Indeed, the driver appeared to be screaming. The people at the bus stop all scattered in different directions to avoid the vehicle’s trajectory. All except Theo and Simone; they remained steadfast, Theo grinning, Simone rolling her eyes.

“He’s just yawning.” Simone lifted her hand apologetically. “Sorry, everybody.”

“Phew.” Theo wiped imaginary sweat from his brow. “I thought that was our last stop, mom.”

Simone, “Stop tricking people.”

“They trick themselves.”

The bus came to a slow halt, and the door opened. The driver looked around, confused by the sudden burst of panic a moment ago.

Theo, as he stepped on board, “Quite the show stopper you have here, sir.”

The driver smiled, “Thank you, young man.”

Theo glanced at his mother, then back at the driver, “How long is this beast, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Thirteen point five metres.” The driver answered.

Theo whistled, “That’ll put butts in the seats, or rather-”

Simone pushed her son on, “Onwards now, there’s a line forming, honey.”

“And why wouldn’t there be? It’s impressive.” Theo quipped.

“Shut up.” Simone hissed, sure to keep smiling.

The doors shut with a sigh, and the yellow machine jerked into motion. The smell on the bus reminded Simone of a nursing-home. Over the past few days she had reluctantly gotten to know four or five of the faces, and hoped she did not look as old as any of them.

Theo gestures towards an emergency hammer above the window, “It says break the glass in case of an emergency.”

Simone nodded, “That’s right.”

“What kind of emergency?”

“If there’s an accident, and you have to get out.”

“If it’s crowded on a very, very warm day, and someone poos their pants?”

Simone looked back out the window without answering.

They got off at the station to change busses. On their way, a woman handed Simone a pamphlet while mumbling, “(something-something) Jesus Christ.”

When Simone waved her away, Theo swooped in and snatched the pamphlet with a smile, “Is God and Jesus the same guy, or are they different characters, or is Jesus God when he was young?”

The old woman smiled back and reiterated, “(something-something) Jesus Christ.”

“Move.” Simone pushed on.

They made their next bus in time. The passengers were younger, better looking. At the first stop, a handsome hipster stepped onboard. Unintentionally, Simone’s gaze met his. His smile was so genuine and surprising that she smiled back without thinking, then quickly turned and looked out the window.

“Excuse me?”

“Hm? Yes?” Simone looked up and saw he was right in front of her.

“I’m Frederik… can I ask you your name?”

Theo leaned in, “Well, well, well.”

Simone, “Sorry. My son, he’s…”

Theo, “She’s lost for words, hello, I’m a pedophile - not legally of course, not yet.”

“Theo, shut up.” Simone looked up at Frederik, “Sorry, he’s in a phase.”

Frederik, “No worries - hello, Theo.”

Theo handed him the Jesus pamphlet, “Go to him, Freddy.”

“What’s this?” Frederik glanced at it, “Oh, I thought you were joking when you said you were a pedophile.” This made Theo laugh.

Simone, amazed at this achievement, “I’m Simone.”

Frederik, without a beat, “I’ve never done this - but would you maybe have dinner with me?”

Simone, unsure if she was embarrassed for him, or herself, “I’m in a relationship.”

“Figures,” Frederik shrugged, “well, I’m gonna pretend to look for a seat further back”.

Her heart raced, “Sorry.”

Theo leaned in and whispered, “Thirteen and a half metres - at least.”

“Shut up. And don’t tell your dad. He’ll worry.”

Theo, “This is what he gets for not getting the car fixed.”

Simone chuckled, “That’s right.”

Three stops later, mother and son got off. Simone glanced over her shoulder to see if her admirer was following her. He was not, and it bothered her slightly. Her and Theo walked by a flower stand. It was packed with tired-looking saps stopping off on their way home from work to buy the obligatory red Valentine’s bouquet with whatever chocolate/wine combo they could envision.

Theo, “Wanna stop off and get Dad a dandelion, maybe a lawn?”

“He’ll live.”

“You don’t like Valentine’s Day?”

“People should show their love every day. Not on token days. You know what ‘token’ means?”

“I don’t know what love means.” Theo exclaimed theatrically at the sky.

Simone shook her head with a smile, “It’s not what people show on Valentine’s Day.”

Theo and Simone came home to the flat-pack family apartment. There were a few pink balloons scattered on the floor, garlic in the air, and a lit candle on the dining table. They exchanged a glance. He smirked, she did not.

Simone, “Don’t say a word.”

Theo, “About what? You have to be more specific at this point.”

“Well, well,” Lukas came out of the kitchen, “if it isn’t the rest of the family.” He kissed Simone, “Happy Valentine’s Day, babe.”

“You too.” Simone smiled, “Smells good.”

“Bolognese, and I got some wine, and cheesecake, and then I thought we’d watch a movie.” Lukas ruffled Theo’s hair, “Send this little sociopath to bed early.”

Theo, “But I’ll miss all the romance!”

Simone, “Maybe when you’re older, kiddo.” she turned to Lukas, “It looks so nice here, very sweet.”

Theo, nodding his head, “Very sweet, dad. I’m blushing.”

Dinner was served. A thin, translucent line of tomato sauce slid down Lukas’ chin as he slurped up a spaghetto. It flicked off and hit his shirt. Simone remembered that Frederik had been wearing a stained shirt on the bus. It was a brown stain. Maybe he was an artist, maybe he made stuff on Etsy. Brown stuff.

Theo was talking about school, “… and then we went orienteering out on the heath trails.”

Lukas, “Watch out for vipers out there. They can look like dog poop, but don’t step on them.”

Simone, annoyed, “Why would he step in dog poop on purpose?”

Lukas looked at her in surprise, blinking, “Just saying.”

Theo, “Oh, mom. All the kids are stepping in poop these days. Dad’s hip.”

Lukas, “See, I’m hip, mom.”

Simone, “Please don’t call me mom.”

Theo, “Simone, could you hand me the napkins?”

Lukas to Theo, “Leave your mom alone. She’s had a long day - picking you up without a car is kind of a drag.”

Theo, “I like the bus; it’s exciting.”

Lukas chuckled, “Exciting?”

“Anything can happen on the bus. Isn’t that right, mom?”

Simone, exhausted, “It’s a hoot.”

Lukas, “Well, enjoy it while you can.”

