Lacking
By: Scott Sousa
They whispered and giggled. They were all alone and had nothing to hide but that surely didn't stop them from enjoying the thrill of sharing their secrets.
Bill and Donnie walked in. Rachel and Denise, caught in the headlights of a semi that has no intention of braking, stopped, stunned, and stared at the men only to succumb to the sudden urge to crack up.
The women laughed and the men walked past, not really knowing what to think. They sit down in the living room and Bill turns on the t.v.
"Have you ever gone to the bathroom to take a piss and found a very long hair mingling with your carnival when there's no reason for one to be there?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, you haven't been with a woman in a while, and out of the blue you pull out your snake to refill the Hudson and there's a long hair wrapped around your straw. Has that ever happened to you?"
"Well, could it be due to poor personal care?"
"I don't go more than a week without whacking the weeds. And what are the odds I've been missing this one hair all these years only to have it fall out suddenly?"
"Wait, are you telling me you haven't dipped your pen in Rachel's ink in a while?"
"It's this thing we've been trying out recently that's supposed to get us to bond. She gets sauced by another guy while I watch."
"That's fucked." Bill smirked.
"Ha ha, funny."
"How did you get roped into something as crazy as that?"
"Our marriage counselor suggested it. She said it would help me feel connected to her."
"Does it work?"
"The first few times it pissed me off so now I just bring a book to keep my mind off it."
"Do you at least get to putt in some other chick's green in front of your wife?"
"No."
"That's like... feminism out of control or something, man. You got to put an end to that."
Donnie shrugs. "The only thing I can really do -"
The door to the apartment was broken down and two men wielding shotguns raced in, and in a panic, they immediately fired shots at Rachel and Denise. The men, realizing they shouldn't have been so hasty, bolted.
Bill and Donnie ran into the kitchen and found their wive's brains splattered on the floor and walls.
"Bad ass," Donnie says and they high-fived.
Reality sets in. Donnie awoke from his dream and cut off a stream of spit that had begun to drip down onto his mediocre book as Denise moaned, "Harder, Rex, harder."
He watched Rex's balls slap against his wife's pelvis for a moment and tried to regain interest in his novel...
Pastry
By: Scott Sousa
Stop. Just a second. Memories flooding. Vague. Like being in a foggy room with a fogged up mirror trying to figure out whether or not the straight-edge razor is going to kill you... (Editor's Note: Vague, like this paragraph.)
Memories of my eclairs and my father. Every Sunday he would come home with a dozen from the bakery. Every Sunday he would say, "Let's make this last."
By the end of every Sunday night they were all devoured. A house of sticky fingers: My sister, my mother, my father and I.
Even when my parents hated each other the eclairs kept the family together. It was therapy - stuffing our faces with dough and chocolate and creme. It was certainly cheaper than marriage counseling.
Fast forward seventeen years. Nothing has changed. We all still eat eclairs. Just not together.
Dilettante & Tyro (A Series. In Conversation): Why do you Write?
By: Jonathan Briggs
-I could never write.
-Why’s that?
-I wouldn’t be able to deal with strangers psychoanalyzing me all the time.
-That’s just some groups. The Freudian cats. You know, that’s why it’s called psychoanalytic criticism. Besides, that’s old news now anyways.
-Alright, but analysis in general. Like, think of the queerists.
-I’m not sure they go by that.
-You know what I mean. Queer theory. I know I have sexual hang-ups...
-Everyone’s got ‘em.
-Right. But my hang-ups would glisten on the page, I’m sure.
-Well that sounds more like psychoanalytic theory. What about Marxists?
-They’re still around?
-Probably more so than ever, what with the recession and all. Actually, I don’t know.
-Anyways, I guess I didn’t mean to mention any specific literary theory. I just would hate to discover something that my unconscious mind successfully kept below the surface. At least for my own perspective. I don’t care what other people see when they look at me, as long as I don’t have to see it. There’s a reason why I look in the mirror only once a day.
-I would like to see what you see.
-Everything that you do, minus me. If you write, there’s no excusing yourself to yourself. You know what I mean?
