»Before I put a stamp on it, I'd like to send it – to see if it can bounce.«
[Quick tips in slow motion.]
Business as usual.
Content of a good short story:
1. somebody who has
2. a problem and is later
3. provoked to change his/her situation
4. because of that he/she decides to take action
5. and at the end there is resolution
Suck it. I did try these magnificent five points, but they didn't take me anywhere. I was like the Pizzaro guy demanding from the dead Incas to take me to El Dorado. Why the dead ones? Who knows. The catch is that awful things were done by yours truly and there ain't no way back.
On something:
This morning he stood up earlier than usual. The sun was carefully climbing up to it's place and everything pointed to a beautiful day. The water started to boil as he came back from flushing down the product of last night's dreams. One table spoon of coffee will doodle-doodle-do, he sings in his mind for he is not allowed to sing aloud. Monica, his wife - inbedded and baby Klaus in the craddle at her side, both sleeping silently. There was no sign of Mother. I guess she was out again all night, he thought.
His behind is sitted on a sofa by means of reading a newspaper with coffee and confortably. The headline says: "New Smith&Weston handgun finally attained" He reads on, but just after a few lines the car breakes loudly in front of their house. Mother opens the front door covered in blood: "Oh, oooh, help me sonny," she demands. "Ma, what happened?" he jumps to assist her, as she runs outside. Pick-up truck, parked sloppyly hiding the rear end away from the main entrance and from his eyes. "Not another bear, Ma?" he gives a mouth-birth to his question. "This must be some kinda record!" Mother slaps him: "Abe, it's not funny! Help me be the carrier…"
Her predatory instinct awakened some time ago. Its first victim was that of a housewife and nobody remembers when it started. The trophies remain silent on the walls. She couldn't sell them as fast as she kills, so each of the room had at least one hundred eyes. And her dead husband's pension was big enough – it was never for the money, pure sportish enthusiasm.
Abe couldn't stay at home while mother was chopping the flesh into smaller bits. His nostrils are still too young and soft to smell the death of such a magnificent creature. He can't argue with this notion, because his throat is pumping out cocktailish mixture of coffee and what was left from yesterday meals. He smiles at the idea while air between his teeth is still filled with puke-pukedy-doo-dah. He takes a piece of toilet paper and rolls it in shape of a rock. After he finish the second paper ball, he push them in his nostrils one by one as deep as he can. He brushed his teeth clean, put on some clothes and said to Mother: "I would help you, Ma, if I could- I really can't stand the smell." She replied like she didn't gave a rat's ass about anything else but the next cut: "Okay."
He was at the bar for a nice chonk-a-Saturday and friends came one by one throughout the day. On such cases he'd leave his cellular phone so Monica couldn't reach him. She is the I-don't-appreciate-your-alcoholism type of a wife but he loved her deeply in spite of this flaw. He understood her fault for she is a woman – infectus – comparing her with himself and his buddies, who were just plain awesome every time.
After the first came in second and few beers after he stopped counting them. The time crawled around him unnoticed when late at night he had enough. As he stood up to leave the bar to his friends, Monica found him and shouted from the entrance: "Abe, it's Ma!" On the way to the hospital fright had sobered him completely. "What happened, Mother?" He requested for explanation. "Time happened, sonny… Monica, would you be so kind and leave us alone for a moment?"
"Abe, you have to promise me something. I need you to became a man and kill something, take care of the family, continue the tradition, you know. I leave to you - among other things - a magic cream soft-skinned professionals use, which – like yourself – can't bare the odor of the dead." Abe's face was covered with fear from not knowing the dangers and steepness of the path Mother was taking him on. "My last wish was to travel. You know I didn't do it. I want you to go instead; I forgot a name, but you'll find a place where a needle is stabbed in your living-room's world-globe. Take Monica and Klaus, go there and kill me a nasty Slovenian, so I can find peace." They barely talked for another minute or two. When Abe called Monica in there, he was already the only alive person in that hospital room.
Mother was burried that Wednesday. Abe was held back by her last words ringing in his ears, but all of a sudden, he could no longer control himself and hold it inside. He became the song coming from the heart:
Every night in my dreams
I see you, I feel you,
That is how I know you go on
Far across the distance
And spaces between us
You have come to show you go on
Near, far, wherever you are
I believe that the heart does go on
Once more you open the door
And you're here in my heart
And my heart will go on and on*
(*from Celine Dion, My heart will go on)
