Poetry & Stories

I sighed, crushing my 3^rd piece of paper into a ball and tossing it at the bin. It bounced off the others and landed on the floor.

            Nothing I’d come up with so far had worked. A story about God and the devil playing chess. A story about an invisible man. A story about dragons… I looked at the notepad.

             ‘There’s no point trying anymore,’ I said, standing up and letting go of my pencil, ‘I need a break.’ I switched off the lamp, switched on the Xbox360, played until my eyes were red, switched it off, got undressed and went to bed. I closed my eyes and breathed in… and out. In...

 

I was sitting on something pink and fluffy. A man sat facing me, wearing an elegant suit. A game of chess lay between us. He was arranging the pieces, as if preparing for a game.

‘Hello George,’ he said.

This was certainly a dream.

The guy facing me looked up. I gasped.

‘Yes, I look just like you, I know.’ He finished arranging the pieces, and gestured towards the chess board, ‘Let’s start playing before you wake up.’

‘What? Who-‘

Before I could finish he took a handful of the pink fluffy stuff and shoved it in my mouth. It withered and a sweet taste prickled my tongue. It was candy floss.

‘Play!’ he urged, ‘then you can ask questions.’

I didn’t know where I was, but knew I preferred candy floss and chess over assignments. I looked at the man who was my spitting image, looked at the chess board, and moved a pawn.

‘Thought you’d move that one,’ he grinned, ‘you always move the same ones first.’

‘I’ve never had a dream like this,’ I scooped a handful of candy floss.

‘Don’t eat too much, otherwise we’ll fall through,’ he said, scooping a handful.

            I looked around. There was neither a sound nor a soul in sight, just candy floss that went up and down like the waves of the sea.

‘Who are you?’ I asked after a while.

‘If you ask who I am,’ he said, moving his queen, ‘then what you really ask is who you are.’

I frowned. What was he saying? I took a closer look at him, and saw he was more than my self in an elegant suit. He moved with more confidence, more certainty. And his eyes seemed to hold more wisdom. I suspected he was an older me.

‘You’ve lost,’ he said, blocking my king with his queen, ‘Check-mate.’

            ‘I feel that there’s more to this dream than just candy floss and chess.’ I said.

            ‘You’re right,’ the man said. He made a gesture with his hand, and the chess game moved aside. A glass and a jug appeared between us.

‘There is indeed a lot more to this than candy floss and chess,’ he picked up the jug and poured milk in the glass. He handed it to me. I looked at the glass, then at him.

            ‘Why milk?’ I said

            ‘Because you are still a child, now drink.’

            ‘I’m not a child.’

            ‘Then stop giving up on assignments, stop losing on the games you play,’ he said, ‘and stop dreaming of milk and candy floss.’

            I grew confused then. Confused and angry. I threw the glass of milk. The milk spilt onto the candy floss and turned it white. Gradually, all the candy floss around us turned white. I stood up.

            ‘Who are you to talk to me like that?’

            ‘I am what you can become,’ he said, also standing up. He spread his arms, showing me the elegance of his suit, ‘if you work hard, and succeed. Wouldn’t you like to succeed, George?’

‘Don’t call me a child.’

            ‘Then succeed,’ he said, ‘Prove to me that you are not worthless, and succeed.’

            I looked at him. He looked back. He did not smile or look away, and I saw he was not intimidated.

            I looked away, ‘Easy for you to say, with your damn suit. You’re not the one having to suffer under the pile of work.’

            ‘I can only help you if you help yourself,’ he looked at his watch, and then came towards me with a closed fist.

            ‘You’re going to punch me?’ I said, frowning, ‘Why?’

            ‘You must wake up now, it’s the quickest way.’

‘Wait!’

‘Remember to take every opportunity.’ His fist connected with my face. Everything went black.

 

            ‘Where’s your homework?’ Mr Smart asked. The last students had left the room. I’d been kept behind. He twiddled a pen with his fingers. I was standing and looking at his desk, thinking of the dream I’d had.

            ‘I couldn’t do it.’

            ‘But you could have tried, George. You could have at least tried.’

            ‘It’s too hard.’

He sighed, took off his glasses, and mentioned for me to sit down. He crossed his hands.

‘What’s hard about it? What don’t you understand?’

I shook my head, ‘I just can’t write stories like before. Maybe I shouldn’t have chosen Creative Writing as a subject…’

Mr Smart raised his eyebrows. ‘You did so brilliantly last year, ranking amongst the highest results. Your short story was the best I’ve seen...’

