Jay's Stories

Each One No Bigger than the Cornea of Her Eye

2008-08-15T21:29:55Z

I roughly ripped the sheets from the notebook and began to tear them into tiny squares, each one no bigger than the cornea of her eye. I dropped the pieces into the toilet and flushed. Of course, nothing ever flushes the first time, if you’re trying to hide it, so I waited. The water swirled, creating a torrent of the fragments of my thoughts. And slowly, they disappeared. As the bowl began to refill, one square floated up and spun on the surface. For whatever reason, I crouched to investigate. I could see some meaningless scribbles, the letter e—nothing that mattered. And then the septic current flipped the scrap over to reveal one word: happy.
Like the breaking crown of a newborn, my face split in a smile. And then I laughed. I stood, and laughed with my body. I tipped my head back and let the air fly from my lungs and carry my voice with it.

Each One No Bigger than the Cornea of Her Eye

2008-08-15T21:24:10Z

Concentrate, You Fool!

2008-07-10T22:46:42Z

Gone.

Completely.

Wait! I remember! It was…

Damn.

My impotence leaps from fragments of my inspiration, to fragments of my to-do list, & I stop.

Completely.

I stop thinking. I maybe stop breathing.

My thoughts curl down my consciousness with the will of meat from a grinder, & just as I begin gathering them into a malleable mass the phone rings.

“Just calling to confirm that you received my fax.”

I murmur something, & cradle the phone with purpose.

I must concentrate.

A feeling like newborn fingernails scratching at the inside of my skull tells me this is more important than anything.

I must concentrate.

I see the department head looking toward my cube holding a stack of papers. I shove off from my desk & walk the other way.

Safe in a locked bathroom stall I drop the toilet lid & massage my temples.

It was something about…

The toilet in the next stall flushes noisily. The man gets to his feet, suspenders & pocket change jangling, & bangs out of the stall.

And it’s gone.

Completely.

My Collar to the Wind {a poem}

2007-08-14T21:54:34Z

I walk alone
by Her window
watching as all things
and people
come to pass
Her by.

Suddenly, I
see Her looking
but surely just looking
through me.
I’m nothing to Her.
She forgot my name
three times
in one week.

She puts her hand
to the window,
and I stop breathing.
Is She seeing me?
I’m not ready.
I drop my eyes.

I’ve always known
I would do anything
just to be
with Her – but
with my collar
turned to the wind
I don’t do anything
at all.

She could be the fuel
to start my soul
to light my world
and everything in it.

Again tomorrow,
I’ll walk by Her window
hoping She’ll see me
just once.

Substandard Bones--Three for a Dollar

2007-08-14T21:01:47Z

The quick, brown fox jumped over the lazy dogs. And the dogs were lazy because they worked at dull jobs all day. After many years, they became dull themselves.

Nothing excited them. They had no time to hunt for bones. If they were hungry, they would run to the corner mart and buy substandard bones—three for a dollar on Tuesday.

They didn’t chase cars. They drove them. They yelped insults at the dogs that chased them, but they secretly envied the simple lives of simple dogs.
They didn’t worry about pleasing their masters, because their masters just wanted punctuality and efficiency.

They didn’t get excited about bitches in heat anymore. Not with photos and movies of all the best-looking, professionally groomed and sculpted bitches right at their workstations. And these bitches were always in heat. The bitches that surrounded them in real life were always second-class when compared to the internet bitches.

And they certainly didn’t care about a stupid, jumping fox. The hell was he so excited about, anyway?

Squealing Baker

2007-05-18T20:40:56Z

“Ungh!” I said it again as I bit the dirt.
The blond was tough. I had to give it to her.
But I couldn’t give it to her right then. She was busy giving it to me. She placed a prim knee between my shoulders as I lay face down on the checkered cafe floor.
A cafe? What cafe? Where the hell was I, anyway? Too many questions and all the answers had split for someplace where the sun shines and the tall blonds blow.
I felt her knee pushing the air out of my lungs as she grabbed a handful of hair and yanked my head back. I had to admit, it had been too long since I had been mistreated by a beautiful woman, but the ache in the pit of my belly said this one had gone too far.
I heard her million dollar teeth grinding in my ear. “You’re gonna tell me the password, Baker. You’re gonna tell me, or I’m gonna make you squeal.”

