Lena's Short Fiction

Short Fiction:

There was a story here, I swear. I had it all typed out and it was a couple pages long, with a few paragraph separations. There was some dialogue and a little bit of action. Yeah, and some gore—always a little gore. But it got stolen. Really!

It was just sitting here on the table, all printed out and ready to go. It was a great story, sure to make story history. I left the room for just a minute, a minute! And when I came back from the kitchen where I had gotten myself some chocolate ice cream to celebrate, I caught them in my office, red-handed.

It was the FBI. It had to be. They looked like they were straight out of a made-for-TV-movie—two guys in dark gray suits and blue ties. As I was walking in, they were shoving my story in a briefcase.

"What are you doing?" I shouted.

"Shut-up!" one of the guys yelled, and he pulled out a gun from his shoulder holster, waving it in my general direction. I didn’t know what to do. On the one hand, that was a really great story and I didn’t want them to take it. On the other hand, FBI man with a gun. . . What is smart here?

As I was having internal turmoil, the two of them ran out the door and slammed it shut.

I decided the story was worth being shot over. After all, a 34-year-old unemployed writer doesn’t have too many chances in his life. I ran after them. Racing down my front walk, I was just in time to see them taking off in an unmarked black Riviera. It figures.

I jumped in my Pinto and started the chase. They took a left down Madison St., a right on Main, and another left on Oak before they realized I was on their tail. Then they headed for the highway. Once on I95, they really took off, travelling at speeds of over 100 mph. My Pinto couldn’t keep up. But I doggedly drove after them anyway, trying to imitate their swerves in and out of the traffic.

A half hour later, they were completely out of my sight. I had watched them as closely as I could, trying to see if they turned off, or got into an accident, but I saw nothing. Depressed and hungry, I got off the highway and stopped in at a Burger King. The cashier had enough acne to feed a small country, you know, if acne were edible. His voice was changing too, poor kid. I ordered a burger and fries. I’m a no-hassle kind of guy.

"Did you see two guys in dark gray suits and blue ties come through here?" I asked him. "They looked like FBI."

"Yeah, I saw them," said the kid. "We don’t get people like that in these parts. They got just what you’re getting—burgers and fries."

"Did you see where they went?"

"No. This is a burger joint, not some private dick, jerk."

Nice kid, I thought. But now I knew something about the guys. They were burgers-and-fries-guys. That meant something. I sat down and ate, wondering why they had stolen my story. It was a crime story—maybe, in my creative splurt, I had imitated a true story too closely, and they were monitoring my writing somehow from somewhere in D.C. That had to be it. There was no other explanation.

I got back in my car. I’ll just drive a little farther, I thought. Two more miles down the road, the traffic practically stopped. I pulled off the highway and walked ahead, trying to see what happened. Sure enough, my instincts always prove right. The Riv had ploughed into a bridge support.

I got closer and a cop stopped me.

"Were there two guys in there, in dark gray suits?" I asked the cop.

"Yep," he said.

"Are they dead?"

"Yep."

"Well, they had a briefcase. There was something of mine in that briefcase."

"Sure, guy."

This cop was not interested in me. He just wanted to keep order. I took a chance, and walked by him. He let me go.

The ambulance was just arriving, but it was taking its time. They knew the guys were dead. How was I going to get my story back? I got closer, and sure enough, both guys had gone right through the windshield. Poor bastards. You should always wear your seatbelt. They were mangled. One of the guys had gone headfirst into the support, and the power of it had shrunk his whole body—stuffed a six-foot man into two feet. The other guy had been thrown about forty feet from the car and landed on his head with such force it just snapped his neck. His face (what was left) was facing entirely the wrong way, if you know what I mean.

I snuck up to the car. They were in the process of trying to clean it off the highway, and the various people were picking up parts and loading them up on the tow truck. I picked up part of the door, and pretended to help.

I got a glimpse in the driver’s side window, and saw the briefcase. It was tossed into the back seat.

I dropped the door off on the tow truck, and went back to the car. Pretending to pick up part of a headlight, I got closer to the car and reached in the broken window to grab the briefcase. No one noticed me. The paramedics were picking up body parts, the cops were trying to get the traffic through, and everybody else was trying to clean up the road. I was unobtrusive.