Theo was in bed by ten. Simone lay on the couch in the living room and listened to Lukas doing dishes in the kitchen, humming to himself. Somehow, she found him less melodic than a washing machine. Lukas would never have approached her on a bus; if she told him about the episode with Frederik, he would call it inappropriate; say this Frederik person did not respect women’s personal space, then put his arms around her and ask if she was okay. Simone considered him a soft man, through and through; slightly overweight, impotent half the time, with a backbone rooted in contempt of confrontation to disguise his terror of it. Fifteen years ago, their joint destiny had been dictated by the university; they were placed in the same room, and caught hold of each others shyness and held fast till it felt rude to let go. Having a stranger profess his desire for her was an exhilarating contrast to that. Stretching out on the couch, Simone took a few selfies with her phone and, looking through them, she smiled approvingly.

With a careful ear on the kitchen, she gingerly unbuttoned her jeans enough to slip two fingers down between her legs. Half-closing her eyes, she reimagined the encounter on the bus. She changed it to a night bus, and made herself and Frederik the only two passengers. The rest was a silly, but effective, cliche. However, Simone’s building trajectory towards orgasm was disrupted when a loud crash came from the kitchen.

“Sorry!” Lukas called.

“Fu’fuck sake! Just let me do it…” Simone buttoned up and went to the kitchen. She stopped at the door. Lukas was crawling around on his knees, like a visually impaired animal, looking for shards of glass. He had already gathered most in a little pile.

“Don’t come in!” He protested, holding up his hand, “Not sure I got them all yet.”

“You’re bleeding.” Simone observed, with less concern than she would have liked.

“Oh.” Lukas inspected his hand briefly, “it’s not too bad, I’m okay.”

“There’s one over there, by the trash can.” It looked like a rare gem. Simone leaned against the doorsill, and smelled the sticky, sugary scent on her fingers as she watched Lukas clumsily crawl across to pick up the shard. The crevasse of his softness was exposed, “Your ass is hanging out, Lukas.”

“You don’t have to stand there and supervise me, I’ll take care of this.” Lukas then pulled his t-shirt down instead of pulling his underpants up.

When the floor was free from glass, the lovers retreated to the couch together, and watched a different movie than they had the previous night. A documentary, because Simone had the privilege of choosing. As they watched it, they ate a different kind of snack than they usually ate (one of the heart-shaped variety).

Lukas, “Mh, if dicks tasted like this, I’d be down on the docks all day long.”

Simone, “I’d be a happy camper too.”

Lukas put his arm around her and pulled her close, “I bet you would.”

Simone knew very well that Lukas’ alluding to something sexual was his way of asking for sex - or saying that he was good to go. Hand in hand they watched a documentary about snake owners. It focused on one owner in particular, because he had been killed by his reticulated python, John-John, during filming. In the interviews prior to his death, the owner explained affectionately, while giving a tour of the shed in his backyard where John-John the reticulated python lived, that his pet loved to stretch out in bed next to him in the afternoons and listen to music. Simone saw nothing in the animal’s orange, expressionless eyes. She imagined the expression unchanged as it strangled the owner, and she was pleased when they cut to a herpetologist, a woman with a bland face and small glasses. The herpetologist explained, in relation to John-John behaviour, that snakes tend to stretch out next to potential prey to see if they will be able to digest the kill. She also added apologetically that boa constrictors do not have eardrums, and so their hearing is quite different from that of a human being.

Simone, without looking away from the screen, “I’ve been having cramps all day.” Her remark disarmed the possibility of intercourse.

“Yeah,” Lukas smiled with defeat, “these snakes aren’t really setting the mood are they.”

“You told me to pick a movie. Sorry it’s not romantic.”

They watched the rest in silence, still hand in hand.

Later, in bed, Simone watched Lukas sleep. He was stretched out next to her like a soft snake, seeing if he would be able to digest her. Somehow, it had gotten more awkward to be intimate the better they had gotten to know each other. To a point where Simone dreaded the possibility most nights. She longed for someone - for Frederik - to swoop in and take her away. Or, for Lukas to die - a painless death. Simone was undecided on whether Theo should die too. Being a single mother was tough, even if it was only in a hypothetical scenario.

Again, she revisited the encounter on the bus in her head. This time as a widower, and this time she was allowed to reach orgasm. The climax made her tremble so hard that she was afraid Lukas might have woken up. Or had been listening, with his soft ears, in the dark.

*

Next morning, Simone woke an hour before the alarm. While Lukas slept, she downloaded a dating app and uploaded a few pictures - she had to crop either Lukas, or Theo, out of most of them, but in the end she felt good about her profile. Her hope was that Frederik, being single, could be on there as well. She swiped till Lukas woke up but without finding the mystery man.

“Morning, babe.”

“Morning.”

During breakfast Lukas was on the phone with his mother. It had always bothered Simone that he would retreat back into his childhood dialect whenever he spoke with either of his parents. To not disappoint them. This morning, it bothered her more than usual.

Lukas hung up the phone and spoke in his usual way as they discussed the day ahead. Simone felt defiant and disruptive, and demanded Lukas pick Theo up later instead of her.

Lukas, “But you’re already on the bus? I’m biking. You know I don’t know public transport.”

Simone, without looking up from her toast, “So you’ll bike.”

“So,” Theo quietly watched them both, “how was the movie? Romantic?”

Lukas, “What time is it?”

Simone shrugged, “Dunno.”

Lukas, “I’ll never understand how you can live without a watch.”

Simone, “I paid extra for my phone to have a clock.”

Theo, “Sassy.”

Lukas, “I’ll say.”

Simone, “I didn’t get much sleep.”

Theo, “Does that mean I’m finally getting a little brother?”

Lukas laughed, and playfully punched Theo on the arm.

Simone sighed and stood up from the table to get ready for the day, “You’re picking him up today. Done.”

Her usual clothes all seemed to belong to someone else - to Lukas - to yesterday. Simone dug deep inside her closet, and unearthed a pair of slacks and a silk shirt she had not worn for years. Today, she told herself, she was ready to ask how high? if faith required her to jump.

On her usual route to the bus stop, Simone passed the flower stand readying itself for business. There were buckets on the pavement in front of it, filled with a variety of red flowers on sale. The leftovers of love. Able-bodied declarations one day earlier, now carcasses left to rot. Simone doubted they would even be able to get rid of them for free. She almost bought one, but saw that she was running late.

Not having to drop off, or pick up, Theo today, Simone could ride one bus all the way to work and back. The same one as she had met Frederik on yesterday. She alternated between swiping faces on the app, and anxiously scanning the faces on the bus after every stop. A large gentleman seated next to her made her wish people could hush strong odours, like we do sounds. Alas, Simone’s trip to work was fruitless, and smelly. It would be a long seven-hour wait before she could ride it back home again.

Seven and a half hours later, Simone was back on the bus, swiping through the app, smelling fellow passengers, and glancing up at the door at every stop. Without exception she continued to reject everyone on the app. Not because they were too tall, too short, too old, or young. It was not Frederik, not Frederik, not Frederik. Wholeheartedly, her allegiance belonged to the mystery man she met on Valentine’s Day.