That was true. But it was my older brother who had written it. He’d always been talented at stories. He was in the army now, and had little time for anything else.

‘Perhaps you need to get back to the basics,’ my teacher continued, ‘I am starting a workshop this evening that could help you. It would give you all you need to succeed. It is optional, but I advise you to come.’

‘A workshop?’ I repeated.

‘That’s right, a workshop, at seven.’ Mr Smart said. ‘Now go, I have to prepare for my next class… oh and George, one last thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘I hate to tell you this, but if you fail to do homework again, I will have to fail you.’

             I nodded and left the classroom. It was strange to be so close to failing. All my life I had succeeded without really working hard, but now…

 

            ‘What did he say?’ Mike asked as we got to the bus stop.

            ‘What do you think?’ I replied, looking at my watch, ‘Where’s Paulette?’

            ‘She’s already at mine.’

            The bus came. We got on.

            ‘I heard there’s this workshop happening for our course.’ Mike said.

            ‘Yeah,’ I said.

            ‘You going?’

            A part of me didn’t want to. I didn’t want to do any more efforts than I’d already done, even if I’d hardly done any at all.

            ‘Are you going?’ I asked him.

            ‘I’m going if you’re going.’

            ‘Well I don’t really want to go.’

            ‘Well we don’t have to.’

            Remember to take every opportunity.

            ‘Mike, have you ever had a dream where you were talking to yourself?’

            We had gotten off the bus and were in front of his door. He looked at me.

            ‘No, but I heard that it’s the first sign of madness.’

            ‘What about a dream where you’re talking to someone who looks just like you?’

            ‘Is that a dream you had?’ he asked.

            ‘Kind of.’

            He shook his head as he put the key in the lock, ‘Then you must be going mad, playing a bit of Xbox360 will get some sense back into you.’

            Television and games, that’s all we ever did. We used to meet everyday, little me Mike and Paulette, and play games and watch telly till our eyes couldn’t focus. But ever since we’ve left school and started university, we’ve had less time for it. And if I had to choose between a workshop and a good time with friends, I wouldn’t choose the workshop.

            We walked into the living room. Paulette sat cross-legged on the Berber carpet, her jeans more faded than ours. She was watching the Simpsons with Lloyd, who was slouching on the couch. Both heads turned at our arrival, nodded, and turned again.

            Before we knew it, we took turns playing a boxing game, and time went by like the double-decker buses that stopped at the stop just outside Mike’s house.

            ‘So George, you sure we ain’t going to that workshop?’

            I looked at the clock, annoyed. It was twenty past six. If we were to go, then we were to go now.

            ‘Let’s finish off this game and then we’ll see,’ I said.

And we did see. I beat the crap out of Paulette this round. Lloyd and Mike were watching, so there were witnesses. But she argued, saying I cheated, which was ridiculous. We settled the case with a rematch. And another. And another.

‘Enough!’ she said, letting go of the controlling pad, ‘You’ve knocked all the teeth out my boxer. You’ve won.’

In the midst of our excitement, I looked at the clock. It was seven. But I wasn’t going to let a workshop ruin our evening. And everyone seemed to have forgotten about it. We played and played until our eyes were red, switched off the Xbox360, got undressed, and slept over at Mike’s. I closed my eyes, and sighed. Today had been a good day. I breathed in… and out. In...

 

Again I was sitting on the candy floss. It was still white from the milk I’d spilt. A man sat facing me, but I could tell it wasn’t the same guy as before, although we had the same face again. He was wearing rags, and looked like there was no happiness left in him. A game of chess lay between us, and he was arranging the pieces, as if in preparation for a game.

            ‘George,’ he said, with a grin. There were a few gaps in his teeth, and most of them were rotten.

            ‘Are you supposed to be me?’ He really looked like a failure.

            ‘Yes, want to play some chess?’

            His eyes made a lump grow in my throat. He seemed so sad. ‘No, I want to talk. What happened to you?’

            The man made a gesture with his hand, and the chess board disappeared.

            ‘Let’s take a walk.’ He gestured again with his hand, and the candy floss started withering. I got up, alarmed, and started falling. It was as if someone was pulling me down with great force. I closed my eyes until the feeling subsided. I opened them to a field of bluebell flowers.

            ‘Before I answer your question,’ the man in rags said as we walked, ‘look around you, and tell me what you see.’

            All I saw was a field of bluebell flowers, ‘I see flowers.’

