Short Stories – Page 2

GOOP-brilliant

“This has been the longest April in the history of Aprils.”

“I know right? April feels even longer than March and March felt soooo long.”

“But not as long as February. Remember February? We were both losing our minds so we booked that spa day and my facial made me break out and your massage hurt your neck.”

“HA!”

“Do you think it’s a bad sign that months go so slowly for us? Shouldn’t they be going really quickly? Like if we had lives we actually liked, wouldn’t the months be flying by?”

“We like our lives don’t we? I mean maybe we don’t love our lives, but who does?”

“Lots of people love their lives. Like the women shopping at Whole Foods who buy fresh not farmed salmon and eggs from the happy hens. Their skin glows. They for sure love their lives.”

“I totally disagree. Those women also think that this April has been the longest April in the history of Aprils, it’s just that they have better coping strategies.”

“Like?”

“Like instead of drinking Trader Joe wine and watching old episodes of Sex and the City, they’re having affairs with their pool guys.”

“I have never seen a hot pool guy. Why does everyone always talk about pool guys like they’re desirable? Also, they scrape yucky stuff from the top of the pool, why would you want to have sex with a guy who was covered in pool gunk?”

“Solid point.”

“Plus, Trader Joe’s boxed Pinot Grigio is actually pretty good.”

“Another solid point.”

“I think there is too much pressure to be happy all the time, it’s not natural. That doesn’t mean we don’t experience moments of joy, or pleasure, or silliness, but the pressure to ‘be happy’ all the time is just another way capitalism traps us.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, if we feel bad about not being ‘happy all the time’ then companies can sell us stupid shit – like adaptogen-infused wellness mood-boosting drinks based on the signs of the zodiac.”

“Actually, that’s a brilliant marketing idea. Like GOOP-brilliant. We could retire early on that idea – and hire our own cute pool guys.”

“You’re insane.”

“You’re a fucking genius.”

A Normal Mother

“It’s 70 degrees today. Not normal for March.”

“I know, isn’t it lovely? I’m getting a little color on my face.”

“It’s global fucking warming, it’s not lovely.”

“Oh Jesus, so now we can’t enjoy a sunny day?”

“Your generation ruined everything. Our planet is dying, there’s no affordable housing and the government is corrupt.”

“Every generation thinks like that. And by the way, we didn’t exactly have it easy: we had Reagan, the AIDS epidemic, multiple recessions and teal eyeliner.”

“Whatever.”

“What is up with you today?”

“What is up with me? Well, I’m a little upset that we’re taking part in a genocide, that a wannabe dictator might be running for President & that our parks are full of people living in tents.”

“You need to have sex. Your energy would be more balanced if you were having regular orgasms. Your father and I have more sex than you do.”

“Why can’t you be a normal mother?”

“A spring fling would lighten you up. What about that guy over there? He’s cute AND he’s reading an actual hardcover book. Old school.”

“Mom, stop it, I’m not up to any of your shenanigans today.”

“That’s your problem: you need more shenanigans in your life. You’re young. Your life should be overflowing with shenanigans. Plus he’s totally checking you out right now.”

“Mom, I beg you, for the love of God just stop it.”

“Alright alright, but listen: you gotta get rid of this gloomcore vibe, it’s not going to get you anywhere. And it’s bad for your skin, you’re getting frown lines.”

“Thanks, like I don’t feel shitty enough. I’m telling dad that you told me to get Botox.”

“For someone who didn’t go to theatre school you’re a real drama queen. I know the world is fucked up, I get it. It’s terrifying. But you still need – and deserve – to experience joy. You still need to fall in love. You still need to feel the sun on your face and rejoice at the freckles it brings out on your nose.”

“So I should just “shake it off” like Taylor says?”

“Exactly. Just fucking shake it off and start living your life despite the gloomcore of it all.
Live big.
Live madly.
Live every color of the rainbow.”

“Fine. FINE. I’m going to ask the cute guy what book he’s reading. How’s that for living big?”

“It’s a damn good start my love. Go forth and copulate.”