“Excuse me?” Simone immediately recognised the voice, “I’ve never done this before-”

Written by: J. Gaasdal-Bech
E-mail: pepwritesshortshorts@gmail.com

When a girl stole his heart, the boy swung his hammer at her too. Unfortunately, instead of falling in love, the girl fell into a coma.

Then the boy was arrested and taken to court. There, with a wooden hammer no less, the boy was sentenced to spend the rest of his days in prison. Hammertime.

Written by: J. Gaasdal-Bech
E-mail: pepwritesshortshorts@gmail.com

There’s no rhyme or reason. I’m becoming an altruistic mf this season. I want to do good for others. Like my friend, Matt. Matt’s been worrying about World War Three. Specifically, worried about getting drafted into the armed forces. He says, “Johan, I’m scared.” I told him not to worry. That he’s far too fat to get drafted into the military. Unless they need help with the leftovers in the canteen, you’ll be fine, I told him. Matt is morbidly fat, and that’s that. But Matty the fatty is not just big-boned. He’s also thin-skinned. So I’m the asshole? Sure, Matt.

From World War Three to twenty-three-and-me. I’ve turned thirty-three and have been curious about my family tree. My parents used to jokingly refer to me as “Moses” because I parted them like the Red Sea. C’est la vie. Fifty percent of all marriages end badly. Fact. The rest end in divorce. My parents disagree. Besides my being born, my sister’s illness has also caused strain on the family. Over the years, the doctors say her asshole has spread to her personality. Poor thing. She’s prolapsing into a sack of shit. A sack I will light on fire and leave on her widower’s doorstep, so he’ll unknowingly stomp on her remains and mess up his shoes. Poor thing.

All this disease and divide coursing through my veins has made me curious about my geniality. Don’t get me wrong, I love my family. I love them like Georgia O’Keeffe loved painting dicks. Nevertheless, I’ve submitted my DNA to see if there’s an upgrade, or fix, available. The results should arrive in just a few days’ time.

*

When a woman in leopard print is out of sight below, Johan flicks through the other faces on the sidewalk. There’s no one to watch. He gets up and strolls the length of the living room into the hall. Before making it to the kitchen, he pauses, glancing at the bottom drawer of the four in the chest.

After a moment of making eyes at the chrome handle, Johan goes over and pulls it open. He’s salivating. Without further hesitation, he steps into the small drawer. It’s no bigger than a shoebox. Still, little by little, he disappears completely.

It is unclear how much time has passed when Johan ascends. It is dark outside. Going by that, eight hours at least. The stack of mail on the mat by the door suggests a few days could have slipped by.

*

I feel like I have and haven’t slept for a couple of days. I find sleep unbelievably boring. My dreams consist of me doing simple tasks and chores. There’s absolutely no narrative or point to them. If I wake up to pee, it’s like getting excused from math class. Eight hours? My ass.

I’m back on my back on the living room floor, reading the letter with my DNA results back. There are no immediate surprises. The only noteworthy revelation is that I have a brother. Gene’s the name. A nobody cohabitating my body. Well, our body. Apparently, I’m some kind of gruesome twosome. There’s a worm in my apple. It’s like God traced his hand to create a turkey but traced it twice for safety. Two turkeys in one. But no more of this gobble-gobble and apple-babble.

According to the letter, my brother carries my sister’s illness. That’s his cross to bear, and he’s mine. I always thought I was dead inside. Turns out, it was just Gene. It all makes sense. Doctors tell me I should stop smoking. Women ask me to get sober. I tell them that I don’t smoke. That I’m clean. According to the letter, Gene is a smoker and an addict. A freeloader living rent-free in my attic.

That makes me Gene’s landlord. I glance up at the clock on the wall. It’s eviction time. My reason being that, while it is not technically illegal for my brother to be inside of me, I very much feel that it should be. As I’ve been feeling religious lately, I ask: what would Jesus do? And I’ve come to the conclusion that Jesus would die at the age of thirty-three, like Gene is about to. If you hate someone, set them free.

I get off the floor and manoeuvre the ten steps into the hall. Call me sentimentally ill, but I feel sorry for Gene as I crush a pill, or two, into a powder and switch this with that. It’s gonna be a good show. Gene’ll lose his mind. I’ll lose his life. Qui pro quo.

I close the drawer and go back into the living room. Without stopping, I pick up the DNA letter from the floor and carefully turn it into a neat little plane. I open the window, and I aim for the wind. I miss. It immediately nosedives into a puddle on the sidewalk below. To be fair, it’s raining quite heavily outside.

I lie down on the floor and listen to the street and the rain with my eyes shut.

*

Johan is on the floor. He has just summoned the responsibility council in his mind and proposed to absolve a previously instated rule separating consumption of narcotics by at least forty-eight hours. In its place, Johan proposes a separation period of twenty-four hours.

When his suggestion was unanimously agreed upon, Johan jumps to his feet and bee-lines for the hall. Excitedly, he steps off the floor and into the small drawer like he had the night before. But this time he never came back out. It was snip, snap, snout. His family buried him in the little drawer - it was easier than getting him out. In the end, they were happy to hear that Johan didn’t die alone. It had been two birds with one stone.

Gobble-gobble.

Hannah sits by the living room table, both eyebrows raised in exasperation. Biology homework.

Papa comes by and gives her a kind tug on the shoulder. “Need a hand?”

Hannah leans back in the chair. “I can’t figure it out.”

“Papa to the rescue.” He sits and skims the text. “Ah, okay, it seems simple enough.”

“Everyone says that.” Hannah flicks her eraser across the table. “Mama won’t help me.”

“It’s just a matter of seeing it from the right angle.”

“Where is the glue?” Mama’s voice cuts in from the other end of the living room.

“We’re just in the middle of biology class here.” Papa turns towards her. “I don’t think we have any glue.”

Mama says, “We shouldn’t do her homework. Hannah can do it.”

Papa replies, “Nobody’s saying she can’t.”

Mama says, “She should figure it out on her own.”

Papa begins, “There’s nothing wrong wi—”

Mama cuts in, “The glue is supposed to be in this drawer.”

Papa asks, “Why do you need it?”

“To glue my ass cheeks together,” Mama snaps back.

Ignoring her, Papa points to the chart on the page. “Look, sweetheart, Mama has blue eyes, and I have brown, right?”

Hannah sits up. “Yup.”

Papa examines her face. “And you have orange eyes, right?”

Hannah smiles. “They’re green.”

