Fiction
HIS FUNERAL, a short story
Excerpt:
“You can’t trick a fly,” Grandpa said. Always said.
He might have said “I like apples,” or “It’s nice outside.” Fake conversation…peas and carrots. Never really cared what it meant. Never really cared if it meant.
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Are flies that smart?
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The old Irish priest hobbles up to his podium or pulpit…God cube… His sermon is more like a song than a speech: a generic pop song about love and history. No regrets…life is good…afterlife is better…peace…
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Am I the fly?
Was he?
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I just learned that I can throw like a boy and I have no regrets. I don’t believe in what people call wisdom. Historically, I have no interest in history.
He fought in World War II, I think. After that, he was a chemist. Made stuff for Giant Chemical Co., Inc. Helped create the formula for Tylenol or something like that. They made tons of money off of my grandfather.
He flew planes in the war, I think.
FIGHT, a short story
Excerpt:
He wasn’t on the train Thursday. I felt horrible all day…like something was missing inside of my head. Something important.
He was back on Friday, sitting by the car door next to some Chinese guy. I wasn’t going to fall for the coffee trick again. This was meant to be. Playtime was over.
“Thanks for the coffee, Darryl,” I yelled across the train.
The Chinese-y guy looked at me and smiled. I smiled back and gave him the finger.
“Darryl! Hey!”
I made my way over to him. Sweat poured down his face and he kept gnawing on his fingernails.
“Hey! Are you okay?” I was still yelling. I was close. Too close. But I wanted him to see me.
And then he did. He looked up. It wasn’t sweat. Tears poured out of his eyes like he had just killed his cat or dog or whatever. And I got mad.
I can still hear the crunch. My heel shot out and connected to that dripping face. Beautiful. Those tears, they turned red a second later and someone stopped the train. All that thought, all that work, and he’s a little sensitive freak. What a waste of time.