Category Archives: Me
Ever since K woke up dead, or so he was convinced, he had turned into a bit of a jerk.
That won’t do at all, he said in a huff. That’s how you choose to remember me? He snatched up his eulogy and tossed it in the garbage. I tried to feel sorry for him, because whatever mental affliction he was suffering from seemed to be rather burdensome. Then I began writing a new one.
Help me, he pleaded several weeks ago. I’m dead. I could see the fear in his eyes, and though I didn’t believe him, I was sure that he at least believed he was dead. I made a joke about zombies. But that only irritated him.
As the weeks went by he lost interest in everything that used to be meaningful. The only thing that seemed to jolt him to life–so to speak–was discussing how the life that was now, according to him, over would be remembered.
But the novelty of having a dead friend was eroding quickly.
Are you done yet, he barked? I lunged from my desk and sunk my pen into his neck.
Thank you, he said, as he died a second time.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, death, eulogy, fear, friendship, irritation, life, murder, pen, zombie | posted in Man, Me, Short Fiction
I’m sorry, she said. I can’t help it.
I rolled off of her and looked at her in a soft way, pleading silently for a logical explanation. She looked away. Don’t be mad.
K warned me to stay away. But that only encouraged me. You know how guys are: they think they’re the exception to the rule.
She was nice enough to let me try, but it was obvious that I was too alive.
She spoke calmly, knowing I needed to be told something grand: I went to a party once and my boyfriend at the time told me to meet him in the bathroom. It was completely dark in there when I pushed the door open. I couldn’t find the light switch. I groped around until my hands landed on what I thought was his erect penis. So I got on top, fucked him, and snuck out. Very erotic. I found out later that it was actually a dead man with rigor mortis in all the right places. My boyfriend broke up with me and I haven’t been interested in the living since.
After a moment, I said: I’m going to hang myself in the bathroom.
She only smiled.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, bathroom, death, life, love, party, relationships, rigor-mortis, sex | posted in Her, Man, Me, Woman
I grimaced at my reflection, fixated on the red streaks creeping down my jaw.
“Why don’t you go to the doctor,” she said, worriedly, from behind the bathroom door. “It’s too late for that,” I hissed.
She thought I blamed her for the infection. Before our relationship became serious, and even in the weeks following its serious turn, she begged me to get a tetanus shot. I refused. There was something romantic in the risk.
The first time she kissed me, she held back. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she said. But one night she kissed me without thinking. I remember the sound of the nails in her mouth grinding against my teeth. I remember the taste of blood running down the back of my throat and down the sides of my mouth. “Sorry,” she said. “Don’t be,” I replied, still believing in romance. She urged me to go to the hospital. “What if it gets infected,” she asked. I muttered something about fate, trying to smile with my mangled orifice.
I continued staring at myself in the mirror, convinced the red streaks were getting longer by the second, making their way to someplace vital. Probably to my heart.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, flash fiction, heart, hospital, infection, kissing, love, mirror, mouth, nails, pain, relationships, romance | posted in Her, Me, Short Fiction, Woman
“Tell me a story or I’ll shoot her.” He raised his gun. The pretty brunette made indistinct noises from behind the bandana in her mouth.
So I did. I told him about this aspiring writer who decides to do something crazy because he only knows how to write about “what actually happens.” He decides to rob a bank but falls for the bank teller. While he intended to write a note demanding all the money, he ends up writing her a poem. They go on a date a few days later. They go back to his place for a nightcap. There’s a knock on the door. The aspiring writer opens it and finds a man holding a gun. The man barges in and, for reasons unknown, ties up the aspiring writer and the bank teller.
“What happens then?” The man with the gun asked.
I told him how, in the story, the man with the gun forces the aspiring writer tell him a story.
“And then?” The man with the gun asked.
I told him how the aspiring writer doesn’t know how to finish the story and how the brunette begins to fear, more than ever before, for her life.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, bank, date, fiction, flash fiction, gun, hostage, relationships, robber, story, thief, writer | posted in Her, Man, Me, Short Fiction, Woman
“She likes you,” her little dog said. “But here’s what’s going to happen: sometime soon she’s going to offer to make you soup. She’ll ask your favorite kind. You’ll tell her. Then she’ll show up with groceries and wine and you guys will cook your favorite soup and drink nice wine. You’ll sit down to eat but you’ll die. I’ve seen her do it countless times.”