Once I had the briefcase, I walked purposefully over to the ambulance, just to look like I was going somewhere. One of the paramedics noticed me.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Nothing," I said. Now I had nothing to lose; I had my story back!

"Get the hell out of here," said the paramedic. "We got enough problems without you."

"Right away." I hustled back to my car. Once there, I got in the line of traffic and passed the accident like any other onlooker. Only, I didn’t look.

Safely back into regularly moving traffic, I pulled the briefcase onto my lap and unbuckled it. There it was. Thank God. My story was ok. I settled back into my seat with a sigh of relief. Everything was going to be ok. Except for the FBI slobs, of course. They were dead. Serves ‘em right.

The next day I opened the briefcase a second time—it was time to get the story published.

As I pulled it out of the leather briefcase, I noticed something strange. There were black and red marks all over the pages. Entire paragraphs were X-ed out, lines were changed, and phrases were deleted. Arrows all over the text marked where paragraphs or information should be switched. They put the car chase at the beginning, and the character development in the middle. They introduced the priest at the end, where he didn’t do any real good to the story. They had altered my entire story!

I swore up a storm. I drank a gin and tonic. I stomped around my apartment, and even kicked the wall. What the hell did two FBI slobs know?

Three hours later, I calmed down. I had another gin and tonic, and I looked at the changes they had made. With the utmost reluctance, I had to admit their way was better.

They had died doing a service to mankind—making my story a better one. But what a blow! Two FBI men were better writers than I. I have spent my entire life writing and focusing on plot, character, suspense, and mystery. These two guys come out of the air and edit my soul!

I was glad they were dead.

On the other hand, I wanted their opinion on some other things I had written. I slowly realized that maybe my writing wasn’t as great as I thought. Clearly, they knew more because they had lived the stories, while I had merely written about them.

One by one, I reread all my stories and despised them. Weeks passed. Months passed. I couldn’t find my way to writing more stories. I tried, but never got past the first sentence. Every story needed their expert opinion. Every story was too hokey. I wished that the two men were still alive.

I sunk into a deeper and deeper depression. I drank more and more gin and tonics.

And one day, out of my bleary, depressed haze, I realized there was nothing I could do. A man’s got to make a living, and if he isn’t a writer, he’s got to be something else.

So, I did what any unemployed 34-year-old non-writer with no job experience does. I got a job at Burger King—yes, the same BK with the acne-studded teenager.

After six months, I was promoted to line manager, and then to assistant store manager. After two years, I was store manager. Burger King helped me find a talent I didn’t know I had.

It’s a good job. I get a regular paycheck, and free food. All the fried food I can cram in my kisser. I meet lots of people because there’s somebody new here every week. All my clothes smell like hamburgers and fries, which is great if you love burgers and fries. I take three showers after work to get the grease out of my hair, which is great if you love greasy hair. I put up with a lot of hassle from customers and regional managers, which is great if you love hassle. I work long hours, sometimes 16 hours a day—which is great if you love long hours. And, I’ve gained 40 pounds, which is great if you love being fat. And Lord knows, I love greasy hair, hassle, long hours, and being fat! All in all, it was a good turn of events for me to quit writing.

And the Lithium helps, too.

But there was a story here. I swear.

Fat

It's enough so you'd think the idea was a woman gets to a certain size and then she can't look good anymore. Nobody knows what size that is, of course. 14? 20? Where is it supposed to stop looking good?

But women know it's not true. Sure, fat doesn't always look good, but it's not in your clothes, it's in how you wear it. The fat, that is.

I have this friend, let's call her Lara. She is definitely fat. But when you meet her it's not her fat that you remember. She wears the fat so well--she just glides through her days. She's graceful and careful with where she puts herself. So even though she's a size 28 (I peeked), when she comes into my teeny bedroom and sits on my tiny desk chair, I don't feel overwhelmed by her size. That's because she glides.