Little Pills

Lily adjusted her headphones and turned up the volume. Spotify knew her better than her boyfriend did. The songs were perfect: like little pills, each one numbing her just a bit more. No need to be fully sedated, but a light numbing – kind of like when the dentist freezes your mouth, then does painful things to you but you can’t feel it. Kind of like that.

Those guys over there look sketchy. Scary meth-head sketchy. They’re smoking something with a pipe. Crack? Is crack still a thing?

Looking around, Lily was struck by the style de jour:
white sneakers, fanny packs worn across chests and eyes searching phones for proof of life.

Dear God.

She wanted out of this. She wanted to live in a small, rural community surrounded by nature. The only problem was she didn’t have any country-living skills. Never chopped wood, knew nothing about gardening – except how to grow tomatos on her tiny patio – and was terrified of bears.

Taking a turn to get off the main drag, Lily passed a cute heritage home with old Halloween decorations left up. The owner had added Easter decor, so now it was a web with a giant black spider surrounded by pastel Easter eggs. So perfect that she stopped to take a photo.

This was modern life: decorating for holidays, one after the other with cheap toxic crap made in China. Everyone just Pod Person-ing around from Christmas to Valentines, to St. Patricks Day to Easter, to Cinco de Mayo to Summer, to Labor Day to Halloween, to Dia de los muertos to Thanksgiving and back again.

Wow. What a fucking nightmare world we’ve created. Like living in a 1950’s B movie, or an episode of The Twilight Zone.

Good on Paper

“Mom?”

“Yes honey,”

“I don’t know what I’m doing with my life.”

“No one does. And if anyone tells you they do, they’re lying.”

“But for real, I’m spiralling.”

“What’s going on?”

“I’m not ready to go away to college.”

“Ya, I kinda got that vibe from you.”

“But the idea of staying home is horrifying – no offence.”

“None taken.”

“Dad will lose his mind if I defer. He thinks I’ll turn into a meth addict if I don’t go straight to school.”

“He will lose his mind, he’s an epic worrier. But he’ll get over it.”

“And the competition for internships is crazy, like I should be interviewing now. My year off needs to look good on paper.”

“Fuck that.”

“That’s your advice, fuck that?”

“Fuck good on paper.”

“Again, not the kind of guidance I’m looking for here mom.”

“Rosie you’re seventeen years old, you’re allowed to take some time to just live – sometimes spiraling, sometimes having the time of your life.”

“That’s such a Gen X thing to say.”

“Maybe it is, but it’s also the truth. Listen, your grades are excellent, you’re in three school clubs – which I know you hate – you have a part-time job, you volunteer and you sell vintage on Poshmark. That’s enough. You are enough. Take a fucking break, live a little.”

Sal took a long sip of wine, trying to keep herself from raging. The fact that her daughter was worried about how her year off school would look on paper was everything that was wrong with the world.

“But what does that break look like? I need a plan. I’ve never not had a plan.”

“Go to Ireland and meet your relatives! They would love to have you stay with them. They literally say that every time we’re on group chat.”

“Dad told me your extended family is nuts.”

“They are kind of, but the right kind of nuts. They’re loving, colorful, live out loud kind of people. In fact they might be just what you need.”

“Live out loud? What the hell does that mean?”

“It means living boldly.”

“But I’ve literally never met any of these people.”

“Exactly, that’s the fun of it, it’s an adventure.”

“What would I do there?”

“Are you kidding me? You’ve heard me talking about them at dinner. Aunt Mary owns a boutique hotel. Maura’s clothing store is super chic – Bono shops there. Eileen’s farm is so damn cute it’s like made for Instagram. You could intern for all of them and they would give you real work to do, you would learn so much.”

“Okay okay, this does actually sound kind of cool. But who’s Bono?”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”

“So you really think I could make this work?”

“I do. And it would be really fucking good on paper.”

“Okay, let me think about it. It’s not the worse idea ever.”

“Thank you my lovely daughter, you’re so kind.”

The Loveliest Christmas

Our faux Christmas tree is shimmering in the prettiest way.
Every year I buy one new ornament, this year I bought a felted pink snail.

