a robe and wooden slippers, trying to understand what they were talking about. “Nobody gives without wanting something,” said a hooded man wearing a white cloak. “What mask are you wearing today?”
Andrea stared at it as a cold, clammy sensation burst somewhere inside her and began to spread its icy fingers. Trying to ignore the feeling of alarm rising in her stomach, she said, “Boy’s night out, huh? Just you and the guys?” She tried to keep her tone casual despite her rapidly rising heart rate.