            The man nodded, ‘Exactly. That, George, is what happened to me,’ he ripped a bluebell from the ground, showing me its roots, ‘I saw flowers. Everywhere I saw flowers. All identical. All part of the same system. All of them pointing in the same direction, and growing in the same way. All of them seeking the sunlight like sheep.

            ‘This is what I saw with society,’ he said, ripping the bluebell and throwing it.

            I nodded, listening with great interest. Although he did not compare to the guy in the elegant suit, I liked his way of seeing things. If this was who I was to become, then I’d make sure to think like him, but get myself a suit, no doubt.

            ‘I didn’t want to be like everyone else,’ he continued, pulling bluebells from the ground, ‘I wanted to be my own man. Who needs university and grades? Why bother with jobs and interviews? I had better fish to fry and better cats to whip.’

            ‘So what do you do?’ I asked.

            ‘Don’t ask me that question,’ he said, his jaw clenching, ‘Life isn’t about doing. That’s what everyone does. They’ve been doing for so long that they don’t think anymore. They think they think, but they only do.’

            ‘I don’t understand you.’

            ‘Fool!’ the man in rags glared at me. He tossed the bluebells away, ‘Even you, you’re just like the rest.’ He looked in the distance, ‘And everybody’s the same. Nobody understands. Nothing changes.’

            He reminded me of me when I got depressed. I’d look at others and despise them for being better off.

            ‘But it’s good,’ he said, grinning, ‘it’s good that you didn’t go to that workshop.’

            ‘Why is it good?’

            ‘Because you didn’t want to go,’ he scooped up some bluebells, ‘You did what you wanted, and that’s good. But as long as you stay in university, you will waste your time.’

            I had the impression that the guy in the elegant suit would say otherwise. ‘That’s not what I’ve been told.’ I said. Still, a part of me agreed with him. I’d always longed to do what I wanted.

            ‘Forget what others tell you.’ The man spat, ‘they’re all flowers, but you don’t have to be. You can be a tree.’

            The man in rags looked at his watch, and immediately I grew suspicious. He came towards me with an open palm, I backed away.

            ‘Be careful!’ he said, pointing behind me, ‘you’ll fall off the edge!’

            The edge? I turned away, looking behind me. But there was no edge, only flowers. I turned back around to see the guy in rags, and his palm connected with my face in a mighty slap.

 

            I sat up at Mike’s house, and thought about the two dreams I’d had. I thought about it during the day at school. I thought about it on my way home where I got to my room and sat at the desk. I twiddled a pencil with my fingers and started writing.

            Perhaps this would work. A story about a young man having to make a story. A story about a young man whose dreams have indirectly influenced his story’s content…

            Sighing, I crushed the piece of paper into a ball.

Posted in Short Stories and Really Short Stories

Today being Saturday I was walking in Hachette Park. I felt nice, thanks to the birds, flowers and sunshine.

No doubt about it. This place was the opposite of the cold, mean-looking blocks of concrete that stood all around. A shame that so many ignored the beauty of daisies and daffodils. A pity that so few enjoyed the feeling of the breeze brushing past skin, and the warmth of the sun…

            A crowd of peeps were standing in the middle of the path. They were looking at the ground, as if there was something of great interest at their feet. I looked over their shoulders and saw what the deal was. It was a man, unconscious, and looking like he just got his ass kicked.

‘Do you know what happened?’ I asked a group of children standing to my left.

They looked at me. One of them, a boy with big front teeth, said, ‘There was a lady walking down the street, and this mister came and talked to her and he was bad and then the woman got really angry.’

‘He was bad?’ I asked.

He nodded, ‘And then the mister was really angry and they started fighting. And then the mister just fell down and he closed his eyes. And the woman looked very happy and kept walking down the street, and now everybody is around the mister.’

I looked at how the fellow was sprawled on the ground. Looked to me like the woman had been more of a man than him! Must have been quite a fight. ‘What do you mean by ‘he was bad’?’

‘He had touched her, but she hadn’t liked it, and then they were moving very quickly, and then he fell on the floor. He was bad!’

‘Where did he touch her?

The child lifted a hand, palm open, and slapped it hard with the other. ‘That’s what he did. On her bum.’

            'Is that so?' I looked at the other children. They were grinning and nodding.

‘Well, that's a shame,’ I said, looking at the man on the floor. 'Guess he slapped the wrong woman, hm?' I turned my head left and right. I smiled at the children and they smiled back. I turned to walk away and felt a pull on my sleeve.

            ‘There is something you must do for me,’ the boy said.

