All in Fiction
It was a cumulonimbus that woke Annalisa, too early. She moaned into her pillow, a good five minutes or so. Thunder rattled her windows and brain. Nausea raced up her throat. She rushed to the toilet.
“Fare thee well tequila,” she whispered, flushing. “Sweet journey.”
He went to the porch, lit a cig, and tried to think of the right words. But all he could think about were the erased words jumbled in the sink, surrounded by empty beer cans and a blanket of mold. Three drags latter he got up and fetched the crumpled paper. So then he went back to the porch and holding it by a corner, lit it on fire. One of the neighborhood kids played on his skateboard on the street. So that kid knows nothing about erasing and burning. Kid won’t even notice. So he held on to the paper until the fingers started to burn. Then he laid the blackened remains in the ashtray. Then he lit the tiny Achilles heel of the paper and watched the last bit turn to dust.
The clicking—click click click clicking all day and all night, the incessant click clicking of his mouse and mechanical keyboard, the same game from dawn until dusk ‘til his eyes grow heavy and then the click clicking slows but never stops.
We all raise our glass in return except for Kip. Instead, he says, “Ev, we’re not falling for that one. Andy nailed your question, so you and your team imbibe!” “Plus, you used the word ‘d-r-i-n-k’ twice, Ev, so you d-r-i-n-k two more!” commands Andy.
Sarah opens a can of tuna fish, strains the water off in the sink by compressing the can’s top. Eighty-nine cents at Price Saver. She picks at the salty tuna with a plastic fork, glances around her efficiency apartment. She thinks of those spaces in IKEA, the little houses, with all the marks of convenient living. Packed is a word for it. Coffin. Kitchen and living room together. Bathroom so small she can’t turn around. Bedroom big enough for a twin, maybe a full sized, but she doesn’t like cramping the space. She picks at the tuna. It is all smashed into the little can, dead flesh pressed up against itself. The single-serve coffee pot gurgles and hisses, steam rising from it and fogging the narrow kitchen window, one that wouldn’t be a good escape in a fire. She pours herself a cup of coffee.
Dressed her in her Sunday best, she looked in on her daddy, then headed down the stair. Her mother lifted Violet up so she could grasp the bell-pull. It tinkled inside. As footsteps came to the door, the girl retreated into her mother’s skirts.
In the corner of the lab near the vent, the clippings from his toenails were on the floor. Instead of cleaning up after himself he left them there, until some ants had gathered, taking away his toenails to their colony for food.
Stephanie bit her lower lip, fearing that the day was already going astray, so much faster than even her worst fears. She reached for a plate of chocolate chip cookies, baked yesterday, and selected the largest one for herself, but upon biting into it, she discovered it was crumbling and bitter.
As anyone with chronic pain that keeps them up: terrible insomnia, a person who works a day and night job to make ends meet, or simply a student who must spend their late hours studying to pass their next exam, will tell you: sleep is not a necessity that everyone is entitled to, sleep is a luxury that the lucky are allowed and that the unlucky must learn to live without.
“We are simply trying to learn as much as we can about your husband’s disappearance. You must realize that the circumstances are very unusual. We’ve searched the Mendocino hotel and scoured the headland trails down to the beach.” The detective pauses. “In fact, Mrs. Douglas, no one’s reported seeing your husband since you both left the Heritage yesterday morning.”
“Hey.” I try my best to keep my voice steady. One hand curls around the joystick of my power wheelchair as the other hand rests on my lap. Normally, I would clasp my hands together, but they’re shaking so hard I want to keep them apart.
“More likely they’ll get the big city pastors to come down here and scold me,” Johnny said. “Pastor Simmons is already coming around for breakfast most days to chew me out. Although I think maybe he’s doing it a little bit for God’s eggs, too.”
Shaking his head, Edmond turns to face the marina again and takes his first bite of the croissant. Flakes melt on his tongue and the buttery aroma float up the roof of his mouth but instead of the familiar solace, unease blooms in his gut.
“There’s only one thing left to do,” I announce to nobody, and trudge on into the kitchen toward the cabinet under the sink. That’s where I keep all the chemicals they say we should never use but can’t clean our toilet bowls without.
Andy gambled. He did so in a serious way, contributing greatly to the casino’s coffers. Tickets and chips colored his path through and around the floor. Dave and Peter were impressed by his haphazardness and lack of concern for his own money. Realistically, Andy was trying to change a conversation he was having with himself.
From this lower level, the basement that I had just discovered, one could not see the night sky. And yet, her simple implied wish that the moon should sit in the darkened corner of the room seemed to be enough. It obeyed her.
Unlike a car windshield, his faceplate didn't have any wipers. It wasn't raining hard, but the droplets would still cluster and accumulated on the visor, making passed taillights burst and diffuse into meaningless globes of red light.
I sense Christine enter my skatial orbit. She’s wearing the troupe’s trademark black leggings and long sleeved top. I suspect as she approaches that she will perform a spin to show me up, but instead she comes to a crisp t-stop in front of me and smiles.
Sunlight streams in through a crack in the lacy curtains. Creelix wanders around the spacious room, looking for a doorway to the rest of the house but he only sees holograms of Waverly at different stages of her life and people who must be family and friends. Everyone looks sickeningly happy.
“Good luck,” he says, and laughs like a holler. “Good fucking luck,” he repeats. He slaps the table. “We’re gonna need more drinks. Hey,” he says, “why did that woman in the shop call you her priest?”