55 Fiction from page 23
Logan, the SelfProclaimed Giraffe “I am a giraffe!” Logan shrieked to his mom from outside. “No, you’re not,” his mom yelled back. But, in fact, Logan was a giraffe. He ate leaves every day for every meal. He hadn’t eaten anything else since spring. Yet Logan’s mother was concerned. Winter was coming, and the leaves were falling and dying. Gabe Birkley
To you, from us We can’t help ourselves. Yes, we write every week, but this contest is so intriguing, we sometimes just have to join in. Enjoy these bonus stories, written by New Times staff.
The Little Stripper that Could Patrick was, as a rule, disinterested in strippers. It wasn’t that he objected to paying to watch someone dance; he was a season subscriber to the San Francisco Ballet. His apathy was more an aesthetic rejection of gold lamé and neon pasties. Then he met Mallory who wore cardigans and read Proust.
Newborn
The Millipede and the Shoe Makers
“I think she finally stopped crying,” he says, relieved. “Leave those dishes until the morning. The noise will wake her.” They painstakingly sit down on the sofa, aimlessly flip through the channels, and she resolutely turns off the TV. “Can you get the bottle ready for later?” she asks. “Vodka or scotch?” he sighs. David Sharp Morro Bay
A Waste of Cheese
The millipede achieved political power after being ignored by the shoe makers. He needed lots of cheap shoes made in one size. The millipede saw his duty to simplify shoes for the shoe makers. Shoes were made in fewer sizes and were cheaper, and they could be consumed more easily. Often, the shoes were uncomfortable. Jim McKrell Atascadero
Wes hated eggs. To him, a sunny yolk was the height of obscenity. An omelet, a waste of perfectly good cheese. But falling in love with a chicken farmer changes things. Not his stance on eggs—a man has to take a stand somewhere. But choking them down lovingly somehow didn’t incite his gag reflex.
Sons of Devils Storm clouds are stacked on the mountain. Soldiers lie dead in the grass. The ribbons she bought for her wedding have faded. But no one forgets the widow. Her man is watching from his place in the sky. She won’t notice him touching her soldier. And we are nothing but sons of devils again. Youssef Alaoui Morro Bay
Fish and chips Lin was halfway through her master’s thesis—130 pages deconstructing “when the chips are down”—when she was struck by an extraordinary and awful thought. What if there was no deeper meaning? She could live without god. But if language lost the luster of metaphor and symbolism, she’d have to cash in her chips.
The Police Have Been Here The pedestrian overpass is peaceful now. No crackling fires or piercing shouts pollute the silence. I hear only my footsteps and passing traffic. Where are the young men who want to re-skin my cell phone? Where are the old men who want to feed me skewers of meat? They’re somewhere else. Unhurt, I hope. Michael Gsovski Brooklyn, N.Y.
Errands I buy the food. The cashier smiles. I wash it in my metal sink and chop it on the plastic board. I put the food in the pan and sauce it a little. Onto the good plates it goes, right as she walks in. I can’t say if her smile means more than the cashier’s. Michael Gsovski Brooklyn, N.Y.
Big House Hobbies “Can’t drink. Can’t smoke. Drugs? Out of the question. No women. No sex. Generally, big house hobbies boil down to extremely cheap entertainment.” Nineteen-year-old Johnny asked, “What the hell’s that mean?” Vinny looked at Big George and said, “Explain.” George said, “If you drop your soap in the shower, I’m sellin’ tickets. Cheap.” Larry A. Thompson Sterling, Colo. ∆
Globe-trotting on a budget It had taken the entire summer, but Violet had finally amassed 986,432 red balloons, two more than she needed, according to her calculations. Red for buoyancy and whimsy. All September, while classmates compared tans, she would see the pyramids, dip her smallest toe in the Amazon. And, time permitting, frolic with penguins in Antarctica.