Tag Archives: relationships
I know this artist who is also a taxidermist. Naturally gifted in art, he found that he could only accurately sketch living creatures if he killed them, stuffed them, and manipulated their bodies into wildlife scenarios.
In his home, which I borrowed for the first time in high school to rob my girlfriend of her virginity, are lots of taxidermied creatures and accompanying artistic renderings. They’re perfect renderings and also that girl and I broke up shortly after because the dead animals, which seemed very alive, made her uncomfortable.
I had the opposite reaction and haven’t been able to have sex not surrounded by dead animals ever since.
“K, I need your house,” I implore a little less often than I like. With each visit, I find that his home is a little more overrun by his animals and his art. Last week, I had sex with a girl inside the mouth of a large shark. She cut her hand on one of its teeth and won’t return my calls.
I kinda want him to kill and stuff her. But he would probably want to sketch her and that would make me uncomfortable because I like her a little bit.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, animals, art, artist, body, death, flash fiction, love, murder, relationships, sex, shark, Short Fiction, short story, sketch, taxidermy, virgin, virginity, wildlife | posted in Her, Him, Me, Short Fiction
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
My girlfriend was the most beautiful woman in history. So when she was blown up by insurgents, the world’s museums went to extremes to collect her parts, divvy them up, and house them behind expensive glass in expansive rooms.
I didn’t realize this at first. “You know,” said K, recently returned from abroad, “I saw your girlfriend’s torso at a museum in Paris.” He handed me a replica, a souvenir he purchased in the gift shop. I had read of her death – “Most Beautiful Woman in History Killed by Terrorists” – and lamented. But my thoughts shifted as soon as K handed me her mini torso. I punched him in the face and stole it.
I traveled the word, collecting her replica body parts from museum gift shops throughout the world. In Tokyo I acquired her tongue; in Tel Aviv I acquired her womb. And so on.
After a year of travel I had all of her body parts, inside and out. Standing a mere four inches, she was as exquisite as I remembered. I carried her to my bed and we had sex. Unfortunately my erect penis broke her in half. I lamented my girlfriend’s death for the second time.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, art, body, death, flash fiction, gift shop, murder, museum, penis, relationships, sex, Short Fiction, short story, terrorism, terrorist, torso, womb | posted in Her, Me, Short Fiction
Climbing the fire escape, I thought about all the times I’ve been rejected: elementary school kickball teams, high school dances, college orgies, post-college job interviews. The higher I climbed—certain that she was in the apartment on the top floor and not “catching happy hour with a colleague”—the lower into despair I sank. The sun was descending and my shadow lagged further and further behind, as though it didn’t want to accompany me on my quest for vindication.
The knife in my pocket suddenly felt heavy.
Once, a girl broke my heart and I slashed her tires. As a peace offering I gave her some pears that I found in the middle of the highway, the result of a crashed fruit truck. I told her they came from the mall.
I heard her laughter through the door. Peering between the blinds I saw tangled bodies. Overcome with rage, I charged the door.
“K,” she screamed, “what are you doing here?”
I looked for my shadow, which had decided to wait outside. I readied my knife but paused when I realized she was in bed with a woman.
Arousal overtook me and my shadow shook its head from the doorway.
Leave a comment | tags: affair, affect, apartment, cheating, crash, flash fiction, fruit, knife, lesbianism, orgy, pears, prom, relationships, sex, shadow, Short Fiction, short story | posted in Her, Me, Short Fiction
“Why are you here,” I asked in an accusatory tone.
“I loved him,” she moaned, extending a finger toward the coffin. She had dirt under her fingernail. “We were going to marry next August.”
“See that brunette in front? That’s his wife. So, why are you here?” I was calm.
“I don’t know.” Her eyes were red. She grabbed the lapels of her miniskirtsuit and pulled them tightly to her chest. “Do I have to leave?”
“Well, no. But you’ve been at every funeral for the past month. So I’m curious.” The authority with which I spoke prevented her from realizing that I was guilty of the same.
“I just prefer the dead.” She glared at me.
I was overcome with passion.
“So do I,” I gasped, grasping her hand. It was like ice. She recoiled but I refused to let go. “It’s okay. I understand.” She was obviously dead and found comfort in those like her. I, however, was just a deviant with a fetish for dead bodies. “Give me a chance,” I implored. “I won’t let you down.”
I took the flower she had tucked behind her ear (symbolizing life, perhaps) and sank its stem into my neck.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, coffin, death, fashion, flash fiction, flower, funeral, love, relationships, Short Fiction, suit | 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
“Another one is dead,” she said flatly. I rolled my eyes: “Well, go get a new one.”
