Short Stories Collection (Full Version)

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.::oDrew -> Short Stories Collection (2/18/2009 23:34:10)

"Heartless"



I can remember everything she did that night; quietly slinking through the door, her pursed lips melting into a coy smile as I embraced her. Cheap expensive wine, old naïve love songs on the radio, the scent of her lipstick beneath my nose, her soft skin and silky hair. Each and every detail becomes clearer as time passes, fresh Polaroid pictures of what once was. Her soft moaning echoes in my ears for days on end.

That was the night before she disappeared. Before you killed her.

You heartless fiend. Do you realize what you’ve done to me? Her family will get over it eventually. They will grieve and be comforted. They will remember everything they loved about her and forget everything they hated. They will go through her things, occasionally pausing to laugh or cry or say things like “oh, this is the dress she wore to her junior prom. She looked so beautiful that night.” There will be a funeral, full of tragedy and loss. Her mother will cry; her father will pretend to be strong. Her distant relatives will mumble in the back row about what a difficult time this must be for the family. Her boyfriend – young, sensitive, vulnerable - will relate his grief to the next pretty girl he comes across.

But what about me? I was her secret, and she was mine. There’s nobody who can hold me close and tell me it’s going to be alright, nobody who can sit and listen while I try to speak through the tears, nobody who can offer a consolatory pat on the back on my first day back to work. Because nobody can know. Not my brother, not my best friend, not my wife, not my children, not my dad.

I’m cursed. Cursed with wearing smiles I don’t mean, with lying about being “just fine,” with keeping it all bottled up until I see no other way out.

At least, in death, I can see her again.

I'm coming, my love, in just a few short breaths.

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.::oDrew -> RE: Short Stories Collection (2/19/2009 17:38:50)

"The Walk"


It was 37 degrees outside today, quite balmy for this particular February. Warm enough to go without gloves and leave my coat unzipped, yet just cold enough to give the air a refreshing taste. I felt that it was only appropriate to take a walk; the longer I considered the idea, the more appealing it became. And so, after a breakfast of "English bangers" and dry scrambled eggs, I set out on my stroll.

Upon stepping outside, I was met with an unfortunate truth - warm weather is not the same as pleasant weather. Muddy snow melted into near-opaque brown puddles beneath my feet, unfriendly puddles that bite at your ankles like an annoying, dirty mutt should you step in them. The sky was gray and overcast, and my mood began to reflect it. Each car that sped by threatened to douse me in sloppy mud. The wind began to pick up, sending a chill down my spine. I zipped my jacket as tight as I could.

Having grown weary of the polluted city streets, I turned into a residential road. Small, squat houses lined the streets as far as the eye could see. I didn't see a single living soul as I walked along; not as much as a hint of life or vibrancy. The houses were painted in dull colors, their once-green lawns hidden beneath piles of dirt-caked snow.

Walking down that street was like strolling through a graveyard. It was as if each house was a tomb, a monument of death; their only purpose was to display the name of the lifeless bodies within. The silence was nearly unbearable. A slow rain began to fall from the heavens. There was no beauty here, no life, no joy.

I cast a wistful glance at the last house on the street, and was startled to find my gaze returned by my own reflection in a glass door. A realization slowly dawned: there was beauty here. There was life here. There was joy here. On this drab February morning, I had brought the joy and beauty of life to this depressed street. My bright clothes, my smile, my friendly "hello" - all part of the unlikely beauty of a young man taking his morning stroll through a sad, lonely street.




.::oDrew -> RE: Short Stories Collection (3/1/2009 15:47:30)

"The Worst Professor"


“So instead of just giving everyone in the class a free point, she rewrites the entire exam, and we all had to take the whole thing over again.” All those who were listening to Pete’s horror story about his professor cringed and grimaced. Except me.

“That’s nothing,” I interjected. “One of my professors was so horrible, it makes yours look like a Sunday school teacher.” Pete turned towards me, a look of incredulous disgust on his face. He had never liked me.

“Oh, yeah? And what was so completely horrible about your professor? Didn’t fall for all your ‘teacher’s pet’ schemes?” He literally spat the words.

“If you’ll shut up for more than two seconds, I’ll tell you,” I retorted. Pete leaned back, with a sophomoric smirk that dared me to impress him. I took a moment to collect my thoughts, and recall the events of three semesters ago.

The Environmental Biology of North America seemed like an interesting enough class. The title left little doubt as to what we’d be learning about and the textbook didn’t seem all that complicated. The only question, as always, was what the professor was like. I checked my watch. Two minutes until class, and still no sign of her. According to my class schedule, her name was “Dr. Emma Arctos.” Seemed like a nice enough name, I thought. A moment later, the door burst open and Dr. Arctos lumbered in, her arms full of papers and books. She was taller than I expected, tan-skinned, brown hair, long nails. She plopped her materials down on the desk and turned to face us, resting her hands on the desk behind her. She smiled as she introduced herself, one of the biggest smiles I’ve ever seen. She said we could call her “Dr. Emma,” which I thought sounded quite nice. Still, there seemed to be something strange about her. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what exactly it was.