“Do you want some brandy?”
“Oh that sounds lovely, thanks.”

We’re sitting on either end of our long sofa, both balancing our laptops and now our glasses too.

I can’t tell if you’re playing a video game, or watching pornography.
Just like you can’t tell whether I’m chatting in my DMs with an old lover, or searching for the perfect winter wedge boots.

I accidentally see some horrible photos on Instagram:
“Dear God Almighty.”
“What’s wrong?” you ask worried.
“I just saw the most upsetting images from Gaza. I’ve been trying not to look at any of them because they’re too horrific, but they keep popping up in my feed.”

“You follow Democracy Now, what do you expect?”
“True, good point. Maybe I’ll just unfollow all the news and political accounts until things have calmed down a bit. Because it’s too much.”

“Solid plan. You have to protect your mental health. Plus, we’ve already given donations to multiple organizations to help, there’s nothing else we can do.”

“I know. This brandy is really good by the way.”

“Isn’t it smooth? I read about it in Bon Appetit and it wasn’t even that expensive, like $85 I think.”

“It’s fun to drink something different at the holidays, makes it feel special.”

“Do you want to listen to any music?”

“No, I’m watching these beauty videos. Trying to learn how to do a metallic eye for Jess’s New Year’s Eve party.”

“Okay.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too babe.”

Pink felted snail watching its owners drink brandy while the world collapses

Phlegm

“Ma’am, are you sure you need to buy seven bottles of cough syrup? Don’t cha want to leave some for other customers? It’s winter, everyone is gettin’ sick.”

Susan was incensed. How dare this shop clerk give her attitude.

“There is tons of dry cough medicine left, but I need the wet cough syrup. I have an issue with phlegm.”

“Phlegm? Best way to deal with phlegm is to hack it up and spit it out,” the clerk said, looking at Susan like she was from outer space.

“Well, not for me. My phlegm is different. I can choke and die on mine, so I can’t cough it up.”

The clerk stared at her.

“That will be $94.92 please. Debit or credit?”

“Debit.” Susan answered, glaring at the clerk, whose name tag read Emili.

“Is your name really spelled like that or did they make a mistake on your tag?” Susan asked.

“My name is really spelled like that,” Emili answered, her face devoid of emotion.

“Happy Holidays Ma’am.”

“Yes, Happy Holidays to you too.”

Emili spelled with an i was one of the more ridiculous things Susan had seen lately. The younger generation was nuts, just nuts.

At home Susan added the cough syrup to her bathroom closet. She now had 63 bottles. Not bad, but not quite enough. She would need 97 bottles to get through the winter.

Out of nowhere Susan coughed: a wet, phlegm-filled cough. She heard the phlegm swishing around in her lungs, sounding like hundreds of goldfish swimming in a bowl.

She un-packed a new bottle of couph syrup and took a swig, like it was whiskey.

Since it was bright outside she decided to put her head in the sunshine for a few minutes, the vitamin C would boost her immune system. Pacing back and forth in the backyard wearing her black puffer coat, she tried calming herself:
You’re okay. It’s only a little bit of phlegm, don’t worry.

“Susan, are you alright?”

It was her new neighbor, Ed. He had just moved in a few months ago. A divorcee with three cats. Three.

“I have a phlegm-y cough,” she answered.

“I hate phlegm. I prefer dry coughs.”

Finally someone who understood.

“I almost died once from choking on my own phlegm, I was seven years old.”

“That’s terrifying,” Ed said.

“My parents were having a dinner party. I went downstairs in my pink flannel nightgown and told them: ‘I’m scared. I can’t breathe. There’s stuff in my chest.’”

“And what did your parents do?” Ed asked, leaning on the wire fence.

“They said: ‘Oh Susan don’t be silly, that’s just phlegm. Cough it up and spit it out.’ And then my dad lit a joint and put on his favorite Cat Stevens album and they told me to go back upstairs. I stayed up all night trying not to cough, terrified that I would choke and die.”

“That’s the saddest story, I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you. How are your cats doing?”