            Last thing I needed was for someone to lay their dirty hands on my shirt. I turned back towards the bastard, ‘Why?’

            ‘I have done something for you, so now you must do something for me.’

            I put a hand to my beard, and had to admit I liked his logic. ‘You want sweets?’ The children’s eyes lit up.

            ‘Yes, lots and lots.’

            ‘And me! And me!’ the children pushed each other to be first, sticking out their hands like I was some sort of candyman.

            I stuck out my hand too, ‘You got the money?’

            The big front teeth went left and right.

I looked at the others, ‘You? You?’

Nope.

‘But you do,’ the boy said, ‘any adult who has nice clothes like you has money too.’

            Smooth talker, isn’t he? Still, I was glad someone had finally noticed. ‘Hmm. Okay, what sweets you want?’

            ‘I don’t care, it’s the gesture that counts.’

            Bullshit. ‘Good, I’ll get you 50p’s worth.’

            The boy frowned, ‘Get me £50’s worth.’

            My eyebrows went very high indeed. I smiled, ‘Going a bit far, aren’t we? Your teeth would die from so many sweets. I don’t want your mum complaining.’

            ‘My mother is dead.’

            'It's her ghost that will complain then,' the kid looked at me.

            'You are mean!'

            I smiled, 'Don't worry about it. How old are you?'

            ‘Seven.’

            ‘And what’s your name?’

            ‘George.’

            ‘Are you alone?’

            ‘Aren’t you supposed to be getting us sweets?’

            He was right. ‘Yes, but not £50’s worth, that’s crazy.’

            ‘Is it because you are a stingy man?’

            It just so happened I was. ‘Yes.’

            ‘Fine, get me 50p’s worth, I’ll be right here,’ and he and his crew walked off, with neither a smile nor a frown. And I noticed the birds weren’t singing anymore, and the breeze was gone, and the clouds were in the way of my precious sunlight.

            I edged the crowd and continued my walk, feeling uneasy, not liking making kids neither smile nor frown. But this £50’s business was madness. Still, the thought stuck with me all the way to the ice cream van standing outside the park. A handful of kiddos and grown-ups waited in line to get their stuff. I put myself behind a fat girl and waited my turn.

            The ice cream man made me want to scream. He looked like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.

            He cleared the phlegm in his throat, 'What would you like?’

            I stood with a hand in my pocket. £50’s worth was madness…

            But if I did it, this kid would remember it forever. I wouldn’t just be another fool buying him 50p’s worth of sweets like a stingy man. I would probably never see him again anyway. And his mother is dead so nobody would come after me. And when I die I could remind God of this one good deed and make my way to the pearly gates.

            ‘Yes?’ the guy repeated through some mad phlegm.

            I let go of the loose change in my pocket. The birds sang again. The clouds gave way to sunlight. The breeze made the leaves rattle like skeletic hands clapping my good deed. That’s right, I’ll give this kid something to remember me by. He’ll have diarrhoea for a year.

            ‘I’ll be back.’ I told him. I was either stupid, ridiculously generous, or both. Regardless I needed a bank. Ever since I had been robbed earlier in the year, I never carried lots. I crossed the roads, walked the pavements, dodged the pedestrians and bikes and got to the bank, which was closed for lunch.

            ‘Shit!’

            I couldn’t believe it. What had started out as a walk in Hachette Park was now a piss-take. So much for a dead mother and the pearly gates.

            Hmm…

Maybe you should just go back to the ice cream van and buy that kid 50p’s worth of sweets?

Maybe. Just getting back there would take me another half hour. It was getting hot. The sun wouldn’t hit any harder or get any higher. I had to keep my head high and not get stressed. I turned the corner, window shopping my way to the end of the road and back. I took a look at the bank, at my watch, and shopped windows again.

The first thing I saw when I got back was a string of peeps standing in the street. A pregnant lady was last, patting her stomach. I followed the queue to its source. I feared the worst. I turned the corner.

‘Shit, shit!’

By the time I had walked back to the pregnant lady, another 15 people stood lined behind her. I had to believe it. As I waited and waited I wanted to push right through them like I used to do in school. The memory of a few broken teeth made me stay put. I queued. The afternoon heat tried to wither away my composure. I had to keep my head high, and not get stressed.

Finally I was at the bank doors. There were too many people and too much sweat. I could see the ATM machines, two of them out of order, and everyone had their eyes on the remaining one, where an old lady was withdrawing her money. She was trembling. She looked like she was about to clutch at her heart with both hands, fall down and die at any moment. The overhead fans were out of order.