“Green eyes.” Papa smirks and consults the chart. “Now, the probability of brown and blue equalling green is…”

Written by: J. Gaasdal-Bech
E-mail: pepwritesshortshorts@gmail.com

It was done. There was no undoing it now. It was not like they would ever unbury their friend. That would be cruel. The three friends made a unanimous decision to put it behind them and move on. Still, the event deserved to be acknowledged with a night in the forest.

Kevin frowned at his lighter, failing to light a cigarette.

“Don’t use the fire to light it,” Helene suggested, predicting his next move.

Kevin slowly reached the cigarette toward the campfire and drunkenly watched two fingers get too close to the flames before feeling it. “Ouch.” He withdrew, half the cigarette on fire, and took a drag.

Joachim just shook his head.

The dynamic was off, but who could blame them? Murdering and burying a member will do that to even the best of friend groups.

“…we went above and beyond,” Helene assured herself - and her friends.

Joachim lifted his eyebrows. “No one will find him.”

During even the slightest pause in the conversation, each one gazed into the fire solemnly. The brush around them stirred occasionally. Above them, the dense summer tree crowns hid the moon and stars.

Joachim lifted his head, about to add something, when the fire was suddenly sucked into the ground, disappearing without a trace. Not a single ember remained. In an instant, everything plummeted into complete darkness around them.

“What happened?” Kevin chuckled, his voice disembodied by the night.

“It was like letting the thumb off a lighter,” Helene added.

“I’ll relight it,” Joachim said - and then his entire body burst into flames.

He burned with tremendous fury for five short, long seconds. The one-man inferno cast light onto Helene and Kevin’s horrified faces. It happened too quickly to act, and ceased so quickly that it was pitch black again by the time the thump of Joachim’s body collapsing to the ground sounded.

Helene screamed.

“Joachim!?” Kevin cried, without reply.

Then Helene burst into flames. Everything lit up again, like a returning heartbeat, jumping from place to place.

Kevin screamed something, trying to come closer, but the fire’s intensity made it impossible to even approach Helene. The pattern was confirmed when the thud of Helene’s lifeless body hitting the ground could be heard in dead, absolute, darkness.

A warm, crisp scent hung as thickly in the air as the blackness it inhabited. Kevin could taste it and threw up. He was convinced that, at any minute, he too would roast.

When the fire spawned softly back between the logs, Kevin let out a soft, surprised yelp. He nearly fell over a small chair when he noticed the stranger sitting on the other side of the fire. A very thin man, with large eyebrows. He was wearing a plain black suit. The attire made him look out of place in the forest, but his face suggested he was right where he intended to be. Calm and certain.

The stranger fished a cigarette from his breast pocket and gestured for a match to light it.

Kevin took out his lighter and, with a shaking hand, demonstrated that it did not work.

The stranger’s lips tightened around the cigarette as he took a drag from. It seemed to have lit itself. He winked his cloudy white eye at Kevin and smiled.

“Thanks for not running,” the stranger purred, with a tired timbre in his voice.

“Am I being spared?” Kevin asked.

The stranger raised his thick brows and considered the question. “Yes - you’re special.”

“Why?” Kevin cautiously took a step closer.

“It’s time for me to bow out,” the stranger said, blowing a thin jet of smoke into the campfire. “You’re the last in a long career.”

“I don’t understand.” Kevin retreated his step.

The stranger flicked the remainder of the cigarette into the fire, smiling wryly. “Few do.”

“Huh?”

“Break time’s over,” the stranger announced while slowly rising to his feet. “Again, thanks for not running, kid.”

With that, the flames vanished from between the logs, plunging everything back into darkness. For a few seconds.

Written by: J. Gaasdal-Bech

E-mail: pepwritesshortshots@gmail.com

Why had she not gotten dressed? On today of all days, Emma was wearing Ben’s bathrobe, and a stain with a T-shirt around it. No underpants.

“Oh, God,” she thought, “Ben will find me like this and remember forever.”

Emma once read something about pushing your upper abdomen against the back of a chair. There were four sturdy chairs around the living room table. Not counting the armchair she was sitting in. Still, in spite of the urgency of her little emergency, Emma hesitated. She had her own way of weighing up odds. She could go for a chair and try to survive. However, she was not sure of the technique’s exact mechanics, and so the likeliest outcome was death, no matter what. According to Emma’s calculations, the best thing she could do for herself was to try not to perish on the living room floor dressed like a mental patient.

The idea of not being preserved as someone who Daisy-Ducks it in a bathrobe on a Thursday afternoon was too tempting a curtain call to pass up. In a swift motion, Emma got up from the armchair and ran into the bedroom. She threw off her bathrobe and T-shirt, then pulled open the closet. Her eyes were turning red. Not that one. No. Nope. Maybe. That one. Emma pulled a black, viscose dress off the rack and over her head, then staggered back into the living room.

With mere seconds to spare before expiring with no air, Emma pulled open the curtains. Lovely. With a sense of accomplishment, she nonchalantly threw herself back into the armchair to die.

The impact of her small frame against the soft leather somehow dislodged the culprit in her throat, and Emma instinctively spat the soggy piece of cake across the floor. She wheezed hard, then breathed slowly—cautious, as though the air itself could get lodged. She kept an eye on her killer, lying in a pool of spit: the last bite of a leftover birthday cake. It had to be some kind of irony record.

“How come you’re all dressed up?”

Emma looked up with a start and saw Ben, keys in hand. He was smiling from the door. She blinked and smiled back quizzically. “What do you mean?”

Written By: J. Gaasdal-Bech

E-mail: pepwritesshortshorts@gmail.com

I asked, “Do you live close by?” She did. I never offered, so she paid for the wine.

On the fifth floor, she leaned against the door. The night passed with undefined expectations.

She brought me morning coffee in bed and we watched food porn on TV. We watched people cook Mexican food till we both got hungry. She suggested we recreate a particular taco made by a woman who claimed her life had been saved by cooking. Cooking and chemotherapy. I accepted and made a joke about eating tacos.

Quick to our feet, we dressed like two people who had overslept. Within five minutes I stood, shoes tied, and waited for her by the door.

“I jus’ gotta run to the toilet.” She announced in a sing-song manner I found disagreeable.

The bathroom was adjacent to the front door, sharing part of the mat I stood on to not dirty-up her floors. I was trapped and subjected to the unashamed, hollow thunder of her bowels bellowing for a period of time for which there is no representational measurement.

Finally, a flush swallowed it all up with the roar of a peak colosseum. Then came the toilet brush, vigorously cleaning up. Commendable. A second applause was followed by the sneeze of an air freshener. Then nothing. No faucet. No soap dispenser. Nothing. She opened the door with a loopy smile and left it open as she crouched down to put on her shoes.