“If you neglect them, they’ll die.”
I wasn’t listening. Her engagement ring caught the light and cast her every word in doubt. Despite my harsh tone, she grabbed her Burberry and left for the pet store.
I approached the birdcage. The remaining birds had pecked the third one to death. It was new, a replacement for my first bird, which died of old age. The birds were huddled together keeping warm in the winter air. I nudged the birdcage with my hip and made my way to the coffee table.
She came home empty handed. “Sorry, K. They’re out of birds.” She wasn’t sorry. She didn’t understand my affection for things that die easily. “It’s fine,” I murmured, pressing my chai to my lips. “Get in the cage.”
She went to the closet and fished out last year’s Halloween costume.
I reminisced fondly of ripping the parrot head off in lusty urgency, pulling the zipper the length of her body. She opened the birdcage and crawled in.
She and I used to be like those birds. I closed the cage and locked it.
Leave a comment | tags: affair, affect, bird, birdcage, death, flash fiction, parrot, pet, relationships, sex, Short Fiction, short story | posted in Her, Me, Short Fiction
“If I had anywhere better to be, I’d be there. Believe me.”
The bartender shrugged. “Get yourself a girlfriend or something. You’ve been here every day this week. It’s getting pathetic.”
It was my turn to shrug: “I’m too narcissistic. I wouldn’t know what to do with a girlfriend. I mean, I’d have to stop thinking about myself so much.”
She scoffed. Then she took her arm off and put it on the countertop. “Problem solved.”
I was amazed by her insight. With her arm, I was free to indulge my deepest narcissistic desires and find comfort in a woman’s touch without giving anything in return. I snatched her arm up and left a bigger tip than usual.
Back in my apartment I caressed the arm and pressed it to my face. I kissed the back of its hand. I put its fingers in my mouth.
“Fuck me,” it moaned. Instinctually, I ripped my right arm off and threw it to the floor.
……….
“What’s wrong,” it asked disappointedly.
……….
“I don’t want this.” I put her arm back on the countertop. “It wanted to have sex.”
“And?”
“Sex leads to complications,” I huffed, proud that my ego was still in tact.
3 Comments | tags: affect, alcohol, bar, bartender, body, ego, flash fiction, narcissism, relationships, sex, Short Fiction, short story | posted in Her, Me
The first time I saw her sunbathing was during high summer: a nearly naked body prostrate and baking on a frayed beach blanket.
Through autumn and winter, everyday she was out there on her blanket. Even under the oppressive winter sky she darkened. Over time I memorized her skin—its gradations, flaws, and changes.
One evening I saw her out at a restaurant. Winter was lifting but it was still cold. I was sitting alone at a table when a woman appeared in my periphery. I didn’t know her face, but I didn’t need to. The hue of her skin betrayed her identity.
“Excuse me,” I called from my seat. She turned.
“Yeah?”
“I don’t mean to startle you, but I see you sunbathing everyday. Won’t you sit with me?”
She slid her face into a smile and sank into the offered chair. I extended my hand, hoping she would allow me just one touch of her bronzed hand. She obliged.
It was an exquisite appendage—soft, smooth, slightly toned—and in spite of myself I grew excited.
Unfortunately, with her other exquisite appendage she pulled pepper spray from her coat and wasted no time in shooting me with it.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, autumn, body, flash fiction, love, pepper spray, relationships, restaurant, seasons, Short Fiction, short story, skin, summer, sun tan, tan, violence, winter | posted in Her, Me, Short Fiction
The problem was this word “anti-venom.” It sounded made up, like it was from a comic book.
“I’m sorry, but we just don’t have anti-venom,” the doctor said mockingly. “We would have to order some.”
“I’m going to die,” I groaned, but she was unforgiving. I removed my scarf to reveal a collection of impressive lacerations, bruises, and bites.
The doctor’s face clouded. She crossed her arms. “Whatever kind of snake did that—you’re lucky to be alive. And to not be in jail. It’s illegal to keep snakes like that.”
I put my scarf back on and sighed. “My girlfriend did it.”
The doctor misunderstood. “When she gets mad she turns into a cobra,” I clarified. In gruesome detail, I told the doctor about her metamorphosis: how her soft skin turns to icy scales, the dead gaze in her otherwise expressive eyes, the expansive hood that frames her face when she is particularly agitated, the disgusting hiss and forked tongue leaking from her mouth, the sinister way she slithers and thrashes about.