“They’re pretty good. The oldest one, Jo Anne, is almost blind now, but she still gets up to hijinks. I don’t know what I would do without them.”

“I’ve never had a cat, but I like them. They’re quirky.”

“Yep, they’re characters alright. Listen – if you ever need help while you’re dealing with phlegm, just knock on my door, I don’t want you to be scared.”

“Thank you Ed. That’s the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“No problem. See ya later.”

Susan tilted her head back, letting the mid-day sun warm her face, tears running down her cheeks.

Tiny Homes

My friend lives in a tiny purple house.
She’s always there with a cigarette in one hand, a glass of wine in the other, saying something sarcastic and tossing her head of dark curls back as she laughs.

Her tiny house is kind of like I Dream of Jeannie’s bottle, with that circular couch covered in velvet pillows. Except her cushions have needlepoint cases – which she made herself – that say things like, “Fuck You Very Much.”

Because my friend is so tiny she can no longer wear her favorite silver rings, so I wear one of them every day.

I miss seeing her in person, I’m too big to fit into her house. But every night before going to bed I look at her – her house is on my corner table – and I say something like:

“Hey, I miss you. In the few months since you’ve been gone the world has become an even bigger shit show – really, everything is fucked.”

Sometimes I think:
What if I open her I Dream of Jeannie purple house? Would she come swirling out in a plume of pink smoke?
Then she yells at me:
“Girl get it together, I’m not fucking swirling out, I’m DEAD, remember?!” And a Smiths song blasts at full volume:
And if a double-decker bus
Crashes into us
To die by your side
Is such a heavenly way to die

I yell back:
“I know you’re dead I’m not an idiot, Jeeze Louise. I remember our last conversation. You were crying while telling me how much pain you were in. I said let me talk with your doctors you need more pain meds. I don’t want you suffering.”

The last thing you said to me was:
“My nurse is here, I gotta go. Love you.”
And I said:
“Love you.”
Then two days later you were dead & before I could say “pouf” you were cremated.

I don’t think I’m going to sprinkle you anywhere. I’m going to keep you on your little alter: there’s a photo of us together, a lovely painted postcard that I took from your office, some rocks from the beach outside your house and a few other mementos.

I like looking over at you. We can chat anytime.

Photo Credit: Pinterest, Country Living Magazine

Advice from your beloved grandmother

Don’t worry about the floral arrangements at your wedding, no one will remember them. They’ll either be too drunk or too bored and busy scrolling on their phones.

No one cares if you have spider veins on your legs and if they do care they’re a total freak and you should run away from them immediately.

Red flags are red flags. They are not pink flags, they are not orange flags; they are a warning. If you choose to believe they are aubergine and not red, well, that’s on you.

Just because you regularly buy yourself flowers doesn’t mean that your partner shouldn’t occasionally buy you flowers too. They don’t get a free pass.

Having pets is great. Cats and dogs are lovely creatures, but they are not children. Mother’s Day is for mothers of humans, you know, those messy little people who throw their dinner against the wall and have tantrums in the middle of Duane Reade.

You don’t have to be in a relationship to be complete. Also, there is no complete, it doesn’t exist and never has. This whole “you complete me” thing is pure Hollywood vomit.

Manifesting things takes a lot of work. If you want to make a visualization board first, go right ahead. But please know that staring at images and words on a board is just staring, it’s not actually making anything happen.

You don’t have to go to every Sunday night dinner. Negotiate. Two out of four per month is plenty. They are not your family, they are his or hers or theirs. Plus, they will enjoy having the freedom to gossip about you.

If you plan on having the kind of sex that can get you pregnant, then please make sure your partner is Pro-Choice. It is insane to let a penis – that is attached to a man who hates women – inside of you.

If your partner gets upset when you want to travel with your friends without them, then you probably ignored an early red flag.

Two hundred dollar face cream is just the patriarchy laughing at you. And if the face cream company is owned by a woman named Jelilah who harvests the ingredients under a full moon at her organic farm, it is still just the patriarchy laughing at you.

