An excerpt from work intended to be longer

image via calvin hollywood

Other than killing her husband, Amy Schneider had never done a single, remarkable thing. She did however look pleasant in a black dress. Her dresses were never too low cut nor deceptively conservative, in fact, Amy did her best to not look too much like anything at all. Perhaps, it was part of the plan, this habit of hers, this tendency to be a side note in other people’s conversations.

The weeks following the shooting, Ari’s death was remarked on often and with a certain degree of understanding. Death had been wished upon Ari by postalworkers, coworkers, waiters and occasionally his dearest friends. He was just that sort of guy.

Ari worked in Public Relations for a prominent firm – though not an entirely well regarded one–and had made it his life’s work to destroy anyone who stood in his path. Amy, who did no work at all, did not interfere with Ari’s business. In fact, she knew not a thing about his dealings. As for the rest of them, they all knew Ari far too well.

--inspired by the pages of Gawker, at least a tad or so.

Boris the deceased

The deceased was fat. His meaty rolls poured out of his knock off suit; a suit intended to make him look respectable for the evening. Boris’s flesh, however, was unused to such confined quarters.

In the past, these same rolls had hung happily over his velvet tracksuit pants or rested provocatively behind a sweat-stained wife-beater, but now they propelled forward, undeterred by his fancy collar. Hairy and obvious; the rolls were performing an act of posthumous rebellion against the whole decentness of the event.

Sitting in the funeral home, with the grey skies of Midwood looming overhead, the family gathered together to look upon him. Boris’s blubber was evident, in fact, it was commented on by every member of the tight-knit clan. Boris was dead and had put on fifteen pounds in the process of dying. There was no need to be polite about it. It was the truth.

The observations, which were uttered loudly between the hymns and prayers, weren’t mean spirited in nature. In fact, everyone was pretty jolly about the whole thing, a possible result of the vodka, drunk ceremoniously before the funeral. Vodka only indulged in, in honor of Boris, who loved the drink so. Vodka also partaken of in honor of Boris’s mother, his father, his brother, and his dog.

Boris’s dog , who was also fat, was also dead. Boris had wished to be buried in the same casket as Smirnoff, his furry companion, but alas they both could not fit in one final resting place.So, Smirnoff would be buried beside him in his own casket. Unfortunately, the only doggie sized casket available in the funeral home was a shocking shade of pink. Boris would most likely think the salmon colored casket was too effeminate for such a manly, and more so , such hairy a dog. But as we already said repeatedly: Boris was dead.

The ceremony proceeded on, with respects paid to both man and mutt. Everyone agreed that Boris’s wife cried gratuitously as the dog’s casket was closed. It was also agreed upon that she showed the proper restraint when Boris’s casket met the same fate.

After these short,sentimental moments, the rabbi said the usual things about Israel and goodness, perhaps, assuming that upon his death there too would be some goodness in the deceased. Then, Boris’s father, whose capacity for subtle observation was unmatched in the community, spoke.

“ He was not the smartest one, “ he began, ” Nor was he handsome or rich. He did not leave much behind for his destitute parents. He even took that shit machine of a dog with him.”
The rabbi stared down at his Torah, presumably hoping for some sort of godly intervention or perhaps overcome with emotion at such poignant words. The funeralgoers pondered this possibility for a moment. And then the moment passed.

Ivan continued, “ Boris was not kind, or funny, not very skilled with tools or the pen. He didn’t smell all that pleasant… But, one thing Boris did have was an appetite for life. No one could eat like him. No one could drink like him. And now that he’s gone, there’s finally some for the rest of us.”

On that note, most people clapped. One man sitting in the back row, burped his praise for the fine and true words. It took ten able-bodied men and one particularly stout woman to carry Boris’s casket away.

When the dirt was poured and the deed was done, the group met to drink, glad that they would all live another day to chat and honor, and mock and judge , the lives of others.

Playing with Unicorns

It’s been one week since he lost his corner office, his catered lunch and his quarterly bonus. And now, to top it off, he’d collect his first unemployment check. The pretending, he thinks, did it start last Friday, or had it started long ago?

On the train, he ponders this thought. Then, he ponders hot dogs. He sits motionless, as the R races toward Wall Street and then slivers back again. After three rides, Tom braves the outside. He eats two dogs, swallows his pride, and heads toward the unemployment office.

- An excerpt from a longer story

The beginnings of a story with no ending

Alice was small with large breasts. Boys liked this about her. Boys also liked her hair, how the burnt orange tendrils fell in assorted formations over her brow, softly framing the edges of her cheeks. That’s the kind of thing boys would say they liked about Alice, to Alice’s face — as they stared deeply into the emerging terrains of her brown sweaters.

Reasons Why You Suck Becca Taylor

A story from the perspective of a preteen drama queen:

1. You’re a D cup in the 7th grade.
2. You’re both skinny and a D cup in the 7th grade.
3. You don’t have pimples. A blackhead is not a pimple. Your skin is perfect. You know it and you pretend like it’s not so other people can tell you it is.
4. We used to be friends but we’re not friends anymore.
5. We used to be friends but you decided that we’re not friends anymore.
6. Even people who are no longer friends but used to be friends, do not steal their former friend’s boyfriends. But you do.
7. A person, who used to be your friend but isn’t your friend anymore, (Especially when it’s this person’s own fault that the friendship withered and died last summer.) does not have the right to accuse me of being melodramatic about a guy that most definitely was my boyfriend.
8. And yes, he told me he was my boyfriend. He said it last week in gym class. Everyone heard him. And no, he didn’t feel sorry for me. And the fact that you said that makes you a bitch.
9. I’m not an A cup. I’m a small B. And I don’t need to use my boobs to get guys. But you obviously do.
10. When we were friends you wrote me a letter saying we’d be BFF’s forever and told me I was pretty. You told me that it didn’t matter whether boys paid attention to me or not. You told me stupid boys don’t matter.
11. You lied.

Bedtime stories with my robotic stepchild

Through his monitor, 3240x90010 megathron stares blankly at the object in my hand. Printed on corrugated paper, a relic from the time of trees, the book is an oddity to him. "Once upon a time," I begin.

" Long before the reign of twitterdom, there were novels-anthologies of work even- shared through generations. In them, words would flow with abandon, for hundreds of pages at a time. And then, people would meet in tribal ceremonies and amidst the punch and the cheese, they would talk. None of this augmented reality shit: real conversations ugly face to ugly face."

Suddenly, manic with nostalgia I reach out toward him through the screen, and attempt contact; a hug. Megathron looks at me with disdain. I have exceeded my 140 word limit. He unplugs me and moves on.