If the warm wafts came in waves, I was the tropical beach on which they broke. The air freshener was no saving grace. Grapefruit. I had complimented the scent when I first met her the night before - I mistakenly referred to it as a pleasant perfume. It had, most likely, clung to her clothes after a nervous evacuation before our date.

Out in the sunshine, side by side, I felt her hand slip into mine. A clammy and violating embrace on a warm day. On any day. I then watched her massage and fondle her way through the fruit and vegetable section at the supermarket. The bruised, the immature, the soft, all were examined by hand and deemed unacceptable for Mexican cuisine. With each avocado she picked up, and put back down, I took a step backwards. Once six paces clear, I turned and disappeared down the cleaning isle.

Written by: J. Gaasdal-Bech
E-mail: pepwritesshortshorts.com

Sweat kamikazed down her back into the pit of her ass crack. For months, Molly had looked forward to exactly this day. Her intuition was a finely-tuned machine; her best guess was usually the right call, and right now it was screaming at her to flee. At all costs. But Molly just kept going down the aisle like some pheasant.

At the end of the aisle, the priest smiled at the newlyweds-to-be, as Mads lifted up Molly’s veil.

The priest asked Mads, and he promptly answered, “I do.”

The priest turned to Molly to ask the same question.

She farted. It was loud and prolonged. It tolled throughout the church. The acoustics of which elevated the tail-end into an agonising wail. Then came silence. It felt like a dream. Looking at the priest, Molly was speechless, so was he. It had to be a nightmare.

“Pardon me, Father.” Mads said, with a hand on his stomach. The priest smiled politely in turn as a soft tremor of chuckles spread throughout the congregation.

Without being formally asked, Molly answered in awe, “I do”

The priest turned back to her and declared the two husband and wife.

Written by: J. Gaasdal-Bech
E-mail: pepwritesshortshorts@gmail.com

In medias res, a woman dies giving birth to a stillborn baby. It’s been done to death. People are live-streaming murders online. Nobody cares. Movies, literature, TV, music, it’s dead. It’s been dead for decades. Zombie culture. I needed to innovate, to think outside the box. A commercial, maybe. Try the new Axe-murderer body spray; when you want people to die, and your pits to stay dry! Or, white noise. Listeners gently dose off to the soothing ambience of an airplane cabin and then (BOOM!) one of the engines explode, and passengers can be heard screaming for God. It’s the unexpected when, and where, you don’t expect it. But they would turn it off, when the objective always is, and should be, to turn them off to the genre entirely. Like throwing up from curry.

Stephen Something, a plain and simple leading man. The perfect yin to my writer/director/performer-yang. I wouldn’t just stick a couple of coke bottles on my fingers and wing it. No. No theatrics, no Su-su-ssudio, and no traps. His home would do just fine. I was charming and spoke his body language fluently. Reciting verses on my knees to introduce a little death before the main event. Minus the complete absence of urgency, the act imitated a struggle perfectly. Choreographed by deep biology (a woman dies giving birth to a stillborn baby). All that strength and subsequent aestheticism sedated by the momentum of contained violence. Unexpected, unprotected, I shoot across his back. A master’s stroke. I admit, to some extent, that it helped he was long dead by then.

Ellington, anyone? The piano played like gentle rain as I lovingly disconnected Stephen’s spine from his brain; I rendered him dead by way of a vertebrae pirouette (C1 through 7). However, to call him a corpse would be gross abuse of the word; he was merely as alive as I allowed him to be. If you doubt this, and call it death, I ask - as his cold frame lay in post coital bliss, intertwined with the sweat of mine - are we not both simply out of breath? A consequence of any dance, including the one of alternative romance.

I took his life (yes, sir), but I did not take it for granted (no, ma’am). I gave no warning of intent, no kisses of either life, or death. All’s well that ends, well, I say ‘no warning’ which is, I concede, a debatable statement. As it where, I did tell him, point blank, when he opened the door that I suspected he would fall for me. In that way, a warning was formally given and, I might add, ignored - or, as I see it; embraced. His last laugh was the answer in any case. As for what else he said, I did not listen. It might come across as callous to forget baby’s last words, but what else can I say? They were uttered in a manner unaware of fate’s pending twist, and what more can one ask of life, or me?

The bridge built between my mind and his matter took him beyond and left me behind. Absolute realism is not something to inflect for personal gain, or per instruction of the supreme. It is, at its core, abstract communication. (A woman dies giving birth to stillborn baby).

Stephen Something will be identified, firstly, as my victim and then, secondly, as what came before that. Nobody likes a critic. Paradoxically, outside the box is inside another. The philistines will store him away in that great filing cabinet below.

I too, will be boxed out of society. My complexion will not cloak me this far from traditional law, and, inevitably, my audience will grow to include law enforcement agencies. The patrons will insist on handing me a lifetime stipend. Gone - never to be missed or understood. Nevertheless, I’ll gladly accept any cell that comes with the memory of that magical night where I closed my laptop and opened up a person.

The performance will be written (and talked) about plenty, but never in terms of my true intent (which, truly, was never my intent). I suspect even the hungriest of artists will fail to recognise that I payed my talent in full. I could, when that time arrives, try to explain the depth they will have missed, but I fear it would not make much sense said out loud.


Written by: J. Gaasdal-Bech
E-mail: Pepwritesshortshorts.com

Day One

Rubbing the fabric between his fingers, Ø studied the wet sheet like a tracker hot on a trail, “Still warm.”

Similar to the reverberation of a freshly rung bell, the dream still lingered. A party. An extravagant bash with anyone Ø could ever think to invite in attendance. Everyone was excited about the author. It was the launch of the author’s anticipated and acclaimed debut. Of which each guest, without exception, carried their own personal copy.

“It’s extraordinary work, I could hardly believe the elegance.” Ø overheard a woman say in conversation with a potted plant, “It will never be forgotten - I heard the author is lactose intolerant.”

A point to which the potted plant shook enthusiastically in agreement.

The author in question was Ø; his was the picture on the posters and on the backs of all the books. However, when he cut in with a “what I was thinking there was-” the woman and the plant both shushed and shunned him to then continue praising the author as if it were an entirely different person. Sceptic lovers, doubting teachers, along with other “realists” of his past, all were there, and all were sheepish to have ever doubted the author. Ø tried, again and again, to draw attention to his presence but kept getting rebuked.

He hid from anonymity in the hall. It was empty, no one to not recognise him. Still, the murmur of the crowd, raving about the author, was ubiquitous. An audible fog throughout whatever building this was. It was a nightmare. A dream. Something fools fear and spiritual fanatics analyse. It would pass.

