Tag Archives: water

2016/09/20

Techniques for Intervening

By dsholloway

“Anything at any price,” read the inside of the card, which featured a cat sleeping in a martini glass.

The attending package – displaying no return address – contained a cylindrical fish tank, complex instructions, and laudatory remarks:

Congratulations! Your new jellyfish will arrive tomorrow. Make sure your tank is calibrated to the appropriate temperature. Jellyfish are temperamental creatures, so handle your new friend with care!

I assembled the tank, placed it on my dining room table. I filled it with water and spent my evening hours envisioning various scenarios occurring within its narrow walls. In my mind, I saw her treading water, face creased with deceit, anger, and hatred. I saw her puff her cheeks up before descending toward the bottom of the tank for no reason in particular. I saw her begin to convulse and spasm, unable to ascend to the surface. I saw myself jump into the tank to retrieve her from the bottom.

The creature arrived the next day. It was dead already. I placed it in the tank and watched its tentacles gently keep it afloat. Then, thinking I could revive it, I jumped into the tank and pressed my lips to the top of its hood.

Leave a comment   |  tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | posted in Her, Me, Uncategorized

2016/08/05

The Great Below

By dsholloway

He marched out to sea, leaving his luxury tennis shoes in a pile on the sand. While the other beachgoers retreated in light of the approaching storm, K surged forward.

She had returned. Now was the time.

He waded deeper into the water, felt the currents tug at his body.

She vanished into the sea during their honeymoon. Upset about something trivial, she threw herself into the water to spite K, to punish him, full of violence and rage. And it worked. He slid into cocaine addiction and ridiculous shopping sprees. He retreated into himself, blamed himself, cursed himself. He tried to kill himself. Then he bought luxury tennis shoes.

Yet rumors swirled: the sea was different now, violent, unforgiving, merciless. Ships were lost sometimes; people drowned sometimes; jellyfish and sharks and sea urchins attacked sometimes.

He dismissed the rumors at first. But love got the better of him. For he loved her still, after all this time.

One day he went to the sea, to see for himself, this violence, this rage. But the sea was calm, compassionate. He returned the day following, etc.

With each day, his desire for her violence and rage grew. And he waited – always at the edge of the water, always in his luxury tennis shoes.

It was her, today, churning the sea, tempting the weather. He ran his fingers through the seaweed, thinking of her muddy brown hair.

“All of this for you,” he muttered to nobody as the sea pulled him down.

Leave a comment   |  tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | posted in Her, Me, Short Fiction

2016/07/13

Xenon

By dsholloway

Never did I think I would love, for love was a ridiculous, childish concept.

But I loved, finally, in spite of myself. I loved, I knew, because I thought only of her, always. Because she was my default, my origin.

She says, “Fuck you, K,” in a voice that craves verbal violence, disappearing from view even though I can see her, touch her. I reach, she recoils – a perverse dance. She looks at me with the eyes a stranger, yanking her engagement ring from her finger, throwing it out the window.

I go outside and sift through the bushes. I find her ring floating in a dog’s water dish.

I pretend I am not relieved and go back inside. She is dead, having swallowed my pain killers.

I put her ring on her lithe, cold finger. I press her lithe, cold finger to my lips.

Then I go to sleep, taking the same pain killers. I dream of our wedding. Our families are present. We are happy.

I wake up, see her dead body at the kitchen table, coax myself back to sleep. Again our wedding, our families, our happiness.

I wake, finish my pain killers, kiss my phantom bride.

1 Comment   |  tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , | posted in Her, Me, Short Fiction

2014/10/23

a L’orange

By dsholloway

“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: , , , , , , , , , , , , , | posted in Her, Me