The doctor uncrossed her arms and leaned toward my ear. “You’re already dead,” she whispered, a subtle rattle emanating from somewhere deep inside her white lab coat.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, change, cobra snake, comic book, death, doctor, metamorphosis, rattle snake, relationships, snakes, venom | posted in Her, Me
She was certain that we would either get caught and arrested or piss off the spirits of all the people in the ground.
“Look,” I implored, arms spread wide, “this place is so big nobody will ever find us if we choose the right spot.”
“And the ghosts?”
“The spirits aren’t going to be here—unless all these people were buried alive.”
She offered a strained smile of defeat. I took her hand, leading her away from the sunlight, tour busses, and plots of important people.
“Over there.” I gestured toward a gloomy stone that had the rejected air of being cast off by the other stones.
She bent over and gripped the top with both hands while I yanked her pants down.
“Um, wait.”
“Why?”
“This stone has your name on it.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m serious. Look.”
I leaned over her, my now flaccid penis brushing against her bare ass. I rolled my eyes and scoffed.
“That doesn’t concern you?”
“Why would it?”
“It says you die today.”
Just before my gruesome death, I felt a figure lurch in my periphery and heard her scream—“K! Stop it!”—as the jealous knife of her husband sank repeatedly into my flesh.
Leave a comment | tags: affair, affect, cemetery, death, flash fiction, ghosts, grave yard, graves, husband, jealousy, knife, relationships, sex, Short Fiction, short story, spirits | posted in Her, Me
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
K, though dying, was in the best shape of his life. “The TSA agent asked if I was a gymnast,” he boasted the other day. “I told him I was just a narcissist.”
K wasn’t just a narcissist. I don’t remember the name of his illness, but it was fatal. Still full of vigor, he paraded around in his Under Armour, revealing every crevice and striation in his torso, like an aspiring Mister Universe. In another several months, he would become hollow, like a drug addict. What would the TSA agent say then?
When he took too much medication, K would rant about “beauty in decay.” Then he would hit the gym extra hard. K read too much philosophy—chubby men expounding on a reality they know nothing about. Have you ever watched somebody die, I hissed once, angrily. We disagreed a lot these days.
But K was right. He had more girlfriends than I could count. “Do they know you’ll be dead soon,” I asked after he regaled me with a story of a hefty blonde.
“Of course. They wouldn’t be interested in me otherwise.”
For the first time in a long while, I found myself agreeing with him.
Leave a comment | tags: addict, addiction, affect, death, drugs, flash fiction, gymnast, illness, Mister Universe, narcissism, relationships, sex, Short Fiction, short story, TSA, women | posted in Him, Me, Short Fiction
“We don’t know what happened to the dinosaurs,” she said. She was too attractive to be a paleontologist. I nevertheless listened to her lecture. But I didn’t believe her.
I whispered to K: “Bullshit. She knows exactly what happened to them.”
K brushed me aside and marched toward the paleontologist, much swagger in his step. “She wants to have sex with the two of us,” he reported back, smiling as though he were staring in his own porn. I would have fucked her, but the idea of three bodies heaving and groaning together was off-putting.
K left the museum with the paleontologist. “I’ll find out what happened to them,” he said in my ear on his way out.
I visited K in prison six months later. He was wan and sickly. “What the fuck,” I said.
“I cut her head off.”
“Why?”
“She would’t tell me what happened to the dinosaurs, so I killed her.”
I couldn’t say anything, so he kept talking.
“But the weird thing was,” he said with piercing eyes from behind plexiglass, “I looked down her neck after I cut her head off. I saw a bunch of dinosaurs grazing.”
“On what,” I asked, genuinely curious.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, death, dinosaurs, eating, flash fiction, museum, orgy, paleontologist, prison, relationships, sex, Short Fiction, short story | posted in Him, Me, Short Fiction, Woman
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
“Nervous much? Or do you always never look a girl in the eye?”
Her grammar—not necessarily incorrect—bugged me. It reminded me of the way a graduate student would address some pressing social concern.
“Sorry, habit I guess.” I attempted to elaborate on a study some sociologist conducted that proves men are poor at maintaining eye contact.
She rolled her eyes. “Here,” she said, grabbing the expensive vodka from my bar cart without asking. I had upset her. Moments earlier she had gone on a rant about how women shouldn’t wear underwear when they wear tight dresses. I, naturally, hadn’t minded the conversation, though I did wonder about sanitation.
But now she sat before me with her head cocked way back like you do when you catch the rain in your mouth. She filled her mouth with vodka and waited for me to drink from it.
I didn’t want to, having the day prior watch a documentary about birds feeding their young. I made a joke about liking “my martinis dirty.”
She displayed two fingers, reached under her dress, and then used them to stir the vodka in her mouth.