“Why? You said she likes me.”
“She does. But like will turn to love which will eventually turn to hate. Kind of makes sense if you think about it.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I like you too…. She’ll be back soon. So just act normal.”
I did.
“Know what,” her voice was sincere. “Let’s make dinner tomorrow. Why not soup?”
I glanced down at her little dog, which was avoiding eye contact.
“What’s your favorite kind?”
“Clam chowder,” I said confidently, knowing that clam chowder takes all day.
“Great. I’ll take the day off. Clam chowder takes all day, you know?”
I was somehow okay with such an extended death ritual. Her previous boyfriends probably hadn’t received such preferential treatment.
We smiled at each other. Her little dog probably rolled its eyes.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, boyfriends, chef, cooking, death, dinner, dog, flash fiction, girlfriends, hate, love, murder, relationships, soup | posted in Me, Short Fiction, Woman
“You’re an idiot.” Sometimes she wakes up with FUCK YOU emblazoned across her forehead. I’m not sure why. Perhaps in my sleep I set her car on fire. Accusations of stupidity (etc.) fly from her mouth with ease. Such was the case yesterday. We haven’t spoken sense.
—
This morning I ate a young man’s brain. He came to my office, in the basement of X University where I am a professor of Y. “Professor,” he inquired through the wooden door, “are you in?” I beckoned him inside. An extremely intelligent young man who is probably also wealthy (X University caters to smart and wealthy students and, as any reasonably smart person will tell you, the two traits are often mutually exclusive), he was fidgety like an old man but dressed like a young hip person.
“Could I ask you about our next assignment?” The young man spoke in a quivering voice. I nodded. He sat down. Then I struck him hard across the face. He went limp almost instantly and I set to eating his brain.
What are you doing, I asked myself in a moment of hesitation.
Becoming smart, I replied, as I took another bite of his brain.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, brain, cannibalism, food, intelligence, professor, relationships, student, university, wealth | posted in Me, Short Fiction
I hate discount retailers. But I go begrudgingly to the discount retailer because I do things for the pretty girl I love who always loves a bargain.
The discount retailer offers nothing of value for anybody. The girl I love marches off to the women’s things and I find myself in the men’s section, dodging lower-class people as they clamor for cheap stuff. Two men argue over a leather jacket.
I make my way to the men’s shoes. I fantasize about seeing the girl I love naked as my eyes gloss over countless pairs of misfit footwear that seem like death row inmates awaiting imminent execution.
But I spot, accidentally, in an unmarked shoebox, a single Ferragamo loafer that, presumably, even I can afford. My X-rated fantasy vanishes and I excitedly snatch up the loafer. I search for its mate. I search everywhere. I ask an unhelpful sales associate to find its mate. He rolls his eyes: “Sorry, I guess it’s lost.”
I attack the sales associate. The police arrive and I’m arrested. I don’t know where she is–the girl I love.
I’m issued prison garb–shirt, pants, loafers. The shirt and pants are awful, but the loafers aren’t so bad.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, Black Friday, clothes, discount, Ferragamo, leather, loafer, love, police, prison, relationships, shoes, shopping | posted in Her, Me, Short Fiction
I had been hit by a train so went to Q Resort to convalesce for a week. The doctor said the damage wasn’t bad, but had urged me to take time for myself. So I made the journey to Q Resort.
I spent most of my time at Q Resort sitting out on my veranda and staring absently at the world beyond. There were mountains covered in snow. There was a stream, partially frozen. Etc. I reflected on my brush with death.
One day I found a dead cockroach in my room at Q Resort. I didn’t tell the Hispanic maid; I left the cockroach where it died because it seemed peaceful. The Hispanic maid must have found it because two days later it was gone. I was bereft, a little, but made due, and used the experience to reflect further on the nature of living and dying.
Convincing myself that all life culminates majestically in death, I jumped from the edge of my veranda one night.
Because my room at Q Resort was on the second floor, however, I ended up only with a badly sprained ankle. Unable to walk, I extended my stay at Q Resort another week.