Black Panties

2007-05-18T17:14:51Z

When I came to, the blond stood over me, smirking.
“Black panties suit you,” I said as I groaned to my feet. She traded her smirk for a snarl.
“You bastard.” She hissed, getting down to business.
“Look, Honey, a man like me will always look up your skirt, if you give him the chance.” I rescued my cigar from under her heel and re-lit it, shaking the match into her spent cosmopolitan.
I took a long pull on my cigar, buying time while I tried to gather my thoughts. I half remembered having a drink with this woman, and then everything went black. After that, all I remembered was wanting a t-bone from Louie’s. I looked the blond up and down, trying to scrape up some memories about our brief past. I got a good eyeful, but all I could figure was that the blond had drugged me. And the look on her face told me she had a damn good reason.

You're Allergic to What?

2007-05-10T16:04:22Z

J: He was a cool guy before that. We partied and did all kinds of crazy things. Good memories. When he started dating her, he banned all talk of our exploits involving drugs, girls or explosives. After that, there wasn’t anything to talk about. You can count on it happening to you if you break your clavicle again.
D: I’d have to break my head!
J: Don’t be too sure.
D: Oh, I’m sure. I’ve dated my share of Mormon girls. Not once have I even French kissed one, or any girl of any religion.
J: You’re not required to have physical contact with a Mormon girl to marry one.
D: Well, that’s a relief. I’m allergic to boobs and coochies.
J: All you need to do is buy a house in suburbia, go to church, and ignore the fact that the mailman spends a lot of time at your house (which is why you have half a dozen Hispanic kids).
D: You know how I feel about kids. And the mailman would be doing me, not her. You know, Mormon repression. Go on a mission, come back gay.
J: Well, you’ll have to find some way to keep up appearances.

Remind Me What a Clavicle is

2007-05-10T15:54:06Z

D: I broke my clavicle.
J: Remind me what a clavicle is.
D: Wrecked on my bike.
J: Yikes! Are you going to heal up nicely?
D: I hope so. They tell me it will be 6 to 8 weeks. It happened last Thursday.
J: That sucks. Do you have to wear a neck brace or something?
D: No. It’s a figure eight splint/harness. It goes over and under both arms and crosses on the back to hold my shoulder back.
J: So you mean it’s kind of like a… a BRA ?! Or should I say a bro?
D: . . . without the cups.
J: Oh, well that must be much more sexy anyway. I had a friend in high school that broke his clavicle twice. Then he married a Mormon girl and everything went to hell. I’m sure the two things are related….
D: Breaking your clavicle once gets you pretty close to hell, let alone twice. What did the Mormon girl have to do with it?

RE: To My True Love

2007-05-09T20:43:56Z

Now wait just a damn minute!
True love? You’re not in it!
After what you did the other day,
you’d just better stay away.
I saw you hittin’ up that other girl,
right after you told me I was your world.
Well, you can have that stanky ho!
She’s been around, I’ll have you know.

So don’t you wait for me to call.
You want me back? You’ll have to crawl!
I’ve had it with your nice-guy schemes.
You want me back? In your dreams!

I should have seen it from the start.
You’re a cruel man with a twisted heart.

So don’t tell me that I broke your heart.
And don’t call that sickly poem art.

PS: Txt me later!

Four Twenty - Five Years Later

2007-05-09T20:22:42Z

11:23:33 Joe: Happy holidays!

11:23:51 Joe: er, holiday. I guess there’s only one.

11:23:56 Don: :-/

11:24:04 Joe: 4/20!

11:24:11 Joe: 8-}

11:25:16 Don: It’s the 6th anniversary of the Columbine shooting. How could I forget.8-|

11:25:49 Joe: No, genius. It’s the holiday that was invented before those morons went crazy.

11:26:35 Don: I just don’t have any party favors to celebrate with.