The first few weeks of class were mostly uneventful. Dr. Emma loved jokes, and would practically roar with laughter whenever a student shared a good one. But beneath the fun-loving side lay a clear passion for what she taught. She often challenged us to think of how our daily decisions can affect animals and their habitats in drastic ways. Her enthusiasm was infectious, and soon enough I found myself truly wanting to do well in her class.

The midterm exam was fast approaching, and I decided to visit Dr. Emma during her office hours for some help. I found her door and gave a few gentle knocks. A few seconds later, she swung open the door and invited me inside. I sat in the chair opposite her desk, and noticed a plate full of half-eaten food on her desk. I asked if I was interrupting her lunch. She said it was quite alright, and that she felt rude, not having any more of this delicious salmon to offer me. I told her I didn’t care much for salmon anyway. She said I was crazy. After a few more minutes of conversing, we tackled my questions. Her answers were clear and precise, and I quickly understood the concepts I had struggled with before. Soon, I had to leave for class, but before I left, she invited me to stop by again the following week. I agreed.

I arrived the next week to find Dr. Emma’s office door already open. She poked her head out from behind the desk and invited me in. She closed the door behind me and invited me to make myself comfortable. I noted that I was glad I hadn’t interrupted her lunch this time; she smiled and said she had other plans. Something about the way she said that made me uneasy. She glanced at me and remarked that I looked absolutely scrumptious this morning.

Suddenly, it hit me, the way a windshield hits a fly.

The long, sharp nails. The enormous mouth. The roaring laugh. The love of animals. The salmon.

A bear. Dr. Emma was a bear.

And she wanted me for lunch.

I bolted towards the door as fast as I could, slamming it behind me. I could hear Dr. Emma roar in surprise and anger. I ran faster than I had ever ran before, streaking down the hallway like the Six Million Dollar man. Glancing behind me, I could see Dr. Emma barreling towards me on all fours, hunger in her eyes and a growl in her throat. I darted down a narrow staircase, hoping she would have trouble maneuvering it. Turns out I was right. Unable to slow her momentum after reaching the bottom of the staircase, she plowed headfirst into a brick wall. The force of the blow left her dazed, and I was able to make my escape.

I never once saw Dr. Emma after that day. Though, I did see an advertisement in the newspaper a few days later announcing a new grizzly bear exhibit. I didn’t go, but it did make me wonder.

“…And that is the story of the worst professor I have ever had.” Pete’s jaw hung open in amazement. The rest of the small crowd that was gathered around me was similarly silent. I looked Pete dead in the eyes and smirked. “But I’m sure yours was pretty terrible, too.”




.::oDrew -> RE: Short Stories Collection (3/18/2009 18:47:27)

"Foxtrot"


He had never been much of a dancer. When he was younger, eight or nine perhaps, his mother would play cassette tapes of old Elvis Presley songs in their dimly-lit living room and ruthlessly needle him to “do the Twist.” He would stand there, arms crossed, resolute in Yosemite Sam underpants and a jelly-stained pajama shirt, and shake his head as his eyes brimmed with tears. Soon enough, all of his older brothers and sisters would partake of the ritual, forming a line on either side of him and thrusting their hips supposedly in rhythm. His father, sitting in his recliner in the corner, Bud Light in hand, would guffaw until his eyes, too, brimmed with tears. Nevertheless, no matter how desperately his family begged or how sweetly they bribed him, they could never make their youngest son dance.

And now, there he was, standing alone at the bar, being coaxed to the dance floor by the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. In person, at least. Sure, he had seen gorgeous women before; the magazines in the box beneath his bed could attest to that. But witnessing a woman so striking do more than simply stare back at him from the page as he wallowed in self-pity affected him strangely. He wasn’t even attracted to her for the usual reasons – the curves that her short, tight-fitting dress struggled to enclose mattered very little to him. He could see them depicted in ink whenever he wanted. No, it was her hands that grasped his attention. Soft, yet strong hands, they moved smoothly to the music spilling out of the loudspeakers. It was those same hands that were now beckoning him to the dance floor. With his own rough, awkward hand, he gave a little wave, trying to convey the message, I’m flattered, but I can’t dance.

Hoping to avoid further humiliation, he turned back to the bar. Making eye contact with the bartender, he signaled for another round of tap beer. As he waited, he decided to risk a quick glance over his shoulder, to see if she was still watching. He slowly craned his neck over his right shoulder, only to find the woman in question standing almost directly behind him. It took all of his self-control not to yelp in shock, and yet something in him urged him to try and play it cool. He cleared his throat. “Why, hello there, you, good-looking.” Oh, damn, he muttered silently.

“Hello there, you, good-looking, yourself,” she chuckled.

(Not done.)




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