After a day of consideration and a day of feeling a bit more off than usual, after a day of not being happy with what I wrote for S.A.D. 2, I've decided to go ahead and post my really, really, really short story, "Man or Mouse":
Darren slammed the door behind him. His nostrils flared and his breathing
was deep and heavy. Squeakers cowered in the corner of his cage,
burrowing as best he could under a pile of shredded paper. He closed his
eyes and pretended to be asleep. "Bitch!" Darren said as he walked over
to the fridge. He grabbed a carton of milk and began chugging it.
Rivers of milk cascaded down the ample girth which stretched the limits
of his XXXL scrubs, going horizontal once they hit the elastic belt at
his waist. Higher and higher he lifted the carton as it emptied. When
there was nothing left, Darren chucked the carton into the trash and
wiped his mouth with the back of a meaty paw. "Bitch! That fucking
bitch!" he said, a spray of milky saliva with every word. Squeakers
pissed himself a little then, soaking into the hair on his underside,
which was already crusty with past urination. He knew what was coming,
what always came when his father returned home angry. His ribs ached
then, at the memories. Darren turned towards Squeaker's cage. "You
wouldn't understand, Squeakers, what hell i go through everyday with
that bitch," he said. He walks toward the cage, each step deafening
thunder to Squeaker's minute ears. "I don't know what her problem is,
whether she's retarded somehow or if she just hates me." Darren opens
the door of the cage, and with curious gentleness he brushes the
shredded paper off Squeaker and then lifts Squeaker up to his face, not
caring as the urine drips off his hand. Squeaker always hid in the same
spot, a fact that amused Darren. Animals were cute but dumb. "Or maybe
she just doesn't know she's making me miserable." Darren tightens his
grip on Squeakers. "Maybe it's all some big misunderstanding and i
should be the bigger person and MAKE her aware." Darren barks out a
laugh. "Yeah, I'll make her understand....WITH MY FISTS!" His grip
tightens even more. The pain, already unbearable, sends starbursts into
Squeaker's eyes. His hind legs scratch at Darren's hand, feeble and
ineffective like a feather scratching a balloon. "I don't know why she
has so much trouble doing her job when she's been doing it for 5 FUCKING
YEARS!" Darren's hand squeezed tighter, and Squeakers began to live up
to his name. His squeaks weren't very loud. Darren's grip had all but
completely choked off his air supply. "Back and forth I have to go.
Everyday!... I know it's not a long walk, but I mean, look at me! I'm a
fat motherfucker!" Darren slaps his belly with his other hand. The sound
of Darren's insides sloshing about made Squeakers want to vomit.
Nothing would come up though. It'd been three days since Darren last fed
Squeakers. "And it's a cold day in hell when she remembers to give me a
method of payment!" He scoffs and his hand squeezes more. Squeaker's
squeaks come out like a mouse-sized car alarm, but Darren continues to
ignore him. Squeakers screams a mousy scream as a rib on his left side
cracks. "It may not seem like such a big deal to some people, but it's a
HUGE deal to someone like me! I don't have a lot going on in my life.
This job is all i have keeping me tethered to reality." Another rib
cracks and Squeakers can feel himself begin to black out. The pain was
horrendous now, and Squeakers welcomed the embrace of unconsciousness.
He would have welcomed death if only it would come, but it never did.
Not in three years. But as another rib splintered, sending hundreds of
daggers throughout his tiny body, he wondered if this might be the day
his biggest wish is granted. He was never quite sure how Darren could
not know he was breaking Squeaker's bones. The only thing standing
between his bones and Darren's hand was a thin layer of skin with an
almost equally thin layer of fur. And his fur was gone in some places.
Darren never broke eye contact with him, either. Didn't the agony show
in his eyes? Didn't the fear? Squeakers didn't know what he had done to
deserve this, but it must have been terrible. As if in confirmation of
his sins in a past life, Darren's tirade increased in volume, perfectly
in sync with the increased pressure Squeakers felt. "She always
apologizes but it's all bullshit! She's just sorry she got fucking
caught! How can someone think it's okay to be so blatantly two-faced?!
HOW??!!" Darren squeezed his fist with all his might, the rest of
Squeaker's intact ribs gave way under the stress. The bones sliced into
his organs and pierced his tissue thin skin, jabbing Darren's hand. "OW!
MOTHERFUCKER!" Darren howled as he flung Squeakers across the room.
Squeaker's body hit the wall with a pitiful thud and landed on the
floor, unmoving. Darren stared at the body of his best friend, his only
friend. He looked down at his hand. Two uneven rows of tiny dots, slowly
swelling into beads of blood. As confused as he was horrified, Darren
looked back at the tiny white lump that lay on the floor. He slowly
walked forward, tears welling up in his eyes. "Squeakers?" He said,
mewling. "Squeakers?" Darren squatted down, gingerly scooping up
Squeakers. He saw the bones protruding from the mouse's chest. He saw
that the chest was not moving. He had killed the only thing in this
world he had ever loved. He wept throughout the night, looking and
sounding like an enormous squalling baby.
Now, for anyone who might be interested, and for myself so I don't regret deleting it, I'll post what I wrote today for S.A.D. 2. I'm probably going to go in the complete opposite direction from this tomorrow. Ugh... Here it is:
Don was a baker whose two main specialties were pastries and gallows
humor. And it was the love of both that led him to purchase and convert
an old funeral home into a bakery. It was brilliant when you thought
about it. The old cremation oven was repurposed into 4 smaller ovens.
The room where the wakes had been held was now a small cafe. It held 6
tables with a capacity of 18 seated customers. The room where the
undertaker would work his magic to make the dead beautiful was now the
kitchen. Stromberg & Sons Funeral Home was now Dark Delicacies. When
it first opened, it was a resounding disaster. No one in their right
mind would ever eat food made where the dead once dwelled. It was a food
critic looking for something different that changed everything. After
the review came out, people crammed into the small building from open to
close everyday. Some more superstitious people claimed the bakery was
on an old Indian burial ground. Don didn't mind that rumor in the least.
He even went so far as to claim just that in all his advertising for
Dark Delicacies. He was a single-minded man. No time for women or for
hobbies or really, even for people. A corpulent man, he enjoyed eating.
It's why he got into baking. The only reason he had a cafe was to fill
the void left by the Wake room and increase revenue. He was notorious
for chasing out unwanted patrons with large knives and streams of vulgar
insults. People never took him seriously, however. Most figured anyone
who would sell baked goods out of a former funeral home must be screwing
with people. Some overlooked his sour demeanor because they didn't want
to be kept from Don's delicious offerings. And the rest just treated it
as part of a larger macabre one-man show. Don had employees from time
to time, but none stayed longer than three months. Low pay, high
customer volume, and Don's antagonistic attitude ensured such a high
turnover. Don was unconcerned about that, though. Baking was all he
cared for. And he knew people loved his wares, that they would come back
no matter what indignities he might inflict upon them.
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