She tried to meet my gaze. I looked away.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, alcohol, dress, eye contact, flash fiction, gaze, gin, martini, relationships, sex, Short Fiction, underwear | posted in Her, Me, Woman
As she choked me, I wondered if she had murdered anyone before. Her grip was confident. She showed no concern that she might take things too far–as though she knew the right moment to stop.
Had she not been so attractive, I may not have followed her home that night–out of curiosity, I assure you. She may not have approached me: “Why are you following me?” She may not have invited me to her home to debase and fuck me. But the intensity of her presence was hypnotic. I was truly under her spell.
Get the fuck out of here. I was used to the way she spoke to me. It chilled me but kept me alive. I balled up my clothes and headed toward the door. Catching a glimpse of myself in the reflection of her glass liquor cabinet, I rubbed at the red striations on my throat. Anybody would be able to guess what happened.
Use that. She nodded to a purple Armani draped across the sofa.
“Madam, have you ever killed anyone?”
All the men who come here. And with that scarf, in fact. Now, come here and let me tie it for you before you go.
1 Comment | tags: affect, Armani, death, fashion, flash fiction, masochism, relationships, sadomasochism, sex, Short Fiction, short story | posted in Her, Me, Short Fiction, Woman
K couldn’t stop talking about his new painting. “She does whatever I ask,” he boasted, tracing the cut on his cheek.
When he showed me the painting, I was greatly underwhelmed. The way he spoke of her, I was expecting a hot woman in leather or something. Instead, I saw a lumpy pale creature gazing into the distance. She belonged in the boring wing of a museum.
K greeted her graciously, introduced me, and then scuttled us away, claiming that he was extra demanding last night and she needed rest. He was genuinely concerned.
“Where can I get one,” I teased.
“What do you have in mind?”
“Prettier and skinnier than yours. Maybe a little bitchy.” K eyed me suspiciously.
……….
She was delivered on a Monday. I removed the packaging and found a beautiful women, nearly naked, hip bones protruding confidently. She glared defiantly at me from behind her glass. “I am your master,” I demanded. I unzipped my pants.
……….
“She’s defective, K. She just stands there. Won’t do a damn thing I say.”
“Did you really expect otherwise?” He paused: “So that mark on your face…”
“She tried to kill me. I’m not into that weird shit you like.”
Leave a comment | tags: affect, art, master, museum, painting, relationships, sadomasochism, sex, slave | posted in Her, Him, Me, Short Fiction, Woman
“Here, give this woman a call. She seems to have your”–she paused–“aesthetic sensibilities.”
Spinning her interior design book toward me, she pointed at a woman cradling a bronzed human skull the way you might show off your newborn. Below the photo, a caption:
I just like body parts. I use them all the time. People ask why. I don’t know why. I just like body parts.
I looked her up and sent an email detailing my own fondness for body parts: disembodied limbs, torsos of in-shape women, etc. I moved into a new apartment, my email continued, and would she be available for consultation?
……….
The woman had on the same brand of perfume my girlfriend wears, which I found off-putting. She padded across the floor (I have a no shoes rule) and my girlfriend’s scent followed, like a pet.
“I can do a lot with this space,” she said to my ceiling. “In fact,” she turned toward me, “I brought you a housewarming gift.” She pulled a lacquered head from her oversized shoulder bag. She held it toward me, gripping it by its long, brown hair.
“Is it real,” I asked?
She smiled and the scent of perfume overtook me.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, art, artist, body, body parts, book, death, decoration, designer, interior design, murder, perfume, relationships, Short Fiction, short story, skull | posted in Her, Me, Short Fiction, Woman
Six months had passed since I put her portrait in the trunk of my car.
“Why is this still in here,” she asked not long after, her hands full of groceries. “So I always have you in my trunk,” I replied.
But her portrait–all glamour and heavy eye make-up–soon became covered in dust and the fine wood frame in which she was encased became scuffed.
Still, I was so used to her back there that the thought of hanging her on the wall was mildly unnerving.
We had a fight two days ago. She accused me of stealing her old wedding ring to finance my cocaine habit.
I called her three times. I sent twelve text messages.
Silence.
I opened the trunk yesterday morning to fetch my umbrella. I gave her portrait a knowing look, thinking, “What the fuck is your problem?” That’s when I noticed that her previously immaculate smile was now twisted into a scream.
“Well if she’s dead,” I said to myself, “now’s the time to steal her wedding ring.”
When she was found this afternoon in the trunk of a new Mercedes I felt mildly guilty, though I didn’t really know why: Fucking rich people.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, car, drugs, fight, flash fiction, mercedes, picture, portrait, rain, relationships, Short Fiction, short story, wealth | posted in Her, Me, Short Fiction
For my birthday, she took me to a fancy restaurant. “Here,” she said, sliding a package across the table during the intermezzo course. The rectangular shape of the package betrayed its contents.