Sincerely & with love,
Your beloved grandmother (who would appreciate a handwritten note every once in awhile so that I know you can still write cursive)

https://www.instagram.com/gramparents/?hl=en. created & curated by
Kyle Kivijarvi

Triggering

“November first and there’s snow on the ground. It’s the beginning of winter. It’s not literally the beginning of winter, but you know what I mean. Time to take down the Halloween decorations and put up the holiday sparkle.”

“Can hardly wait.”

“Let’s buy new lights for the front of the house, strings and strings of lights. Maybe the glittering shrubs will help take our mind off what’s happening in the Middle East. It’s just so upsetting isn’t it?”

“Totally.”

“We need a new holiday theme. Last year we decorated in silver and blue, this year let’s do pink & gold ~ it will be beautiful. Maybe the tree will help take our mind off what’s happening in Ukraine. It’s just so upsetting isn’t it?”

“Horrible.”

“I’m thinking of doing something different with my hair for the holidays. Maybe streaks. What about pink and gold streaks to match the tree? You know, just for fun. I mean the world is so grim these days. Grim. Have you read about Congo? Apparently there are 6.9 million displaced people there. How is that even possible? Anyway, I think a few streaks will lift my spirits. It’s absolutely exhausting to read about all this suffering.”

“I know right?”

“Everyone on Instagram is posting upsetting stuff which is so triggering. It’s like bringing up all my old trauma. I mean I don’t have really really bad trauma, but my parents did get divorced when I was 11. Could they have picked a worse time? It really fucked me up.”

“So selfish of them.”

“I’m just out here trying to live my best, most authentic life and this constant negativity is getting me down. It creates a toxic environment. I mean is there even one positive thing going on right now?!”

“Taylor Swift is dating that cute football player.”

“OMG you’re right, I totally forgot. They’re so cute together. I bet she’s going to marry him. I can hardly wait to see her wedding dress!”

(Photo source: Nelly Checo, Pinterest)

Candy Corn

Walking around her neighborhood, Mirany was struck by the quiet. Where was everyone? It was like the morning after a very tidy apocalypse, all traces of humans gone.

But the creatures were out. The Weston’s one-eyed cat Henry was perched on his favorite blue Adirondack chair. Squirrels were already in play mode – like a group of sugared-up children, chasing each other around a giant oak.

Mirany liked squirrels, she collected them. Not real ones of course, not taxidermy ones, but little knick knack squirrels: a pair of brass squirrel candle holders, a porcelain squirrel, a hand painted squirrel with it’s mouth full of acorns and a few other objects. But she didn’t want to collect too many squirrels, she didn’t want to become that woman: dusty house crammed with collectibles, old green shag carpeting, corduroy recliner covered in crumbs, kitchen shelves crammed with Entenmann’s coffee cakes.

The autumn leaves were their most vibrant saturated selves. Mirany loved the pumpkin hued shades the best, but that didn’t mean she loved pumpkins. No. In fact she was suspicious of those who drank pumpkin spice lattes – had there ever been a more revolting beverage?

Parked ahead was a vintage Volkswagen camper. Peeking into it she saw two young people, maybe early twenties, curled up together under a Pendleton blanket. Very sweet. Until it’s not sweet and their young love blows up in their smooth, wrinkle-free faces.

A couple of goth-y crows squawked at her from a sad looking tree, it was practically bare, just a few leaves dangling from its branches. Mirany thought of Alfred Hitchcock’s movie “The Birds:” what if the crows attacked, gouging out her eyes and eating her eyeballs for breakfast. She crossed the street and quickened her pace.

Still no one else out and about. How odd. Mirany tossed a few pieces of candy corn in her mouth. She loved candy corn. She loved candy corn so much that at Halloween she bought it in bulk from Costco so she could eat it year round. But she had rules, Mirany had candy corn rules: she was allowed only seventeen pieces per day.

Somehow there were still a few glorious flowers blooming – “global warming flowers” Mirany thought to herself. She liked the giant coral ones, they were practically as big as her face. Mirany wondered if the owners of the house would mind if she took one. She decided that flowers really were God’s work and that she was allowed, quickly plucking one and hiding it in her cardigan.

What a lovely morning.