Leave a comment | tags: accident, affect, cockroack, death, hotel, life, resort, shiga naoya, train | posted in Me, Short Fiction
“She was my heroin,” I said gazing into the pond. “I was addicted,” I continued the metaphor, as I continued gazing into the pond. A few ducks nodded in tandem. Most swam away, bored, no doubt, with the same story told by every guy who sits alone on a bench by a pond.
One duck spoke. “Tell me more,” it said, and by the by, we got to know each other. I invited the duck over for dinner. It accepted my invitation, probably out of sympathy.
……
I told K about my unexpected friendship. “What should I serve for dinner,” I asked him.
“Duck,” K replied feigning seriousness. We laughed in that way you laugh about things like cannibalism.
I served pasta instead. The duck was a gracious guest. We ate mostly in silence, each unsure how to proceed. “You know,” the duck finally said, “I thought you invited me over so you could eat me.”
We laughed in the way K and I laughed earlier. “I’m a vegetarian,” I explained. Then I attacked and killed it.
……
I called her for the first time in a long time. “I made you duck,” I whispered to the voice on the other end.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, appetite, cuisine, death, dinner, drugs, duck, food, heroin, murder, pond, relationships, vegetarian, water | posted in Her, Me
We drink wine as the world ends around us.
“And to all the destruction in men,” she says, raising her glass. “And to all the corruption in my head,” I rejoin, touching my glass to hers.
Another explosion. Another scream in the distance. It’s only a matter of time before those screams ostensibly become ours, which is why tonight we drink the good wine, the wine she is supposed to be saving for a special occasion–a promotion, accolade.
As rock falls from the sky I think back to when I first met her.
———-
She had been smoking on her veranda and talking to the night sky. She had been doing it every night for months. Every night I would watch her from the darkness of my own veranda, imagining a conversation with a dead lover or maybe a confrontation with God.
“What are you doing,” I asked once, emerging from the darkness.
“I’m talking to Orion.” She remained focused on the stars. “I’m trying to convince him to take off his belt.”
She started sweet talking him when she was a teenager, she said. And men can only resist for so long.
———-
“I guess you were right,” I say.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, apocalypse, death, God, meteor, Orion, relationships, romance, sky, smoke, space, stars, wine | posted in Her, Me, Short Fiction
For my birthday, my girlfriend gave me something she made. Last year it was something she constructed from forks and spoons.
This year it was a flower pot, out of which a hand was growing. I recognized the hand; I had bought it for her to hang jewelry from.
“You don’t have to water this kind of plant.” She laughed.
I watered it everyday after she left for work. It didn’t take long before the hand grew a wrist.
Under some pretense, I took my potted hand from her apartment, claiming it would look good in my house, which I hardly called home at all these days.
There I watered it dutifully, spoke to it, played it pleasant music. The wrist grew a slender arm, which grew a graceful shoulder.
A woman! I grew excited and pulled on the arm. A beautiful woman emerged from the soil. Our eyes met. We embraced. Then she pulled me back into the soil.
Later that day my girlfriend came by. She didn’t find me. But she found a flower pot with two hands in it. Presuming I had made it for her, she took it back to her apartment. Her birthday is tomorrow.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, birthday, gardening, gift, hand-made, jewelry, plant, relationships | posted in Me, Short Fiction, Woman
“You got your renewal in the mail,” she called in a flat voice from the foyer. She was uncomfortable. She handed me the envelope. Renewal time already, I asked myself, it seems like I just renewed.
I wasn’t going to open it; maybe after dinner. But until I did, I knew things would be tense. I opened it. She frowned.
Dear K:
Thank you for your continued patronage. (. . .)
You have six months remaining on your current contract. We therefore ask that you start thinking about renewing your girlfriend. As always, we have a variety of payment plans and togetherness options to suit your needs. Please feel free to renew online by logging in. . .
I went to my computer. I wanted to keep her, at least a little longer. I mean, she wasn’t getting fat, she liked my jokes, and she wore high heels around the house. But I had been using my credit card a lot lately–most recently for a pair of Valentino stilettos that matched the tile in the kitchen–indeed too much.
