Tag Archives: money
This wasn’t how things were supposed to be.
She was the whore – fallen, despicable.
Yet here she sat, poised on the edge of the bed like an angel, ever the image of one neither fallen nor despicable.
“Are we doing this or not?” Her disdain filled the room. She wrapped her arms around her knees, sighed, looked toward the carpet.
I said nothing, leaned harder against the door.
She was the whore, repository of failure. But the intensity in her eyes compromised her expendability. Had I known then, when I let her into my luxury car, that she was not, in fact, human waste, I would have driven elsewhere, looked elsewhere for whatever it was I was looking for.
I didn’t want to fuck her because of carnal desire. I wanted to fuck her to debase her, to make myself feel better. I was the upright citizen; she was the whore.
I had ruined lives, trashed futures, lost everything.
She was supposed to absorb, affirm my failures, allow me to start anew.
But her body radiated goodness, filled the motel room with oppressive optimism.
“You’ll still have to pay me,” she said, oblivious to the worth I saw in her.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, capitalism, fiction, flash fiction, humanity, money, motel, prostitution, sex, sexuality, Short Fiction, whore | posted in Her, Me, Short Fiction
K sold the ring his fiancee had given him. Some guy in the parking lot of a sandwich shop gave him $400, claiming that it was identical to the one he lost, a gift from his own fiancee.
K spent the first $100 at a strip club, folding his stack of dollars into paper airplanes and cascading them into the air, like a little squadron of warplanes, toward the pretty but malnourished stripper.
K spent the remaining $300 on a fat prostitute. He had no desire to sleep with the fat prostitute. Instead, he wanted to ride her, like she was a horse.
K used to be a skilled equestrian and won many awards. K fell in love with a pretty lady, also an equestrian, skilled. They were to marry, but things fell apart; K never rode again. K moved away and decorated his meager apartment with his awards. The urge to ride was strong, but he refused to return to horses.
K demanded the fat prostitute remove her clothes. Then he climbed atop her. He rode her vociferously, until they both collapsed into a heap of flesh.
K slept heavily. When he woke, the prostitute was gone, and so were his awards.
Leave a comment | tags: addiction, affect, awards, body, capitalism, fat, fiction, flash fiction, horses, love, marriage, money, relationships, romance, sex, Short Fiction, short story, women | posted in Her, Me, Short Fiction, Woman
For Christmas I wanted a prostitute. “A good one, for an hour, no more,” I promised Dad.
On Christmas day I bounded toward the tree expecting a card with cash, and an encouraging note from Dad: “Money is power, son,” or something. Even an actual prostitute with bows covering her private areas. Instead, all I got was a piggy bank. “Save up and buy one for yourself,” Dad said, patting me on the shoulder.
As I dropped my only quarter into the pig’s backside, I heard the pig mock my lack of masculinity. I stole $50 from K. He sold drugs to the other kids at school, so I didn’t feel bad. I offered a girl in my Japanese class $50 to have sex with me. A poor, trashy sort, she could hardly refuse. “Money is power,” I exclaimed when I was through with her, tossing a dirty $50 bill on the bed.
Two weeks later I approached her again, having nicked another $50 from K. “It’s $100 now,” she replied.
When I was finished with her, I grumbled something about money being power, but now I was less sure. “See you next week,” she asked, an unfamiliar confidence in her voice.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, Christmas, christmas tree, flash fiction, money, piggy bank, prostitution, relationships, school, sex, Short Fiction | posted in Her, Me, Short Fiction
I spent much of her insurance money repairing her body (no easy feat after the body dies), filling bullet holes, sewing lacerations, reattaching her head. The embalmer thought I wanted an open casket (he made her beautiful), not knowing that there would be no funeral.
I cashed in the rest of her policy to have her body encased in ice and stored in my newly-purchased freezer. “You said I could,” I muttered the first time I laid her frozen body on the bed and, with my newly-purchased icepick, chiseled out her sex organs.
She was at the height of physical perfection when she was murdered. And thus in preserving her body, I preserved her sexual attractiveness. Every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday I wheeled her out of the freezer, liberated the parts I needed, performed the acts I needed to perform, and wheeled her back in.
Yesterday she escaped from her block of ice. I placed her body on the bed but received a phone call. My mom. “K! Why don’t you call anymore?!”
When I went back to the bedroom she was gone. So was the icepick.
If you’re reading this, whoever you are, help! There may still be time.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, body, death, flash fiction, freezer, funeral, help, icepick, mom, money, murder, organs, relationships, saturday, sex, sex organs, Short Fiction, short story, thursday, Tuesday | posted in Her, Me, Short Fiction
She had a constellation of shitty stars tattooed on her body. They were cartoonish and lumpy, the shape of holiday cookies. I followed them down her spine and around the bottom of her left torso, where they then descended and coiled loosely the length of her left leg.
“These are awful,” I said. She shrugged and rolled out of my bed, complaining about needing to “wash [my] scent” off. That was our first and last conversation. I closed my eyes and when I opened them—evidently much later—she had left. My wallet was gone and I found a syringe in my bathroom.
I drove to the crumbling neighborhood where I first saw her only a few hours prior. But now I saw only drug addicts milling around and a woman bobbing her head to an inaudible rhythm. I called from my vehicle, interrupting the woman. She swore at me and displayed something sharp. I drove off, fretting.
At a loss, I slithered into a tattoo shop and demanded my own constellation from the worst artist on staff. He readied his inkwells. “I’ll give you an extra thousand if you tattoo me with this,” I said, offering him the syringe.