-No.
-For example, I write some children’s book about a car that talks and these futurists come along and start writing about how I’m glorifying the new technologies and the replacement of humans or something.
-Futurists?
-The Italian movement.
-Didn’t that die out in the ‘30s?
-Whatever, there’s experts on everything. All these esoteric theories keep people going. Otherwise, everyone is everyone else. You know?
-No.
-Well take us for example. Here we are talking about writing and literary criticism. Do you think that lady knows what we’re talking about?
-If she’s showed up to half the classes and has access to Wikipedia.
-You think so? Then, shit, I better find more arcane pursuits. I want to melt into an obscure bliss. That way nobody will get me, but everyone will dig me.
-Well you probably shouldn’t write children’s books anyway. You hate your own nephew.
-I know. This is all hypothetical. I’m just saying that what you do is noble.
-Noble?
-You’re putting yourself out there. For you and the world to see.
-You need to be published to be out there.
-True. Can I ask you something?
-Why would you ask me that? Just ask the question. If I don’t want to answer, I won’t.
-Why do you write?
Next of Kin
By: Scott Sousa
You know the moment the phone begins to ring that it is going to be bad news. Something about the ring or the time of day or the person whose name shows up the caller i.d. tells us that it is not a phone call we want to receive but have to answer. It was 11 pm when my phone rang. It was my mother, gasping.
"Your uncle died," she cried.
My uncle was a textbook example of someone who noticed an abnormal growth on his skin and chose to ignore it. The next thing he knew he had several malignant tumors all over his body. His doctor told him to quit drinking.
"Whaddayah mean quit drinking? What does drinking have to do with skin cancer? Nothing! That's what," he slurred.
"But-"
"But nothing! I know what you think of me, Mr. College Graduate. Poor, dumb fuck of an old man and his dumb fucking dirty blue collar. I'll show you something they probably didn't teach you at Harvard!" and he swung at the doctor, busting three of his teeth.
Soon after the restraining order was filed a doctor at another hospital gave him four to six months to live without treatment. That was eight years ago.
I pictured my uncle's wake: Relatives grieving, distillery execs posthumously awarding him medals for his dedication to the industry and an open bar for those who chose not to cry.
In reality his wake was odiously beautiful. My father gave the eulogy.
"Jack was... Well, he was a man with crude intentions and an impeccable taste for liquor."
People began to whisper and I was in nearly in tears trying to hold back my laughter.
"One must wonder how many diseases could have been cured with the money he spent on brandy and vodka."
He paused, surveying the stupefied looks on people's faces.
"But, as his family and friends, we must remember that not all of Jack's life was negative. He never once got a D.U.I. How this is possible no one will ever know because our Lord works in mysterious ways. Thank you."
Everyone silently watched him step down from the podium in front of the casket, except for me, I was trying my best to mask my hysteric laughter as crying. My cousin rose reached out and put her hand on my shoulder, saying "It'll be okay. Be strong."
We all knew that although my father's eulogy was grossly inappropriate that he was right. Everyone left the funeral home that night without saying goodbye.
The Fisherman
By: Scott Sousa
It was a beautiful evening and for some reason, I don't know why exactly, I decided to shower and dress nicely before I went out and made a complete buffoon of myself. I don't usually mind embarrassing myself but it bothers others - So fuck 'em, I'll shed what scraps of dignity I have left in style.
I've amassed this collection of nice clothing that was picked out by previous girlfriends in their attempts to gentrify me for whatever reason. It itched the shit out of me but I would become so hopelessly whipped that I'd wear a sundress to impress their family and friends if it meant I was going to get laid.
So whenever I'm on the prowl I pick out something one of these jinnis manifested. It always appeared to me that if women sensed that I've committed to sharing my vital fluids with only one female they flock to me as if they have some primordial urge to take what shouldn't be theirs. So I occasionally dress the part and hope for the best.
Tonight the hot water was running especially hot. It felt re-energizing, especially on my tense and mangled back. I had not cherished it when I was younger. I closed my eyes and thought of all those times I could have lifted with my knees instead...