As feared, my credit card was declined.
“Cheapskate,” she growled as she marched out the door, the echo of Valentino stilettos piercing the night air.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, capitalism, credit card, love, money, relationships, shoes, stiletto, Valentino | posted in Her, Me
The clerk leaned across his counter and whispered: “Did you know that if you send the US Treasury a $2 bill, they’ll send you back $2.15?” He went on to whisper related information, but I stopped paying attention.
……….
When I was a kid my father stockpiled $2 bills in the basement of our house, sure that one day $2 bills would be the only viable currency. After he disappeared, I took his cache of $2 bills and folded things out of them.
I folded boyhood things: submarines, rocket ships, best friends. After boyhood, I folded my father’s $2 bills into weapons and electric guitars. Most recently I folded a woman and fell in love with her.
I promised to provide for my origami woman. She dismissed my masculine posturing, however, and asked only that I never unfold her, echoing a promise I had already made to myself.
………
I unfolded her that night, the clerk’s whispers of “profit” ringing in my ears. But not before taking her out to an extravagant dinner–like, candlelight and oysters flown in from faraway. It was out of my price range, but, envisioning the money I would get for my origami woman, I wasn’t too concerned.
I ordered us another round of martinis.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, candlelight, capitalism, family, martini, money, origami, oysters, relationships, shopping | posted in Her, Me, Short Fiction, Woman
I didn’t have much money–in fact, but a lowly cog in the T education system, I still don’t. So after my parents were cremated I kept their ashes at my local temple; temples allow you to “temporarily” stash remains there if you can’t afford a decent(ish) burial plot. See, when death happens, it is customary to offer proper closure. Which seems to require an expensive whole in the ground.
I didn’t really need closure–it’s such a subjective concept, besides. But, you know, closure is what’ done. So whatever; I stashed my parents in the corner of my aforementioned local temple until I had enough money for closure.
But my particular profession promises no riches–in contrast to, say, selling drugs or sex–so I had to find other means.
I called K.
“Kill these people.” He named three people. “I’ll give you X dollars and you’ll be able to put your parents to rest.”
So I did. And I was handsomely compensated, thus. But on my way to get my parents I passed in front of a particular department store that sells things I like.
Three hours later I phoned K again. He seemed to understand. Then he named two more names.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, buddhism, burial, capitalism, class, death, money, temple | posted in Me, Short Fiction
The clerk scrawled something on my receipt before stuffing it in its pretty envelope and handing it to me: her phone number. Call me. She made the shape of that with her mouth before guiding me to the door in that way that clerks do at snobby retail joints.
……….
Hello? You could tell she wasn’t used to talking on the phone.
Hi. This is K. From earlier today. You gave me your number.
I let her lead the conversation since this was her doing. She asked who the scarf was for. I told her. She asked how long we had been together. I told her that too. She asked if I loved her. I told her yes very much.
Then she told me about the flood. The poor are liquifying, she said. We don’t have much time.
She told me about the tallest building in the city. All the exclusive retailers are moving to the top floor so our most special clientele can continue shopping. The poor won’t rise that high. She was confident. We appreciate your business and look forward to your continued patronage. She hung up.
How thoughtful, I thought. But I don’t know how to swim.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, capitalism, class, flood, luxury, poor, relationships, shopping | posted in Her, Me, Short Fiction
Know where the best chocolate is?
The fat fuck next to me leaned in.
There’s a lingerie shop on Q street, besides a Montessori school.
I didn’t know how he knew I was fond of chocolate. Perhaps rumors were starting to spread. He earned my curiosity. I’m K, I said. I don’t remember his name.
The next day I went to the lingerie shop. An appropriately pretty girl was picking out a thong for a half exposed wooden mannequin.
A fat fuck of a man suggested I come here for the chocolate.
She did not look amused. She balled up the thong she was still fiddling with and shoved it in her back pocket. She walked toward me, unimpressed by my presence. How much do you want? Not a lot, I replied.
She brought a pretty finger to her face, traced her lips, and then bit it off.
She yanked the thong from her pocket and wrapped her finger in it. Eat within three days or freeze.
