Fiction

 

The Notice

“Go slow, please. Please. Just go slow.” When I hear her say this, I know what will follow. Which is something I don’t know. Something unexpected. So why do I say I know? I mean I know where to categorize what will be next. She might kidnap a monkey for all I know, and though we are only in NYC, actually only in Queens, and in a stupid apartment that looks out not into the neighbors’ windows, which would have been excellent. But into a cheating parking space. Cheating, because the cars are either cheap or very cheap. Nothing fancy to hold the eye. You would think they would leave it alone to the gray of the place, but no. Life’s always coughing up something weird like this. No matter how the sun shines, this place looks always like a moaning female dog. Ah, I think they should make it into a funeral home. Even the heartless would love to weep here.

“Didn’t you hear me, Sticks?!” I said go slow, freak!” Sometimes I really wonder why I’m with her. I hate that she calls me Sticks, and I can’t even protest. I know she only calls me that because she knows it makes me want to pull the hairs off my balls with one of those neon tweezers she loves to carry with her. I removed my eyes, almost painfully, from the soul sucking view, and rested it on her. I knew I mustn’t talk. One word, and things that I know I don’t want to happen will happen. So I look at her. My face as clean of expressions as possible. Like it would make any difference. How is it we are considered so smart? And by “we,” I mean human beings. What is our intelligence being compared to? Animals?

She was on top of the couch, not as you think. She likes to sit right on the headrest and wipe her sweaty feet on my cushions. It confuses me how her feet are both cold and sweaty always. No matter the season. I don’t like leather seats, but if I knew I was going to be with her, I would have gotten one of those instead.

“You shouldn’t think so fast, Sticks.” She whispers, her eyes looking very cunningly at me. I raised a brow in response. “I can hear your thoughts from here!” She laughs out, and I smiled. I hate that I love her. You’ve heard this before. Well, so you have! But have you felt this before?! Hating that you love someone? Like couldn’t your heart have chosen better? It is the way she laughs. It is like when sunshine makes love to you. There’s nothing like it.

She jumps off the seat and walks very slowly to me. “I want to die, Sticks.” And as she said it I knew what she meant. Tomorrow will not find  her body warm.

© 2013

Coming of Age

It’s dusty down here, and the particles are irritating my rather sensitive nose—making it sneeze every few seconds to complain about its displeasure. But I am stubborn, so I stay lying on my face and stomach, forcing my nose to breathe in the white marble floors of my kitchen. The kitchen knife lies an inch away from my splayed right hand, and I can hear little noises coming from Goddess in the bedroom. It feels like hours now, but it has only been about half an hour.  I am savoring the now faint smell of puked chicken.  A smell I will go back into despising, but for now It’s my mental preparation for a party of two.

I don’t owe you any explanations, but I am going to tell you what happened.  I’m one of those people who take nothing for granted.  I believe in things like faith, and the spirits of the  curtains on my windows. I also believe that my soul is a spy for some Divine Being. And yet, I’m rational—I keep my beliefs between Goddess, my black cat, and me.

This morning, like most, found me screaming out of bed with eyes tightly closed. Like usual, I had bumped into my oak night stand and as a result screeched words like ‘Bloody Curtains!’ and ‘Green yokes!’ then  hopped slowly to the kitchen with wide opened eyes to  put the kettle on for my ritualistic cups of tea. It felt a little lonely because lazy Goddess wakes up only to the smell of food. So to lure her into my company, I reached out to pick her rather expensive box of cat food, and that’s when I heard the almost forgotten voice.  And I froze, for a moment, in a tub filled to the brim with memories from our past.

She’s the reason I have no social life. She is the reason my father swore I was irreversibly mad. She is the reason I moved from good old Britain to the midst of the all-nations-invited-state, New York.  By now you must understand that I absolutely loath her.

With these memories streaming through my mind at a speed that made me proud of my brains, I heard a loud angry cry escaped from my throat and felt my right hand grab the kitchen knife from the white marble counter top.  This possessed self shoved my left elbow into her stomach, pushed her onto the white marble kitchen floor and stabbed her in the heart for the umpteenth time until fatigue finally forced me to faint on top of her.

And here I lie, as you have found me, on top of my old imaginary friend, sneezing every few seconds.

© 2010

Climax

It is rather annoying; your gruesome list of things to do; build a plane; fly with a bird; become a bird; bring your mother back to life; kick her in the stomach; as your payment for her “selfishly” keeping you inside her womb for almost a year; your too good for this world speech is driving me on an express train to hell; and that stupid little dog you take everywhere; barking at everything and nothing; your little darling is a giant; stop telling me about her little feet; try living in my black converse high tops for a day; learn to appreciate the science of art, and not spinning yarns of lies; dream about angels to stop the blue devils under your bed from strangling you in your sleep; buy an imagination, it’s not cheap; it might only cost you a year or a century; believe in something; it can either be your recycling trash bin or that forest in your pants; see that bright ghost ball in the sky; you can make a shrine for that too; I am not telling you what to do; I am only suggesting how you can make my life a little more bearable; I am not as selfish as you are; stop shaking your head; remember that time; that time not too long ago; that time when we were six years old; only like thirty two years, 301 days, 21 hours, 15 minutes and two seconds ago; when you pushed me into the pond; in front of the girl I wanted to marry; I forgave you; right after she run to help me out of the stupid smelly thing; that’s why I am the heart you don’t have; no don’t talk; I’m not done talking yet; I have always been quite; retrieving to my little day dream of myself as Captain of Adam, my ship, on a sea of Eve; while you never stop talking; oh but I listen, because even my dreams are eventually poisoned by your garbage; so when I say enough; I mean enough; this Captain can’t take anymore; you have turned me into a sentimental steam machine; stop now or I will flee from you to find myself; in a world without your dreadfully drowning voice.

© 2010

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