Ø strolled to a full-length mirror on the wall and inspected his reflection. To his amusement, that handsome devil proceeded his every gesture and expression. The man in the mirror smirked. About three seconds passed, then Ø smirked with genuine amusement. Puppeteer and puppet, two parts of a collaborative whole, an existential bikini. Such neat detail his dreams commanded.

When his reflection took a stride towards the mirror, Ø did the same. When his reflection unzipped and urinated in a potted plant at the foot of the mirror, Ø felt nature’s call and did the same, with leisure and velocity. After buttoning his pants, his reflection smiled.

“OMG, Penelope, what happened?” A man approached Ø from behind.

The potted plant shook in response to the man’s question, flecks of urine flying from the leaves. None of this was happening in the mirror. Ø’s reflection just watched with a grin.

“He did what?” The man turned to face Ø with vicious eyes.

“It wasn’t me! It was him.” Ø spat on the mirror.

The man looked at Ø’s reflection in the mirror, then back at him, “Do I look like an idiot?” He held his copy of the author’s debut close to Ø’s face, “The author wouldn’t do that.”

“But that’s also me.” Ø pointed at the mirror, “Look.”

“So you did do it?” The man pushed Ø to the floor and began beating him with the book.

“I did it! I’m the author, I did it!” Ø rejoiced beneath the blows, then woke up in bed.

The urine-soaked sheets were not what troubled him as he sat in bed that morning. It was not the dream either. It was his erection, bulging up against the wet duvet like the ghost of his dream. At attention, yet not at his command. Hesitantly, Ø reached down and felt a rough surface against his palm but not the embrace of his hand. He lifted the duvet and marvelled at the impossible; it had turned into cold, grey stone.

“The fuck is this!?”

*

Like a dog scratching against the door to be let in, the stone scrapped against the bottom of his desk. Ø was determined to leave the issue be for now. If possible, even for good. After all, where was he supposed to go? A dermatologist? A petrologist MD? What could any of them possibly tell him?

Have you received felattio from any creatures of Greek mythology recently?

No.

Well, this isn’t Fibrodysplasia Ossificans Progressiva - it’s stone.

Unheard of!

I’ve never heard of it, and I never miss a beat - my stethoscope is not just for show.

What an idiotic performance it would be. Finishing this novel was of much higher priority than clarifying this novel condition. It was a quirk; never the tortured one, never the addicted one, never the poor one, never the orphaned one. This would be his ‘thing’. Scanning the apartment with a confident gaze, Ø considered where to display his Nobel prize. It was a waste of time, he would leave this stinking apartment long before then.

With a triumphant smile, “This masterpiece will be a hat on a fedora on a sombrero on a beanie - a novel unlike any other, so intricately meta that-”

“It’s a bad idea.”

Ø sat up in his chair, chocked, “Who said that?”

“I did.” The disembodied voice answered promptly.

Ø, hesitantly, “Am I dreaming?”

“No. You’re delusional, honey.”

Ø hurried to the mirror but found it in tune, “Who are you?”

“Me?” A whistle, “Up here.”

Realising it to be his upstairs neighbour, Ø scowled at the ceiling, “Kiss my ass!”

“If you kiss mine.”

“Are you insane? Leave me alone!”

The exchange appeared over. Ø noticed that his body felt heavier. It was well past lunchtime. Come to think of it, he had not had breakfast. Yet, the bathroom scale alleged he had gained four kilos since yesterday evening. Furthermore, a hardness was building in the tissue around his abdomen. Feeling a sudden pang of mortality, Ø decided, against his initial reservations, to go see a physician the next day. Just as a precaution.

Back at his desk, he successfully put the issue aside and googled what a Nobel prize was.

Day Two

The surgery would open to walk-ins in the afternoon. Ø could be there the second they did. He manoeuvred the stone down one pant leg. The outline was easily noticeable through the fabric, and it was painful to walk with it wedged, but it would have to do for today.

Outside the apartment, the corridor was empty. The trick was to not seem in a hurry or appear to conceal anything. This in mind, Ø stopped by the mailboxes and tore open a letter with the ease of someone with nowhere to be. The formal-looking envelope disguised an advert for a local pizzeria. Two for the price of one. As he pondered which two pizzas to hypothetically choose, a familiar, male voice startled him.

“Must be some tasty looking pies”

Ø looked up, saw his upstairs neighbour paused on the stairs, and immediately shielded his shame with the advert.

His neighbour, “I’m a spaghetti man myself.”

“Leave me alone!” Ø fled back to the apartment.

What good would it do to see a physician if he was arrested on the way. Ø crumbled and threw the pizzeria advert in frustration. Then his eyes widened along with a smile, and he triumphantly clapped his hands, “Junk mail!”

In matter of minutes, Ø had carved a hole in one end of a parcel (originally containing a thermos) and concealed the stone through it. No pain, no problem, and no one would suspect a thing. Strolling down the corridor once again, this time with the brown parcel pressed against his pelvis, Ø smirked.

I have a delivery, Miss.

Why, I don’t recall ordering anything.

Oh, this is from a secret admirer of yours.

A secret admirer? But I’m just a lonely literary agent looking for well-hung, writing talents.

Is that right?

*

At the surgery, Ø was subjected to an at-length triage interview in the reception, “… and can you show me this rash?”

Ø glanced down at the box, placed on the conveniently at-height counter, “I am telling you about the rash.”

“It’s not uncommon to be a little shy or embarrassed about these sorts of things. I’ll book you in to see Pam.”

“What is this?” Ø threw his hands up, “I’m not embarrassed by my condition, you’re embarrassing me!”

“Don’t yell, woul-“

“I ask for an appointment and I get psychoanalysis?” Ø stepped back and turned to leave, “Outrageous.”

“Excuse me? You forgot your little box.” The nurse chimed behind him

Ø glanced down, the stone was exposed. Turning his neck, but not his hips, Ø could see the parcel’s black hole, looking back at him like the empty eye socket of Odin, “I’m…”

What sounded like a ghost whispered, “Gargoyle.” What also looked like a ghost was sitting in the waiting area. The only other one who came early besides Ø. An impossibly old woman, clenching an oxygen tank. She was aiming a bony finger at the stone, “Gargoyle. Gargoyle.”

“Mrs. Alabaster? Mrs. Alabaster?” The nurse came around the counter.

Ceasing the opportunity, Ø turned and swiftly re-inserted himself into the parcel. The nurse was holding the oxygen mask to Mrs. Alabaster’s face. Her eyes were wild, yellow, and fixed on the parcel. When the nurse looked away, Ø released his grip, revealing the pretence, and rolled his tongue at her.

“Gargoyle. Gargoyle.” Mrs Alabaster gasped, fogging up the mask.

