So, I wrote a thing. It's the first part of a SHORT story. (Please great Muse of Stories, LET IT BE SHORT. I don't think I could handle anything else right now.)
But, seriously, I think it's a short story, and I already know how it ends, so... yeah. It ought to be pretty short.
I hope I'll finish it. I really like it, but that doesn't always mean anything.
Still, the fact that it positively vomited itself out of my fingertips after a near sleepless night is (believe it or not) a good sign!
I've felt creatively constipated since election night last November. Everything has felt a bit "What's the point?" since then, so I'll take any inspiration or creative burst I can get.
This was that. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it.
As always, criticism and encouragement are greatly appreciated.
Lots of love,
Jules
PS- Ugh, the format is all messed up again, and I just don't have the patience to fix it, so y'all are just going to have to deal. Sorry.
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It was the sort of shop
one would wander into entirely by accident after having taken a turn down the
wrong street. The sort that having found it once, one would never be able
to find it again, despite having taken careful note of the address.
When she entered, the
clerk at the back (a dark-skinned young woman with shaved head, nose ring, and
combat-boot-clad feet propped up on the counter) said "You break it, you
bought it" without looking up from her book.
The place was so narrow
and so overstuffed with items - all of which appeared breakable - that she felt
she needed to turn sideways and breathe shallowly while she looked. There
appeared to be no system of organization in place, with each item seemingly
plunked down on the nearest empty shelf at random. Books were scattered
throughout, including teetering piles of them on the floor which she stepped
around with great caution. Many of them had rather lurid covers with
strange depictions as something out of a dream, while others were so worn she
could barely make out the titles.
The book the clerk was
reading showed 6 monkeys dressed in Renaissance clothing, sitting in a
summoning circle around a giant banana which had been peeled halfway to reveal
a nearly naked woman with an enormous headdress emerging from it. Even
stranger, it was entitled "Jenny Goes to the Prom".
Everything in the shop
was interesting, which made it difficult for her to focus on any one item at a
time. She would just be contemplating a Ganesh statue that appeared to be
made of computer chips when a pair of sunglasses with a tag which read
"For Eric, from his ancestor Thomas: You're going to need these!"
caught her eye.
And so it was that she
was drawn from object to object, never able to stop long enough to actually consider
buying anything. The consequence of this
was that she found herself wanting everything and nothing all at once.
She wasn't certain how
long she'd been there before the clerk sighed heavily and set down her book.
"It's that
one," she said pointing, "third shelf up from the bottom."
She picked up her book and resumed reading.
The shelf in question
was just as crammed with things as the rest of the shop, and, at first, she
didn't know which item the clerk meant.
Then she saw it: a small
painting on canvas, no more than 10"X10", of a buffalo. He had
been rendered in a number of soft colors: pinks and blues and golds and greens
all mixed so he looked as though his fur had been painted in stripes with some
sort of fruity, sugary cereal powder. The buffalo was in profile but his
head was turned so that he could look out at the viewer with one wary, patient
eye.
Without thinking, she
plucked him from the shelf and brought him to the counter.
"How much is this
one, please?" she asked the clerk.
"What's his name?"
the clerk asked, without looking up from her book.
"I'm sorry?"
she said.
"Ugh," the
clerk rolled her eyes and put down her book. "His. Name."
She looked at the
painting of the buffalo in her hands; looked deep into that intelligent eye.
"Um...Henry?"
she ventured. The clerk waved her hand like she was waiting for
more. "Henry...but his friends call him Hank," she said,
feeling foolish. The clerk nodded once and took up her book once more.
"He'll cost you your
keychain," the clerk said.
With a mounting feeling
that this was all some weird dream from which she would soon awaken (or at
least an elaborate prank), she pulled out her keys and looked at the
keychain. It was a small pewter disk with a tree carved into it.
Her sister had given it to her when she moved into her first apartment in
NYC. Sad to give it up, but unwilling to leave Hank behind, she removed
the keychain and placed it in the clerk's outstretched hand.
"Have a nice
day," said the clerk as the keychain disappeared into her pocket.
When the shop door
closed behind her there was a sort of whooshing sound, like something being
sucked out into the vacuum of space. She shook herself a little and
looked down at the small plastic bag in her hand. The buffalo painting
was inside it, though she couldn't remember the clerk having put him in a bag
for her, as well as a receipt which she was certain hadn't been offered.
The receipt read:
(1)
Oil buffalo on canvas, correctly identified as Henry (Hank)
Sold to Ms. Georgette
(Gette) Kaspar for:
(1) keychain, used daily, 7 years, gift from
Ms. Clementine (Tiny) Kaspar
Gette stared at the receipt, then Hank, then the storefront (which now appeared to be closed).
"What the fuck was that?" she said to no one in particular.