Leave a comment | tags: addiction, affect, art, drug addict, drugs, flash fiction, ink, money, needle, prostitution, relationships, sex, Short Fiction, short story, syringe, tattoo shop, tattoos | posted in Her, Me, Short Fiction
When K told me that he was going to kill himself if I stole his girlfriend, I didn’t believe him. I didn’t think that I could steal his girlfriend.
K was wealthy and educated, and what girl would refuse such a man? I was the opposite in every respect; had I found myself on the Titanic or an equal vessel I would have had to steal my way aboard. I began flirting with her simply out of spite, as if to insinuate to K that although he could have whatever he wanted, I could take it from him with ease (rich men have large egos, which is a huge turnoff).
I didn’t enjoy fucking her. Indeed, I courted her out of spite. And she, the caged bird of a wealthy birdist, allowed me to court her for the same reason.
She and I were upstairs when K’s telegram arrived, announcing his imminent demise—“…by the time you read this I will be dead.”
“Shit. K’s dead,” I said after reading the telegram. She, still in my bed, feigned sadness.
“I guess you’ll have to marry me now.” She coiled my blanket snuggly around her.
K, from somewhere safe, probably smiled.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, death, ego, flash fiction, marriage, money, relationships, sex, Short Fiction, short story, spite, telegram, wealth | posted in Her, Me, Short Fiction
“Did you know people sell these?” K took a tablet from the orangish vial on the counter and held it between two fingers the way you inspect a small bug. “They call it ‘hillbilly heroin.'”
“Yeah, but I need those,” I said. “You know–for pain.”
K wasn’t listening. “One of these can go for, like, $20.”
I rolled my eyes: “Can’t you find something else to sell illegally?”
“No,” he retorted. He snatched my perscription and left.
I sank into despair, knowing that my doctor would never buy the story I needed to sell him.
……….
K came to my door a few days later, smiling widely.
“Can I have my medicine back now?” I asked.
“I sold them. We need more.”
“That’s not going to happen. There are rules to guard against this exact thing.”
“Yes it is.” Then I noticed the hammer in his hand.
“Wait,” I screamed. I pleaded. But K insisted it was the only way. I backed away. Then he pulled a handful of money from his pocket, thrusting it into my hands. “This is your half.”
He raised the hammer.
I closed my eyes and envisioned prostitutes and Rolexes. I don’t remember what happened after that.
Leave a comment | tags: addiction, affect, drugs, flash fiction, hammer, heroin, hillbilly, money, pain, relationships, Rolex, sex, Short Fiction, short story, women | posted in Him, Me, Short Fiction
“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
The woman got stranded in Iceland once, after following a guy she “loved” onto a raft.
She went to a casino in the capital and shoved what little money she had down the throat of a slot machine. Finding that she had a knack for that kind of thing, she won big: she bought a ticket back to the US and even had enough money left over to try and get her life back together after love fucked everything up for her. She moved to Las Vegas.
She had this favorite slot machine in the corner of her favorite casino. It was always good to her. They first met on a whim; she had a feeling about it, that’s all. They liked each other immediately and spent evenings and weekends together. She told the slot machine about being stranded in Iceland. She told the slot machine about other bad stuff, too. The slot machine was extra generous at times like those.
One day she told the slot machine about this friend that was worried about “[her] gambling addiction or whatever.” The slot machine was silent for a moment. Then it smiled a big smile and offered her more money than usual.
2 Comments | tags: addiction, affect, casino, desire, gambling, Iceland, Las Vegas, money, relationships, slot machine | posted in 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 tattoo artist was a master of his craft, but what his customer asked for proved difficult. The problem, he later justified to himself, was that “[he] just didn’t know what a woman being attacked by a school of jellyfish looked like.”
Matters were worsened by his extremely demanding customer who, wealthy indeed, was used to getting what he wanted, when he wanted. The tattoo artist could have waved him away with a curt flick of the wrist. But the sum of money offered was just too grand to pass up: “Come back at such and such date, and I will have your design.”
While the design seemed intimidating from the outset, the tattoo artist had been confident in his abilities. But time grew short, and the tattoo artist grew anxious.
He reached for his phone, only a few days left.
“Hello, K, I need to draw a woman being attacked by jellyfish.” Plans were made.
The next day he showed up at Q beach at the designated time, pad and pencil in hand. He sketched furiously, creativity liberated, until he realized that the woman in the water was his sister.
Besieged by anguish, he decided to double the price.
Leave a comment | tags: artist, fiction, jelly fish, money, sea, Short Fiction, tattoos | posted in Him, Short Fiction
American Express wants everybody to know if you’re rich or poor. Depending on your income it will offer you credit cards in a variety of colors. At the top is American Express Purple maybe. At the bottom is a transparent–like your socioeconomic worth–card, which they call Blue.
The clerk, a foreigner, was oblivious to the implications of K’s transparent card. He had gotten to know her over the past long time as he frequented her fancy store to A) have the things he wanted and have them now and B) impress this clerk (who looked kinda like Anna Torv, upon whom K had a mild crush not because she’s attractive (because she isn’t) but because she is interesting looking) with his false purchasing power.
This would look amazing on you. She offered K some fashionable monstrosity that in its very monstrousness made it somehow less monster-like. Unable to say no to women, K put it on. Let me zip it up for you she said and dropped to her knees.
K saw the prostitutiveness in the gesture and grew curious: What if I were to buy something really expensive he opined. But he soon frowned. Impossible. His American Express was transparent.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, american express, Anna Torv, capitalism, credit card, debt, money, shopping, transparency | posted in Her, Him, Short Fiction