‘Fuck’s sake, hurry up!’ a man cried out from the queue.

A few nodded but others turned to him, frowning at his disrespect. The lady seemed at a loss as to which buttons to press.

‘What’s the hold up?’ someone said.

‘Fucking old lady!’

People started shuffling, whining and arguing like children.

‘Have some respect!’ someone said.

The man who’d been swearing turned to look behind him, ‘And who are you?’

The air was thick with stress and body odours. I prayed it would be over soon. God was on vacation.

Now it was my turn. I could feel the eyes burning in my back as I walked to the machine. My hands fumbled in my pockets, fumbled and fumbled, and fumbled.

My debit card was nowhere to be found.

I swore.

Why hadn’t I just walked past that crowd in the park? Then none of this would be happening. Maybe I should go home. Fuck this bastard and his damn sweets. It’s not worth walking half an hour to a closed bank, sweating and queuing up for an hour or two, only to find you have to get all the way home to get your debit card and sweat and queue again for an hour or two. I

I wanted to swear at the old lady but she was not there. A geezer squeezed through the crowd, pushed me none too gently aside and went for the ATM. Immediately half a dozen people rushed forward, and the rest was hell.

 

I closed my house door, readjusting my torn shirt. I found my debit card and looked at my watch. The kid was probably gone.

But he might still be there! Even if I have no sweets, I can’t leave him standing.

Otherwise he would hold a grudge against me for as long as his heart pumped blood round his body. So I had no choice but to quick jog, with breaks to catch breath, all the way back to the bank. I dodged pedestrians. I avoided bicycles. I got to the ice cream van, by which time my feet were finished. The hunchback was still open.

‘Yes?’

‘I want all the sweets you can give me with this,’ I gave him three £20s. That’s right, stuck in an extra £10 coz I been too stingy all my damn life and I knew I would never again take such a big shit. The hunchback's eyes went wide. He looked at the money, looked at me, looked at the money again, and then looked at his sweets. Without saying a word, he looked at me again.

‘What sweets do you want?’

‘Whatever.’

The hunchback started thinking. He thought for so long that when I looked behind me I was surprised at the queue. Children wanting a last taste of sugar before their mums took them home. I turned back to the hunchback.

‘Anything, man.’

‘Oh no, let me think this through,’ he grinned at the queue, ‘You’re my last customer anyway, don’t need those kids’ pennies now that you’ve given me this.' He grinned, 'That’s right, I’m closed!’ he said, looking at the children, ‘FUCK off!’

How could he say that to children? The sun was going down, but I saw their disappointment and hurt in the fading light. It made me cry inside.

‘Wait, wait.’ I called, ‘I’ll buy you something.’ Most came back to me, with a smile so radiant that even after this mad day I'd had, it made me feel damn good.

‘Give me all that,’ I pointed at some little bags of mixed sweets, ‘and that,’ I pointed at some milk chocolate bars. I turned to the children, ‘Anything else?’ I mostly heard ‘ice cream’, ‘milky way’ and ‘dinosaurs’. I turned to the hunchback, ‘Gimme all that.’

I was walking back towards where George said he’d be, a huge bag full of sweets over my shoulder, a smile on my face, sweat on my forehead, the breeze going through my torn shirt, penniless like I had just been robbed. I could still hear the children's thank-you-misters and thanks-sirs, could still see the gap-toothed grins and gay eyes, and knew I would never have children.

The trees and flowers had faded from green to greyish. The birds were resting their windpipes. The sun was far gone to the west. The breeze had calmed.

I stopped walking at last, looking left and right.

George and his crew were nowhere to be found.

Posted in Short Stories and Really Short Stories

Dear chicken,

I’m sorry that you had to be killed,

For the chicken burger I had today,

It’s a shame your pain was traded,

For my joy.

But the way that mayonnaise mixed,

With the way that lettuce crunched,

With the way those buns sank in my mouth,

With the way your tasty, warm, succulent, juicy,

Meat rolled off my tongue,

And down my throat,

Into my stomach,

Doesn’t make me as sorry.

But believe me, when I say I’m sorry,

For not being as sorry,

As I could be.

Sincerely yours,

Me.

Posted in Poetry

J’ai la fatigue d’une bête égarée dans le désert,

Assoiffée d’une soif que l’on ne peut étancher,

Mes pupilles à moitié clos par manque d’un sommeil

Qu’avec certitude j’apprécierai.