“Look who’s talking.” Ø put his hands back on the box.

The nurse, “Sorry, she’s not well”

“Clearly.” Ø exited the surgery. Only a quack would treat such a patient, hire such a nurse. Every day was a cavalcade of morons. Instead of risking further fiascos, he would treat the affliction himself and decided to stop by the pharmacy and pick up a topical ointment for eczema, as well as some aloe vera.

Day Three

Ø’s shins felt heavier and his calves unusually hard to the touch. The aloe vera and the ointment would need a few days to kick in. A good night’s sleep had him in a good mood. Under normal circumstances, Ø would have been at his desk first thing to harvest all the electricity in his brain, but today he was too distracted. Later, he was having drinks with V. It had been some time since he saw her last. Too long. Ø resented the success of his friend, but he also pitied her devotion to trends. Regardless, it would be good to see her. V’s encouragement was not without merit to Ø, who at times struggled with the burden of his own talent.

*

Ø arrived early and secured a table in the corner. V would be fashionably late, so he had some time to himself and was parched, and damp, from carrying his ‘condition’ around. The parcel was inconspicuously hidden under the table. If anyone should happen to notice, it looked like Ø was merely guarding his mail. The waitress paid it no mind when she came over.

Ø, with a sigh of relief, “A tall glass of ice water and a beer.”

He drank the water immediately. Then the beer. Then a drink. Then another. And another. By the time V appeared in the entrance, Ø was already drunk. Still, they settled into each other’s company and the hours passed with ease.

Once Ø ran out of things to tell, he asked, with a poor attempt at interest, “How’s work?”

V, with a poor attempt at modesty, “Amazing.” She ordered two shots when the waitress reappeared.

Ø shifted in his chair with a dead gaze, “Good to hear.”

“Enough,” a coy frown, “I used to suffer too, you know.”

Ø immediately drank the shot as it was placed before him, “You haven’t suffered till you’ve suffered in vain,” glancing at the waitress, “We’ll have ten of these, miss. My bald friend can afford it.”

V drank her shot, and watched the waitress stroll back behind the bar.

Ø interrupted her eyes, “Lovely ring, eh?”

“I didn’t even notice she had arms.”

“She’s on form tonight, the artist.” Ø rolled his eyes.

“Opposite, the writer seems sore. Is everything alright in your world? You seem a little off.”

“Dunno.” Ø paused, he could see the shots coming back with the waitress. They arrived, and he theatrically picked one up, “I suppose ‘OK’ changes with prosperity”

V sighed, “This bit.”

Ø poured each shot into his empty beer glass, and studied the black liquid, “One moment, we’re alike, the next, you’re on and I’m ‘off’ somehow.”

Her cheeks flushed, her face calm, “Don’t drink a glass half filled with liquor.”

“That would be crazy. This half-empty glass, however? Yummy.” Ø laboriously emptied it, teary-eyed, and sick to his stomach.

V, “Better?”

Ø got to his feet, clutching the parcel, “Excuse me.”

In the restroom, his stomach slowly settled. Still, Ø considered making himself throw up. He was getting drunker by the minute. The alcohol felt too good to waste but it had fuelled his outburst. V had only asked if he was OK. He decided to go back and apologise, perhaps even tell her about the illness. V would accept the apology, she always did. Always had. She needed people like Ø who challenged and checked her integrity.

Clumsily, Ø meandered through the crowd. The alcohol, in tandem with the added weight, made grace an impossible mission. He kept his eyes on his feet until he, finally, could plonk down in his chair.

“Listen, I’m sorry I’ve b-“ Ø looked up and saw that V had paid the bill and left. Stupefied, he sat for a while and blinked, a warm buzzing in his flesh.

Ø rose to his feet, forgot about the parcel, and banged it against the underside of the table. A series of empty glasses toppled and rolled off, causing a cacophony with each erupting against the floor. Ø frantically adjusted the parcel instead of saving the glasses, as everyone turned to see the spectacle.

“Sorry,” Ø swayed with a loopy smile. When the attention subsided, he headed for the exit, eyes on the floor.

*

Ø enjoyed a lamb kebab. Extra dressing. When it started to snow, he found shelter in a small chapel. Sitting in a pew, he inspected the grandiose architecture and the saints it sheltered. Jesus and the whole gang were there. Despite the various biblical tales referenced, he was reminded of a different story. About a cannibal who joined the army to travel and taste all the world’s cuisines. Ten years of loyal service passed. Still nothing had satisfied the cannibal, so he decided to become a priest and serve God. That way, he would be held accountable to a higher power. Ten years of devoted servitude passed. One morning, a man came to the cannibal-priest and lamented that he had tried living every which way, but had been unsuccessful in purging a profound, shameful desire. For his entire life, the man had only ever wanted one thing; to be eaten by another human being. The cannibal-priest interpreted their introduction as Divine intervention - a recognition of faithful devotion. In turn, the cannibal-priest confessed his own peculiar hunger to the man and together they skipped down the church steps, hand in hand like newlyweds, and had the night of their lives. Snip, snap, snout. Ø hated the story, but, for whatever reason, he was reminded of it from time to time.

“You don’t mind, do you?” He asked the lamb kebab and took a large bite.

“I mind.”

Ø pulled back and stared at the kebab in disbelief, “Wha’?”

A thin man in a cassock, presumably a priest, revealed himself as the voice, “This is a chapel - not a roadside fruit stand.”

“It’s kebab.”

“Wrap it up, sonny.”

Ø took one last, large bite and said with a mouthful as he wrapped up the remainder, “I’m an envious bastard.”

“Time to go.” The priest began to usher Ø towards the exit.

“I’m envious of Saints. There’s one - the sad-looking lady with the pretty scarf - and that one.”

The priest sighed, “Fuh sake, listen, they’re all ideals that exceed our grasp, to inspire us to reach further than we would have - yada yada, saints were also human. Now, have a good night, and if you get a hankering for dessert, there’s a Buddhist temple just down the road.” He closed the doors on his last word.

Outside, all around, night had settled. A fresh, thin layer of snow coated the ground. Ø blinked and considered two options; go home or to the liquor store. The liquor store was a kind of second home so in a sense the choice was to either go home or to go home. Ø decided to go home, and then straight home afterwards.

*

Balance being the biggest challenge, Ø was getting too drunk to carry his condition with successful pretence. The quarter of a whisky bottle he had drunk since leaving the liquor store had launched an assault on the lamb kebab in his stomach. He would try to keep it down until he got home. His stomach objected. Home was a stretch. The small alleyway next to his building. It came complete with dumpsters and a dead end. Ø could vomit in private.