She knew I knew.
“So you can carry it with you,” she continued without invitation. “And so you can stop writing on bar napkins.”
Later, she let me fuck her in the ass (my “third gift”) and then went home (my fourth gift?), complaining about the pain she would be in tomorrow.
I shook myself a martini and opened the package–a pocket-sized journal, as I had more or less expected. I grabbed a handful of pages at their lower right corners and flipped back to front. Then I noticed writing–black ink, feminine–her writing. I looked closely. Each page was full of details from my life.
I began reading about things she had no business authoring: drugs, prostitution, suicide attempts. I read further: my birthday, anal sex, a journal with its curious contents. On the last page I read about my death–prolonged and messy. I didn’t get it. “I don’t have AIDS,” I said to myself.
My cell buzzed. “Um,” she sighed, “there’s something I should have told you.”
2 Comments | tags: affect, AIDS, anal sex, birthday, death, fiction, flash fiction, journal, present, relationships, sex, Short Fiction, writing | posted in Her, Me, Short Fiction
I stole my neighbor’s luxury hatbox.
Repair men were in her apartment replacing the floor. They left the door open and when I walked past I saw the hatbox resting on an ugly sofa.
I walked past again. And again. The repair men were probably taking a break. I ran in and snatched the hatbox. After reaching my apartment, I took in my new acquisition. I didn’t know why I decided to steal her hatbox. Perhaps I wanted to sell it. Perhaps I just wanted something nice.
I inhaled and opened it, not really expecting to find anything inside. (Who keeps a hat in a hatbox?)
There was a note inside–something scribbled on the back of a receipt in an oval, feminine hand. It was the beginning of a love letter to me. “Dear K,” it began. She had written nice things about me, but entirely in past tense as though I were dead: “You were this, you were that.”
I had the sudden urge to return the hatbox. Then I turned her love letter over and inspected the receipt.
Rope, tape, saw, shovel, bleach, trash bags.
I decided not to return the hatbox after all. I locked the door.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, death, fashion, flash fiction, hat, letter, love, murder, neighbor, relationships, Short Fiction, short story, sofa, theft | 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
I realized halfway down that the structure from which I had jumped wasn’t tall enough.
I was going to survive. So I stopped falling–somewhere around the fifth floor–and decided not to kill myself, or rather, to kill myself a different day.
I went home and climbed into bed with my girlfriend. In her sleep she never realized I was gone. I started stroking her arm which, thanks to a devoted interest in luxurious skin products, was unnaturally soft. I’d totally skin her alive and stitch myself a blanket.
She stirred. “Where were you?”
“In the living room. I was reading.”
“When are you going to start writing your novel?” Her eyes were closed. I hated when she asked me that. It was embarrassing. Everyone is writing a “novel.”
“Just as soon as I have something interesting to write about.”
“Why don’t you write about how you like to sneak away at night and throw yourself from tall places but always change your mind before hitting the ground?”
“Maybe,” I sighed. “But that’s just so depressing.”
“Or, how you want to skin your girlfriend alive?”
Silence filled the bedroom.
Her eyes were open now: “You talk in your sleep, K.”
Leave a comment | tags: affect, bed, body, death, novel, relationships, skin, suicide, writer | posted in Her, Me, Short Fiction
She said she wanted only to swim with the jellyfish. “It’ll hurt,” I said, “a lot.”
We gazed out at the ocean.
“I know,” she replied, sharply.
She had this thing about being hurt during sex–they always do at first–and was ready to make the jump to daily life.
“I’m a masochist,” she had said the first time we had sex. She didn’t understand that masochism is a complex theory of living. And I didn’t feel like explaining it to her. So I did as she asked and broke her fingers with a hammer before fucking her.
But as she eyed the ocean I became concerned. “Masochism is contractual,” I pleaded, suddenly feeling as though I were discouraging her from having an orgy with numerous men who weren’t me. “I know when to stop. Those creatures don’t.”
She sighed. “Jesus, K. Give it a rest. I know what I’m doing.” She stood and untied her bathing suit. Without looking back, she ran toward the ocean and dived in. I haven’t seen her since.
I wonder about her from time to time: did she drown, did she find her jellyfish?
I ignore rumors of a jellyfish woman with mangled fingers.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, fingers, hammer, jellyfish, love, masochism, ocean, orgy, pain, relationships, sadism, sea, sex | posted in I, Short Fiction, Woman