………
I bet it’s delicious I said to myself later. But it’ll probably make me fat. And I was too narcissistic to let that happen.
Then my mind wandered back to the fat man.
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She took off her clothes and slid into my bed wearing nothing but a black and gold watch. She kissed me and closed her eyes, burrowing into my body. Snow began to fall. I coiled myself around her to shelter her from the cold. Winter is coming, she whispered, I’ll keep you warm.
She took her watch off. I breathed her in and felt her coat my insides.
She sang softly, that song I like, from somewhere inside me, until I fell asleep.
“If I could start again…”
When I woke up she was beside me. You were dreaming, she said, her eyes closed. She smiled a smile with something behind it, maybe, or else I think too much when it comes to stuff like that. It’s getting worse, she said, smiling still, nodding toward outside, and you’re cold. That won’t do at all…Close your eyes.
I did as instructed and took a breath. She sang to me again, that song we like. I slept.
When I woke, she was gone.
I pulled her skin over my head and went back to sleep. Warm, still, for the first time in a long time.
“…a million miles away…”
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Once a year I go to the bank vault. Once a year I am greeted by the woman in black and white and tell myself that next year I’m going to ask her out. We make small talk as she leads me to my lockbox. She leaves me in privacy. I open my box and let all of the memories out.
The bad ones. The ones that cause harm and hate. I deal with them, in the lockbox room; I relive them. They can’t escape; neither can I. Then after a while I put them back in my lockbox and leave. Then I go to Starbucks.
……….
I went to my lockbox yesterday. One of my memories was missing. I considered summoning the woman in black and white and demanding an explanation, but that might ruin my chances for a date next year. So I reconsidered. Plus: she’d never understand. She’d ask what was missing and what would I say? I closed my lockbox and went home, worried. Where is my memory?
At 3 this morning there was a knock on the door. A woman was on the other side. She seemed familiar though I didn’t know why. I invited her in.
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She told me to go to a bookstore on the corner of this street and that one. She knew I liked to read. I’ll meet you there, she texteded.
Men were milling around inside, perusing pedantic books they’d never read or understand. I approached a bookshelf and pulled on a tome called The History of Madness. I opened to page whatever. In the margins somebody had scribbled in red pencil: you can never go back.
She saddled up next to me. I shut the book and gave her a platonic hug. She was impressively dressed in black and white: I missed the memo–I was not in any decent color scheme. Do you know what this place is, she asked. It’s a speakeasy. She smiled.
A man emerged from behind the poetry section to lead us into the bar, where we both got really drunk. I told her about my problems: money, cocaine, you. We drew inane pictures of interspecies struggles. Then it was time to go.
I gave her another platonic hug. She faded into the night and I thought about that anonymous red message. Then I didn’t go after her. To do otherwise would have been madness.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, books, bookstore, cocaine, Foucault, history, literacy, madness, Michel Foucault, poetry, relationships, speakeasy | posted in Her, Me, Short Fiction
He refuses to believe that the world has changed. That’s an unfortunate thing to do, really, and dangerous. He fucks recklessly, convinced that a simple dose of penicillin will disarm the worst of whatever afflictions brood inside women’s bodies.
I don’t really care about that.
What I find interesting is that he never locks his doors—car, house, whatever. He should. But he doesn’t. Because he refuses to believe that the world is a place where you kinda really should do that. I asked him about it once. He said the world is good and decent. He also said that a MARINES CORPS sticker on his windshield would garner him respect from criminals who, after seeing his patriotic sticker, would go steal someone else’s shit. I asked him what if you get ripped off will you lock your doors. He said no because I believe the world is good even when at times it isn’t.
………………..
When the new girl—made out of silicone just as I like—told me that she wasn’t in it for the money, I believed her. The old girl had said the same. But she had been lying. But the world is good. So I went to the ATM.
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She asked what I wanted for, as she called it, ExMass. I knew she wouldn’t get me anything, but her asking me that particular question was her way of denying her own faults to herself. Which was fine. A necktie, I said. She didn’t say anything. She simply smiled a downcast smile and I kept my expectations in check, having known her long enough to know to do so. (Whenever a girl asks what I want for any gift-giving reason, I always say, A necktie. Because I like the feeling of being repeatedly strangled by domesticity and love.)
