Parintachin

Monday Microfic

ASW August 21, 2009
I'm walking up, and I can see in your eyes that you're already judging me. I'm approaching you, and that puts me in a certain class, a reject class. The sort of guy who'll buy you drinks until you give me the brush-off, despite the fact that you never even feign interest -- just hoping, just wishing.

You've already got a half-dozen of those sorts of friends, don't you? And here I am, a stranger, and you're slotting me in with them. A stranger's just a friend that you probably won't like. Another hanger-on, a walking ego boost for you; a guy to sigh and laugh about when your friends point out my crush.

Joke's on you, sweetheart. I love the confidence turning to confusion in your eyes as I say, "Pardon me, you're blocking the bar." I get my drink and leave, never looking at you, knowing that your eyes are on me. Not a clever opening, not an excuse, just a denial of your worth. You have your games, and I have mine. You're the sort of person I like to feel superior to.

CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS

 

We at NANO Fiction, a literary journal of microfiction, are currently preparing our third edition to be released Spring 2008.  We had great success with our first two issues and we are making efforts to expand our readership and contributors; however, the magazine was designed specifically with young and unpublished writers in mind.  Please take advantage of this opportunity to be published and submit to NANO Fiction.  As always, submissions are rolling, but if you would like to be included in the next issue, it is paramount that you submit within the next few weeks.  What else are you doing with your winter break anyway?

 

To sample the work we publish, check out the archives at nanofiction.org

You may submit to NANOFictionMag@gmail.com  Submissions must be 300 words or less. Anything over 300 words will not be read. Please include your full name, titled work, a short third-person biography, and contact information (email, web site, phone number). Unless it interrupts the form of your work, we appreciate single spaced Word Documents. If your piece is selected, we will notify you prior to its release via email.


Note: Don't be afraid to think outside the standard margins. Be creative. Use form to enhance your piece. NANO Fiction can be an extremely innovative form of storytelling, use it to your advantage.

SUBMIT NOW!

We at NANOfiction.org, a journal of short fiction, would like to invite you to participate in our next issue.  We are currently preparing our sophomore edition to be released in September.  We had great success with our premiere issue and we are making efforts to expand our readership and contributors.  The magazine was designed specifically with young and unpublished writers in mind.  Please take advantage of this opportunity to be published and submit to NANOfiction.  As always, submissions are rolling, but if you would like to be included in the next issue, it is paramount that you submit within the next few weeks.  What else are you doing with your summer anyway?

You may submit to NANOFictionMag@gmail.com  Submissions must be 500 words or less. Anything over 500 words will not be read. Please include your full name, titled work, a short third-person biography, and contact information (email, web site, phone number). Unless it interrupts the form of your work, we appreciate single spaced Word Documents. If your piece is selected, we will notify you prior to its release via email.

Note: Don't be afraid to think outside the standard margins. Be creative. Use form to enhance your piece. NANO Fiction can be an extremely innovative form of storytelling, use it to your advantage.
interrobang

I promise I'm not really suicidal.

ASW December 1st, 2006

I built a meditation womb down in my basement, and I installed a phone so I can call my mom and creep her out.

“Guess where I am?”

“Ginny, where are you? Are you okay?” I can hear my mother sitting up in bed, preparing to shake my father awake.

“I’m in the womb, Mom. I’ve crawled back into the womb.”

“What? “

“The calls are coming from inside your womb,” I intone in my closest approximation to a spooky voice.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” She clicks her tongue in disapproval. “Go to bed, Ginny. Good night.”

I’ve done this for the past three years, same date, same time, but my mother still hasn’t caught on. Four years ago at this time, I was on a rooftop at the edge of the city, hoping the building was tall enough. It was so cold that my snot was threatening to freeze to my face. I must have walked around that rooftop twenty times, thinking of everything and nothing. I would think about all the things that had driven me up those stairs and just when the pain seemed that it would hit critical mass, I’d be interrupted by some stupid, random thought. I would look at the fog of breath coming from my mouth and remember how, when I was little, I used to use that foggy breath to pretend I was smoking.

After too many turns of that game, I stomped back down the stairs, paused in front of the building and looked up.

“I can’t fucking do anything right,” I spat.

On the one-year anniversary of that night, I called my mom and made Jason Vorhees breathing sounds down the phone line.

For Year Two, I sang a little song.*

Now I have to start planning for the fourth anniversary.

*”Older” by They Might Be Giants
interrobang

(no subject)

ASW November 24th, 2006

No one talked to Haley much. Some people tried, but her noncommittal answers and the look she always had, like she was being kept from something more important, didn’t encourage repeat encounters. Some people thought she was aloof, a couple of people posited that she was shy, but the general consensus really boiled down to “weird”.

I talked to her a few times. She was a pretty girl, and we found we liked some of the same bands. She was nice enough, but she just seemed… like she didn’t belong. I got the feeling that there had been some major blunder in the universe, and this girl was really supposed to be somewhere else.

So I can’t say I was terribly surprised by Nicole’s whispers Tuesday morning. A few co-workers were gathered in Nicole’s cubicle, and the whispers were very sharp. Sharp whispers always meant gossip. I poked my head around the wall.

“Did you hear?” Nicole asked me immediately, leaning forward in her chair.

