Archive for the 'Short Fiction' Category
A Curious Book
You slide into a hot bath, it’s a white porcelain, brass claw-foot tub. Very 1940s, very curvy, it fits you perfectly, your shoulders rest nicely against the back of the tub. You’re a fellow of twenty-eight, tall and slender, with short black hair, worn to look messy. Your eyes are a calm blue.
The room itself is black tile, it’s almost like floating in space.
Steam rises from the water, tickling your nose. You lie back a little further, submerged up to your chin. The room is dark, save for a full-moon, its beams of pale silver pouring in through an above skylight. You turn your head slightly, glancing at a shiny pair of twin razor-blades neatly stacked on the tub’s rim. Beads of sweat run down your forehead, stinging your eyes a bit. A small book bound in black leather rests next to the glinting metal blades, a bright white hand-towel at the end of the row. You smile a little at the book, you smile because what’s said to be written inside is so ridiculous. Yet, as ridiculous as this tiny book may be, you’re glad to add it to your collection.
You stumbled upon this particular tome at “The Rare Book Shoppe of London est. 1914.” It caught your eye because while it’s a very plain looking book, it was also the only book locked in a small, rather dusty display case, not in the front, but instead the very back of the store. The entire place smelled of old books, that musty smell of aged paper you love so very much. Books are your passion, they’re your most beloved fix. You only own the most bizarre and obscure volumes, books on magick and the occult being your favorites. You own them for value, you own them for their oddity, but above all, you own them to read them.
So, you found this small black book, imprisoned in a glass box to be most intriguing. You had to ask the store-clerk about the possibility of purchase. He was a short, middle-aged man with a round face, blond hair in a ridiculous pony-tail. His dull green eyes peered out at you through black wire-frame glasses, square and pretentious.
“Oh, that, we don’t sell that book,” he said. He said, “my great grandfather left us that book. It’s just a show piece, something for the atmosphere.” That, of course, didn’t satisfy you.
“Atmosphere?” you questioned.
“Well, its history is rather outrageous. Apparently, it was written in 1911, by an unknown author. How our great grandfather acquired it, we don’t rightly know.”
“We?” you inquired.
“Yes, my brother and I inherited this fine establishment, and that book,” he answered.
“Well,” you said, “the book doesn’t sound particularly outrageous.”
“Of course not,” he said, “I haven’t gotten to the outrageous part yet, sir.” He said, “You see, none of us has ever read the book.”
“Why?” you asked smiling, waiting for the pitch, the story, the sell.
“According to our father, his father, and his grandfather, our great grandfather, the book is never to be read, ever. It’s said that a writer, if they manage to write letters that form words that form sentences that form paragraphs in just the right way, the writer is able to create reality for the reader. This book, supposedly, creates a rather horrible reality.”
“And what reality is that?” you asked, you absolutely had to ask.
“It inspires suicide, sir,” he answered plainly.
Well, that did it, pitch successful, you had to have the book. Cost didn’t matter, nothing mattered but owning that book. The suicide book. You don’t believe it, of course, but the idea of such a book was too delicious.
You’re quite wealthy, old money, from your mother’s mother. Your father is also quite well-off and celebrated as, ironically, an author. They’re divorced like any modern couple, competing for their son’s affections. Needless to say, whether you’re working or not, mostly writing attempted poetry and prose, money’s never a concern. You immediately offered the man seven-thousand pounds on the spot.
“Sir, really, it’s not for sale, it’s been in my family for over one-hundred years,” he said flatly.
“I’m offering you seven-thousand pounds right now, without even having the book authenticated.”
With a raised eyebrow, he quickly retorted, “I imagine authentication would be rather dangerous.”
“Honestly?”
“Yes, I don’t doubt the book,” he said smiling.
Regrouping, gathering your composure, as you found yourself frustrated and excited by the bargaining, “fourteen-thousand and my attorney will draw up papers stating that upon my death, your family will retain the book,” you said.
“Sir, I don’t think you understand.”
“No, I definitely understand. I need this book.”
The shop-owner lowered his head, his resolve weakened, he sighed, “are you going to read it?”
You grinned and said, “of course.”
“Are you insane?” he questioned sincerely. To which you replied, “possibly.”
“Could I buy the book?”
“No. If it is what I think it is, no. I couldn’t possibly. Still…” he trailed off.
“Still?” you pressed.
“Well, I have to admit, I am curious to know one way or another about that fucking book,” he said. His voice tired, defeated, yet, you heard something else. Hope, there was hope in his voice. “I have an idea that could satisfy us both. Let me go with you when you read it. You give me the fourteen-thousand, read the book. If you decide to do something horrible to yourself, I’ll safely collect the book and possibly save your life. If you don’t, well, I go home and you own a strange little antique book.”
“And your brother?” you asked.
“Are you trying to politely escape, sir?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then, let’s not worry about my brother,” he replied with smirk.
So, here you are in a hot bath, a strange man sipping brandy in your living-room. You find the entire affair absurd, this book, this fiction, is not going to cause your suicide. You’re going to read it in your nice bath, slip on your robe in a few hours, walk into your living-room, and send the bored, probably drunk shop-owner home. You’re absolutely certain. You don’t, however, doubt the book’s age, you know the scent and texture of such things.
You look toward the book, and the razors, and the book, and the bright white hand towel. You dry your hands before picking up your leather-bound indulgence. The first page is blank. The second page, blank. Third, blank. Blank blank blank blank, everything Goddamn fucking blank. Blank, until the last page…
“Life, full and beautiful, but never to last. All withers, all dies. Better to burn than fade away.”