Now, when I'm walking down the street, I see plenty of fat people who don't glide. They walk like the whole project is painful for them, like their thighs rub together, and their arms puff out from their bodies, and each step is a full aerobic workout in itself. I feel badly for these people. They are so concentrated on how heavy they are that they are missing life. A car accident could happen in front of him, a baby come flying out of the sunroof and fall directly in front of this fat person, and the fat person would never see the baby 'til it was dead on the ground because he was so concentrated on his fat.

Now, a fat person who wasn't thinking about how fat she was might, just might, be able to step a couple steps quicker and catch that baby so it didn't hit the pavement.

That's the kind of fat I want to be. If I ever get fat.

Fuzzy

Warm, fuzzy body snuggled close to my legs. I know it is cold in the house, but if the cat is over there playing with string, what could this be? A squirrel? A mouse? Better not move too quick, it may bite me. Just slide that leg a little to the left, that's it. Get ready to throw the covers off! Now I've got you! Off with the covers! My God! However did THAT get into the house?!

When Did She Fall

When did she fall?

Strange, there were just no memories there, where there should be some. Orphan, orphan. Did she have a brother though? A brother. Did he leave? Or was he taken away at a young age? Taken away from what? It was all so gray.

She moved her greasy, salt-and-pepper wig back onto the top of her head. So much had changed. Or had it?

Pushing the cart, forever pushing the cart. There’s a bottle! And a shoe. Someone’s shoe. A little too big, and just the one hole, but if she wore lots of socks it wouldn’t matter. Lots of socks, not pairs of socks.

She sat on a bench. The same green bench with the same splintered spot as always. She had to avoid the splinters with her head, but she knew just how to set her head on the inside edge and avoid the splinters. If she took a nap now, Sergeant Sampson wouldn’t be by for another couple hours to tell her to move along. She lay down.

It was going to be a chilly night. Might be the first frost, even. She could celebrate with the little bit of vodka she had saved from a bottle she found near 8th St. Add a little water, there’d be enough to drink there.

She’d have to check her winter spot later and make sure no one else had moved in. It was a perfect spot—under the school and in the vent. It was small enough so no one would think anyone was in there, but once she got in it opened up a bit. She had left some stuff in there last winter. She couldn’t remember what, but she was pretty sure it was some good stuff.

It was always warm in there. She hoped no one was in there now, otherwise she might have to pull a few nights on that porch on 4th St. That would be ok; it was a closed-in porch, and it kept the wind off, but it wasn’t heated. There were much better places in the city. Plus, that lady with the dog had found her in there a couple mornings. She didn’t leave early enough and would probably call the police if she found her there again. That damn dog left teeth marks in her left calf last time it found her there. Thanks to the dog, she limped now.

She smelled something acrid in the air. It smelled like old fried chicken, sitting behind a tree for a week. She lifted her head to sniff, but realized it was the coat she was wearing. The coat from the Goodwill people smelled like old fried chicken. It figured. It was from them wasn’t it? It seemed that she had gotten some clothes from them when it was really cold and there was snow. The only reason she thought it was them was the big truck with "Goodwill" stamped on the side they had driven up in. They had a hard time finding a coat to fit her, she remembered. They said she was "square" and "lumpy."

Or was the limp from the fall? Had she actually fallen? Or was the fall what she called her life? It was all mostly lost. Like her name. She was pretty sure her name had been Amy or Katy or something with a ‘y’. The ‘y’ seemed familiar somehow. Maybe her mother’s name had the ‘y’. Had she ever known her mother’s name?

So she could stay on the porch if she left early enough. That lady was a real witch, though. She didn’t understand at all. The lady had a nice house; the lady had heat; the lady had comfort, but she couldn’t share. She probably went home at night and argued with her husband about who was going to do the dishes. Ungrateful witch. The "Fortunate."

Amy or Katy or something with a ‘y’ couldn’t sleep, so she got up from the bench and pushed the cart again. Her black, holy leggings had fallen down but she didn’t really notice, because her steps were never more than an inch or so apart anyway. Maybe she could get put in jail again. But then she’d lose her cart, and this was one of the good ones. All four wheels worked. She should head over to that school and see if her spot was taken. Maybe that bottle of scotch from last year was still there. Then she could have scotch and vodka—a real treat.