As Told To People With Sensitive Shoes
One day a girl came home from war. A soldier girl. A pretty girl. With long red hair that was dark red hair, that was almost brown and sometimes black. And it looked quite nice when it was in the light. And she thought, “I might have been happy once.” Maybe she still was, but she wasn’t sure. How can you be sure about such things? So she thought about putting a knife into her leg, to test it out. A happy knife. A long knife. She sat on her kitchen chair and stared at the kitchen drawers and thought about the knife. It seemed like it would work. It might work. It will maybe work. But only if I do it right. She got into the bathtub, to think about it some more. And let the water rise, lying flat, above her knees, above her hips, above her breasts, above her nose. She held her breath and watched the ceiling. “I’m a fish at last!” She thought. With satisfaction, before pulling the plug out with her big toe and watching it all drain away.
That’s all I told them. “The end,” I said and I looked at their feet instead of their eyes, and thought about what sensible shoes they were wearing.
“That was a terrible story.” One guy said.
“That wasn’t terrible,” said another, “It was a disaster.”
And even though the word was spoken, I could tell that it was spelled wrong. He spelled it “disaester” instead of “disaster.” I could tell. You’d think sensible shoes would know how to spell.
So I disregarded them and kept it to myself.
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Portland Fiction Project
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