For a moment, your entire world spins, you feel sick and giddy. You no longer see words on the page, but images in your head. A steady, overwhelming flow of images, sensations, memories.
Hazel eyes smiling at you, loving you. Her lips against yours, nails digging into your chest, the heat you feel inside her. Pleasure. Pain. Pleasurable pain. Climax. Dance clubs, music so loud you feel it in your chest. Grey eyes, cool grey eyes, peaceful grey eyes. She’s flowing, dancing, happy. Vodka, a beautifully warm feeling in your face. A gentle kiss on your forehead. Gorgeous brown eyes, inviting brown eyes, brown eyes you know and so want to know more. Tattoo needles, words and images etched into your flesh. You’re a book yourself, you’re reading yourself.
Then, nothing, absolutely nothing. In an instant, in a blink, everything’s gone, you’re empty. The words on the page are clear again.
You calmly return the book to its resting place, you pick up the razors. Without a thought, without a care, you run one razor, vertically, down your right wrist. You drop this razor. With the other you slice, again vertically, your left wrist. Warm, thick fluid runs toward the palms of your hands, the tips of your fingers, into the water. The water goes pink, then red. It’s beautiful, and you feel sleepy. You feel sleepy, and you wonder where you’ll wake up. You wonder, then wonder, and wonder a little more. You sleep.
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Cupid
She’s that girl, a man’s it girl. She knocked him out before he hit the ground, had him at Goddamn fucking “hi there.” One look and he knew he’d have to see her again. Just that first smile and he was gone, crossed the Rubicon.
He can talk to her for hours on end, never bored, never wanting to wander. He finds her infinitely brilliant. Her eyes are dark, mysterious, they silently speak of sex.
Sex with her, his it girl, is better than any fix, the only fix worth chasing. In bed she’s all heat and sweat, her dark brown hair in his face, taking him in until he’s completely lost inside. It’s beautiful and dirty, utterly sick and completely sane. They hold nothing back, both completely laid bare. He wants her with him always, so much it scares him. He loves her beyond reason.
I listen as he tells me on and on in this shithole bar, cliche as any other. It’s the kind of place where your shoes stick to the scuffed wood-floor. It’s dark, dark enough for drunks to take each other home and regret it later. Liquor and red neon, a place for the damned to pass the time and shoot pool.
He’s in his late twenties, younger than me by far. I’ve been talking to him for the better part of an hour, but I’d been watching him much longer. He’s been alone, smoking and drinking and smoking. He’s exactly why I’m here. I think we can help one another.
“So,” I say, “you think she’s it for you?” sipping my scotch. He’s chain-smoking, the bar covered in ashes and ashtrays. An empty glass of long-dead bourbon at his elbow.
“Yeah, definitely, she’s everything I want. I’m just scared, you know?” I do know, but I ask why. “What if she decides I’m not what she wants, or she finds better?”
I knew, these poor suckers are all the same. Scared, lost in things they can’t handle. I polish off my drink, the fucker burns going down.
“You’ve found what you’ve wanted and you’re afraid of losing it before you’ve lost it?”
He says, “I didn’t say it made sense, but fucking, Goddamn it, yes. It’s the worst feeling on this miserable fucking planet. Sometimes, when she’s away, I honest to Christ can’t sleep. It’s ridiculous.”
I look the pale faced kid square in his blue-eyes, “What if I said you could have her, no worries. She’d be all yours, my friend.” He obviously thinks I’m drunk.
He says, “Heh, right. You sell self-help books, or some stupid shit like that?”
“No, I don’t sell self-help books, or some stupid shit like that,” I say flatly. I tell him, “I don’t sell anything, but I do ask for something. It’s really just a small thing.” I order another scotch, neat. My client’s working on a fifth ashtray.
“Sorry, I can’t donate to your fuckin’ church or whatever either. Besides, I don’t think Jesus is into match-making.”
I explain, “This has nothing to do with any church, or Jesus. I don’t want any money. All I want is your soul promised to me.” He laughs, cigarette-smoke flowing from his nose,
“My soul? Don’t I need that?”
I say, “If you have to ask, what do you think?” The guy looks puzzled,
“What about when I die, Heaven or whatever, won’t I need it then?”
“Okay, first off, you don’t know what happens when you die. You have no fucking idea. And even if there is, as you say, Heaven or whatever, how do you know you’ll need anything when you get there? You’re talking in what ifs and maybes, I’m offering you a guarantee, right now.” I tell him this and down my drink.
“So, you get my soul and she’s all mine?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Really? You’re serious?” he asks me.
He really wants to believe me, after so many years I can read people. He’s tired, face drawn. It girls are exhausting for guys like him. “I’m absolutely serious. You allow me your soul and she’s yours until you drop dead.”
He grins, “I could deal with that. Okay, then, what do I do? Sign my name in blood? What?”
I lean in on the bar, “If you’re certain, just tell me your soul is mine and it’s done.”
Skepticism flashes across his face, but he’s sold. He likes the idea. Christ, he loves it. I know these things.
“You’re probably crazy, but fine, fuck it. You can have my soul.” the kid says to me.
I smile, shake his hand. “Now, put out that cigarette, walk out that door. She’s waiting.” He’s gets up, gone without a word, cigarette still glowing faintly in the cheap ashtray. Another satisfied client.
I hear tires screech, sirens just a few minutes later. Red and blue lights dance across the bar. None of it’s for him, my pale faced, blue-eyed client. He’ll go home to his it girl, they’ll have time. He’ll wake up next to her tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. He won’t be afraid of anything. Trust me, I know.
I wonder if he’ll need what he gave me.
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