11:26:55 Joe: WHAT ?! I thought you had an endless supply.

11:27:30 Don: Are you kidding? I haven’t had any for over 4 years!

11:27:42 Joe: Of course not. What was I thinking?

11:28:32 Don: I don’t even know where to get party favors.

11:28:44 Joe: I haven’t partaken for many years, myself. But I do have a small amount hidden away—leftovers from probably five years ago. I don’t know if it has a shelf life, but I’m willing to experiment.

11:29:50 Joe: (Oh god, is my life really that boring?)

11:30:21 Don: Party favors do have a shelf life. You’re not likely to get much of a bang out of them.

11:30:28 Joe: Pisser.

What Have You Done to Me, Vicky?

2007-04-05T18:06:17Z

“Look, Vicky,” I began, trying to loosen her disturbing embrace. But I was silenced. Completely. I was still talking, still making the motions with my mouth, but no sound was coming out.
“What…” I mouthed.
She released me and stepped back. Her dress was ragged, falling off her shoulders. She was smiling with lips slick and red.
I reached for my neck. But my arm didn’t work. I pulled with my shoulder and slowly pushed my will back into my arm. I shakily moved my hand to my neck. Something was embedded in my flesh just below my jaw. My hand came back wet with blood. I couldn’t see what was in my neck, but it felt extraordinarily similar to a AA battery, half submerged in my skin. I hesitantly met Vicky’s stare.
“What…” I mouthed again, “what have you done to me, Vicky?”
She shrugged, and the remains of her dress dropped to the floor. Now, let me assure you that I have been in the presence of a variety of unclothed women in my life, but none of my experience helped me make sense of what I saw at that moment.

Keep Your Distance, Vicky!

2007-04-04T22:26:51Z

I never made that appointment for my glasses. It’s a damn shame, too. I can picture Dr. Jake in his lab coat sitting on his rolling stool. I can see him sighing, glancing at his watch, then the clock, then his appointment book, then his watch. I can see him shrugging and heading out for an early lunch, flipping the open sign and locking up.

Poor Dr. Jake! Look, all I’m saying is that Vicky is a nice girl and all, but Dr. Jake shouldn’t have to put up with that. And neither should I.

So you’ll want to know what happened next. I’m not really clear on the whole thing myself, but I do know that there was a flash. At first I thought something had exploded, which would have explained the ringing in my ears. I really don’t know what it was. All I know is that, a few seconds later, Vicky had her arms around me, kissing my neck. Glancing over her shoulder, I could see that the office was covered in a layer of fine white powder—again. But the real problem was the hot Chai still in her hand, spilling down my collar.

Said the Typewriter

2007-03-29T20:35:52Z

The typewriter mocked me with wisps of dust clinging to greased machinery in its belly. It might have spit out a message that said, “You’re no writer. Come and type your grocery list.”

The keys crouched menacingly. I thought I heard the carriage ding, signaling the end of the line for me.

Smirking, I turned to my laptop. No need for a typewriter when I had such advanced technology to help me write my novel. No correction tape. No ribbons. No messy piles of paper. Just a comfortable machine whir and a mass of potential.

I threw another glance at the glowering typewriter and opened a new document.

“The night was…” I began. Was the night stormy? No. Humid?

Just then, Sandy sent me an instant message with a link to a website full of photos of cats saying clever things. Almost 400 photos! I looked at all of them. They sure cracked me up. I replied to Sandy with smiley emoticons.

Just then, John emailed me about Friday’s barbecue. “Chicken or beef?” he wondered.

“The night was sultry.” said the typewriter.

The Bleakness of the Last Cookie

2007-03-19T15:16:26Z

And, while I’m eating that cookie, and the freshly-baked warmth is crashing against the wholesome cold of the milk in my mouth, and the planet spins just a bit slower, and the light is just a bit brighter, I start to think again.

And my thoughts are suddenly optimistic. And I know I can accomplish something worthwhile. I will make something that keeps the living, breathing me in the minds of people long after I’m gone. I will forever be remembered as a vibrant young master of whatever I choose.

And then I realize that I already ate the last cookie.