“What?”

“Someone said that Haley girl killed herself.”

I played the skeptic, as usual. “No way. Who told you that?”

“Steve from accounting heard it from Pam in IT. I guess she lives on the same street as Haley. Well… lived.”

“Man…”

“I’m going to check out her desk!” Nicole sprang up and made a beeline for Haley’s cubicle.

“Nicole! You can’t do that!”

“She won’t care. She’s dead.”

“You’re terrible.”

“I know! And yet you all still love me.”

(This was met with the usual groans and “yeah, whatever”s.)

I watched Nicole as she peered at the pictures Haley had tacked up.

“This chick was into some weird shit. I can’t even tell what this is a picture of.”

I didn’t bother telling her it was a postcard of Munch’s famous painting The Scream. It wouldn’t have matter anyway. She would have just said something like, “That’s famous? Whatever.”

Nicole did little to hide the sounds of rummaging as she went through Haley’s desk. There were a few moments of silence, followed by Nicole’s banshee call.

“Oh my gahd, listen to this, you guys! I found her diary. Listen to this. ‘I like to get all tied up – “

“Woo!” someone called from one of the back cubes.

“Haha! No, wait. ‘I like to get all tied up and rescue myself. Then it’s off to the park, and a scoop of ice cream… for my hero.’ Oh my gahd, what a freak.”



The boss came to collect Haley’s things a little before lunchtime. Man, did it get quiet. Well, aside from the sound of Nicole yapping about the whole thing over the phone to her boyfriend.

I spent the rest of the day wondering if I had a hero.
interrobang

(no subject)

ASW November 17th, 2006

I was fisted once. I was hanging out with the-guy-I-was-dating-at-the-time – we went out for a month but never clicked on a boyfriend/girlfriend level – when we were flipping channels and paused on a sex advice show. (That’s what we did. We ate Mexican food, we watched television, we had sex.) We were both tickled by the older woman who hosted the show, and we were talking about how much fun she was to listen to when we heard a caller say

“Heterosexuals can fuck with fists, too. My girlfriend and I prove it every night… even if she won’t let me try it on her.”

“Fisting,” I said. “Haven’t tried that yet.”

“You want to?” the-guy-I-was-dating-at-the-time asked, with eyebrow raised.

“Dunno. Maybe.”

It didn’t take long before the show distracted our attention and the subject of fisting was forgotten.



I didn’t realize what was happening until he had actually pushed his fist all the way in. I panicked for a second, but I was, as ever, ready for new experiences, looking for a kink to own so I wouldn’t seem so vanilla next to all my friends. In most social circles I’d been in before, the kinky people were the odd ones out. This scene was just the opposite. I tried a number of things – bondage, flogging, threesomes, etc. – but I could never find a kink that turned me on as much as straight, hot sex. So, in the search to find my secret kink, I let the-guy-I-was-dating-at-the-time continue fisting me.

It was… interesting. I told him I liked it, but I think he knew. He never did try it again.

We stopped seeing each other a couple of weeks later, and I left town about a week after that. I still talk to him from time to time. To my surprise, I don’t think of him as the-guy-who-fisted-me.
interrobang

Barging in

ASW December 9th, 2006

Remember playing with an Etch-a-Sketch when you were younger? You spent all that time turning just the right way, making just the right lines. But there always came a point where you made one mistake, and nothing could ever be made right after that.

So you shook that red rectangle upside down, flipped it back and smiled at the expanse of smooth grey. It was all yours again, a perfect canvas that would hold anything you wished to put on it. Any line you wanted to tattoo. Any life you wanted to build from scratch.

Each time, the picture turned out a little better. You learned your lesson with the last one. Each past mistake had been learned from and built upon.

Until you made one mistake.

My house burned down, and I lost everything again.

It feels better every time.
now I'm...

(no subject)

ASW March 31, 2006

I have a list of stupid things to do before my suicide. I keep going back, though. Making sure I did everything right.

1:Find out what it's like to forget about her.
2:Look at a sunrise, smile, and say "this is all for me."
3:Write my very own sestina.
4:Realize that this really is all for me.
5:Lie in bed every morning, and know that I should be doing something, but I'm not.
6:Be arrested for vandalizing a police station.
7:Learn how to play that damn accordion.
8:Realize that this really is all for me.
9:Understand that every moment has value, but only if we really look for it.
10:Kiss an elk.
11:Stand on an overpass, sing songs out of key, and drop holy water on cars tearing under me.

As I read back over my list, I've crossed out everything, except for the last item. I can't get myself to do it. It's been bothering me for days now.

12:Tell her I'm sorry.
Parintachin

Monday Microfic #52

ASW March 24, 2006

He scrambled away, crabwise across the ground, as she advanced. "Why?" he pleaded. "What do you want? What should I have done differently?"

"Should have!" she sneered, stalking him. "Your life is a series of should haves. Should have made more friends. Should have taken more risks. Should have played hooky. Should have gone skinny dipping! Should have asked Maureen to the forest prom!"

She was shouting now, brandishing the gun. His hands encountered a wall behind him, stopping his panicked progress. "What?" he begged, still not understanding. "Who is--"

She shot him once, then glared at the body in disgust before turning away. "Should have remembered," she muttered, and left.