L’épuisement m’étrangle comme une chemise trop serrée,

Et je ne vois plus qu’à travers de petites fentes,

Car mes yeux ramollies par les jeux de la vie,

Ne sont plus ce qu’ils étaient.

À présent je ne vois ni neige, ni pluie, ni soleil,

Car les ténèbres sont ma seule lumière,

Dans un monde où même le mirage d’un mirage,

Ne peut être autre qu’un demi-frère.

Ainsi je trottine sur les dunes entassées,

Condamné à errer pour l’éternité,

Dans un monde où tout n’est que vanité,

Sable et poussière poussés par le vent.

Posted in Poetry

It was evening. We all sat in silence. Fred to my left, dipping a Chicken McNugget into some barbecue sauce. Ace next to him, munching on a Big Mac while looking at the table. Raymond next to him, who had finished eating and was wiping his mouth with a napkin. Umberto was dipping his hand into some French Fries, a solemn expression on his face. George’s hand bumped into May’s as they both reached for the bottle of Coke. She looked away. He took the bottle. Matthew finished his cup of Sprite and searched his McDonalds bag for another Cheeseburger.

I got up to turn on the television and browsed a few channels. Nothing interesting. I turned it off and sat back down. A second later Jessica got up to turn it back on, leaving it on a cartoon and sitting back on her seat. Joshua looked into his McDonalds bag, narrowed his eyes and crunched it up. Karl offered him some nuggets. He accepted.

We were soon all done eating. The cups and containers lay on the table in a mess, along with spilt sauces and juices. Eyes were half closed and legs were spread. Tissues were wrinkled into balls like art. We all sat in silence, looking at each other, slowly digesting fast food. The television was still on, playing the cartoon.

Fred suggested we order more. Marlene got up and left the living room, telling us to wait. We heard her ruffle around in her bag. Then we heard the wrinkling of plastic bags. She came back with a smile. She set four big bags on the table. Immediately we smelled stir-fried noodles in black bean sauce, sweet and sour sauce with fried rice, and curry sauce with shredded duck.

There were some oohs and ahhs. Six pairs of lips asked the same question to Marlene at the same time. Bodies leaned forward with hungry eyes and smiles spread across faces. The table was cleared of empty cups and wrappers as we prepared ourselves for more food. McDonalds had been the appetizer. Chinese was the main course. This unexpected yet pleasant surprise brought life on the table. Conversations sprang up faster than the takeaway containers were distributed. The sounds of the television were soon drowned by sounds of talking and laughing.

We thanked Marlene for her resourcefulness. She thanked us for thanking her.

Then we sat in silence. Fred again to my left, chopsticking some vermicelli into his mouth. Ace next to him, gobbling up the chicken fried rice like a dog. Raymond next to him, biting into a sweet and sour chicken ball coated with sweet and sour sauce. Umberto putting a chopstickful of noodles into his mouth, grease on his chin. George handed May the bottle of Coke. Matthew frowned at his empty takeaway container; he’d finished earlier than he’d wished.

 It seemed nobody watched the cartoon. I got up to turn it off. Jessica got up, her mouth full, ho fun leaving her chopsticks to splatter on Joshua. I listened to her muffling, looked at her shaking head and moving hands, and understood she wanted the television left on. Both I and Jessica sat back down while Joshua flicked the ho fun off him. Karl offered him some tissue. He accepted.

The main course took longer to finish than the appetizer. We reached the bottom of our containers, and sighed. Chopsticks and scraps lay scattered here and there. An empty bottle of Coke lay sideways. We were slouching on our chairs, our stomachs full like air in a balloon, our eyes unable to focus.

Nobody said a word. Nobody moved. Except for the rising of our chests and the blinking of our eyes, we were dead.

The cartoon on television ended. Another started.

The doorbell rang. On its third ring we stirred. I carried myself to the door. It was the pizza delivery man. He was lost and asked if this was Merchant Street. I looked at the 24” pizza box in his left hand, a real monster. I was about to say no, that he needed to turn the corner and keep going straight, but I nodded, saying this was the right address and, my nostrils quivering from the pizza’s irresistible aroma, paid him the money.

There were no ahhs and oohs when I returned to the table. Everyone looked as if they were about to collapse. A few shook their heads at the sight of more food. But desert was a necessity. I opened the pizza box. The smell swept across the table, making our eyes lust and our mouths water. We knew then that it was too late. It no longer mattered whether or not we were hungry or full. To hell with McDonalds and chinese. This was the real deal.

Posted in Short Stories and Really Short Stories