We’re reading short strange stories in my short story class. Authors like Lydia Davis and Donald Barthelme set off my imagination like sparks. They just are able to do strange things in few words. So, I decided to try my hand at it.
The hair on my arm stands erect like a swaying army. You just said something I liked. Now we are ready to march forward towards you, me and my army of goosebumps.
My parents, ladies at neighbor’s barbecues, coddling professors and spitting ones too, the forward of an inspirational memoir, my ex-boyfriend during our breakup, and a wistful man I met on a walking tour of Vienna, all told me life would be a journey. But will it be like the journey of a carrot, so comfortably nestled in the ground, then pulled up from the ground, washed, and put into my mouth, all just to satisfy me? Will I ever so easily satisfy?
I hate and I love
Three seconds ago you said something about a stranger. Eyebrows close and resentful, squinty eyes, back slumped since you already think you’re better than everyone else. When you say hateful things, you are uglier. This was a stranger, remember, and you thought she had “the wrong priorities,” that’s how you put it, because she liked to have men buy her drinks. The stranger was a young woman who had stories we will never hear. A few seconds before three seconds ago I was thinking how much I possibly very well could love you. You smiled at me like a big yes.
My days flicker between extremes.