I knew what she wanted for ExMass without having to ask–something (anything!) expensive, because in her mind the more money a guy spends on her, the more she is “loved” by him. She has a bunch of pricey male-authored gifts that she clings to in the name of “nostalgia and memory” but really because they remind her of the commercial value of her subjectivity: I am worth this much in white gold, Dolce & Gabanna, and Lululemon leg warmers.
She began to assemble the fake ExMass tree, and my throat began to tighten under the grip of a thousand neckties.
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Women claim that they wear thongs so that continuity is not disrupted (something about panty lines). But as the woman tried in vain to dislodge her thong from her ass, her continuity was disrupted in a most unanticipated way. She picked at it through her tight leather pants, and had she not been so focused on her discomfort, one would have thought she wasn’t wearing underwear at all–sublimating any presumption of propriety (which research suggests is the “real” reason women wear thongs these days). (Don’t ask me how I know that.) (I’m paid to know a lot about a lot of things.)
K nudged me. Get her to stop doing that, he said. You do it, I countered.
The woman spun around to face us, having evidently overheard our conversation. With a focused gaze, she kicked off her shoes and slithered out of her leather pants. Then she took off her thong and crammed it in her mouth. She chewed and swallowed with minimal effort.
Giving us both the finger, she marched off, leaving her shoes and leather pants behind.
I glanced at K. That was weird.
I know, he replied. I’m wearing the same exact pair.
Leave a comment | posted in Me, Short Fiction, Woman
The man who lives next door took my old girlfriend.
I had propped her up against the dumpster in the alley. But not five minutes later I saw him sauntering toward his porch with her tucked under his arm and a grin on his face.
It’s just as well, I thought with good reason, for I had thrown her out. Yet I caught myself thinking about them. (Guys get like that so it’s fine, really.) I also thought about her two dimensional curves and her icy eyes–her best feature.
I had to see her again. Under the cover of night I crept over to the man’s house and peered through a window. He was on the couch uttering things to her. She was leaning against the wall, staring at him. Those eyes used to fixate on me, I said to myself, consumed with rage probably.
The next day while the man was out, I broke into his house. She was in the bedroom. I pounced and ripped her to shreds. Then I lit her on fire. But I don’t understand fire. So the fire spread to the rest of the house.
I ran back to my house and dialed my realtor.
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Have you eaten, asked the woman I found out in the rain. She made herself at home in my kitchen.
I nodded.
She knew I was lying. Still, she took the food from my cupboard and ate it as though she were entitled to do so. How long she had been out in the rain, I don’t know; neither do I know why she had been out there without coat or umbrella.
I’m still hungry, said the woman I found out in the rain. I had already sold what was supposedly valuable to make it through the winter. I didn’t bother telling her that she had just eaten all of it.
I went into my study to get my mother’s emerald ring. Her husband had given it to her before dying. Which is what mother did: When you marry, give her this, she instructed me once from her sickbed. It’s just as well, I mused, as I took the ring from its drawer, that’ll never happen now anyway.
……….
I brought back bread, charcoal, poultry, and rice.
That’s it? asked the woman I found out in the rain.
I was beginning to understand why I found her out in the rain.
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Fatness doesn’t photograph well. That’s what I told her when she asked to be my muse. She shied from my gaze after that, hiding herself under blankets and layers of clothes. I walked in on her when she was in the bathroom doing something naked in front of the mirror. She screamed at me. That was in the summer.
She fucked somebody while I was away, somebody who liked fat women. I didn’t care. I fucked a skinny woman while I was away. She cared. She screamed at me. That was in the fall.
In the winter she approached me, wanting to be my muse again. Take your clothes off. I hadn’t bothered to look at her in months; her body–barely a body at all now–both horrified and aroused me. Let me get my camera. She fucked somebody again, recently. I cared this time. I hadn’t fucked anybody since the last time I did that, but that wasn’t why I cared.
In the spring she died of starvation. I took one last photo before having her buried.
3 Comments | tags: affect, body image, cheating, death, deception, fat, photo, photography, relationships, romance, seasons, skinny, starvation, thinness | posted in Her, Me, Short Fiction