Luckily, the streets were mostly deserted. The few other nocturnal pedestrians were in equally decrepit states and paid Ø no mind. He moved as quickly as possible, feeling the approaching exodus salivate his mouth. Just in time, he turned down the alley and leaned over a dumpster. A dry heave was followed by a foamy flood of kebab accoutrements, alcohol, and minuscule pebbles. The latter banged against the metal frame.

Empty, Ø released his hold on the edge and tumbled to the ground. In bliss, despite the snow, the alarming pebbles in his vomit, and the acidic burning in the back of his throat. A break from carrying his body was bliss. He rested his forehead on the snow. It soothed his mind. From under heavy eyelids, Ø noticed a crevice in the asphalt. Dimly lit by streetlights, it resembled a vagina. It was strangely alluring, irresistible even. Ø reached over and carefully circled the edge of the crevice with his fingers. As expected, it was cold, hard, and disengaged. Yet, a familiar tingle shot through his own cold, hard, disengaged erection inside the parcel. He looked down at it, surprised and intrigued, then around and above him. It was quiet. No one was awake. Ø could experiment in private.

He removed the parcel, crawled to the crevice, and carefully guided the stone into the pothole. It felt right. Gradually, Ø drove his hips closer to the ground. The deep, grinding sound of stone against stone. Its tenderness was so surprising that he came immediately, and with a prolonged, almost agonising, moan.

“You’re a weird dude, dude.” A voice echoed in the alley.

Gasping, Ø turned onto his back and saw the silhouette of a head sticking out some floors up. He recognised the voice and hissed, “You!”

His upstairs neighbour, “Maybe we should write the council about putting in a speed bump?”

“Again with this!? Are you new here or something?” Ø groaned, “Can’t I be, in privacy? You’re everywhere.”

“Only when I’m not somewhere else.”

“Stop making me out to be a fool, I’m-” a pause forced on by a sudden dry heave, “a genius!”

“It’s dark out - I mistook you for someone banging a hole in the ground.”

“Even saints were silly.”

“Your cock’s out, Teresa.”

Through considerable effort, muttering obscenities to himself, Ø staggered to his feet, picked up the box, and re-fitted himself into it. He then turned to look back up at the window and gestured in accordance with his response: “Fuck! Off!”

It worked; the silhouette retreated, and the window was shut. Ø brushed off his pants, pleased with himself and his closing argument. He glanced around the empty alley apologetically, then went around to the front entrance.

His keys were gone. He checked all his pockets. Then again, in the same order, but quicker. Then again, even quicker. Then he went back to the alley and searched the ground. Nothing. Ø was too tired, too drunk, and too poor to call a locksmith. He could have forgotten to bring them when he left home. Then his apartment would be unlocked, and he just needed to get inside the building. Even if his apartment were locked, he could still sleep on his own doormat.

Ø reluctantly pressed the buzzer for the only person he had spoken to in the building who he knew was still awake.

“Who might this be?” A voice answered.

“Hello again.”

“Teresa, is that you?… Can’t I be, in privacy?”

“Listen,” Ø collected himself, “I apologise for my tone of voice.”

“Am I your music teacher?”

“Fair, okay - I’m sorry for what I said,” Ø shifted his weight, yawned, “I’ve lost my keys - they might be inside.”

A prolonged silence, “You have to do something first.”

“Okay.”

“Cluck.”

“What?”

“Like a jolly, cartoon hen.”

“I’ve had a rough ni-“

“Bro-sir? This is an intercom, not a suicide hotline. Cluck or get off the pot. I got shit to do.”

Broken and tired, Ø obeyed and clucked as jovially as he could. When the door buzzed, he had one hand ready on the handle and pushed it open without exchanging further unpleasantries. He tried not to get his hopes up, it was unlikely that he had forgotten his keys that morning. They usually lived in his jacket pocket.

The door was locked. Ø tried again. Still locked. Exhausted, he sat down on the doormat to sleep and felt the keys poking his butt from inside his back pocket.

Day Four

As he scooted to the edge of the mattress, the springs lamented the additional weight he had gained overnight. Ø bemoaned the agony of moving his body around. His hand was petrified in an obscene gesture, middle finger extended. It looked like something from in a novelty shop. Worse even, he had lost his depth perception.

In the bathroom, Ø examined the developments in the mirror. His left eye was a polished stone, still moving in concert with the unaffected eye. His left ear, along with a portion of skin around the eye and patches of his scalp had also turned to stone. The hairs that remained looked like mould, or weeds, clinging to life.

Ø had no visible reaction. If anything, he was getting curious about the endgame. A fossilisation. A mineral mummification. Some kind of inanimate state. Had past sufferers been mistaken for monuments in death? A few statutes came to mind which supported this theory.

The floor all around his apartment was covered in torn paper. It seemed that, in a moment of drunken clarity, Ø had printed his entire novel and torn it to pieces. Every page, chapter, sentence, page number, was garbage. Whether he had bothered to actually delete the file did not matter. There was not enough time to finish it. Years in the making, his attempt at writing never quite became an attempt. There was no point to it if he would not be around to see it.

“Guess rock beats paper.” Ø smiled, then dry heaved.

The hangover was worse than the affliction and put Ø on bedrest all day. Idly recuperating, he looked at pictures of Pompeii’s inhabitants online, regretted doing so, and browsed old photos of him and K instead. She said being good enough for her should be good enough for him. He suggested they see other people. It backfired and she fell in love with a baker. A bake-you-a-cake-with-your-name-on-it baker. Ø had not seen other people. Not then. Not since. The hole in the alley was an overdue rebound. Ø peaked under the covers, it looked like he had painted the stone with chalk. If only he had been a baker.

Day Five

Ø was eager to get out of the apartment. First, he had to get out of bed and did so with resolution, lost his balance, and stumbled to the floor. It took some getting used to the new stiffness in his muscles and joints but, with a little practise, he was able to walk around alright. Still, he was in no condition to go out and had to spend all morning painting his eyeball and the surrounding stone patches to match his face. He acquired the set of acrylic paints intending to do a series of self-portraits, and this was his first in that series. Unfortunately, it was marked by Ø’s good hand being petrified. The end result was, at best, Picassoesque, and, at worst, grotesque.

Either way, Ø made a mental note to wear sunglasses. He put an oven glove over his hand, inserted himself in the parcel, put on the glasses, turned to leave, lost his balance, and stumbled to the floor. On his second attempt, Ø successfully left the apartment.

*

From a park bench, Ø enjoyed a cup of coffee as he watched a statue in the centre of a small fountain. He beheld eternity and observed that eternity was covered in bird shit. Even so, the statue cut a respectable figure. Hand on hip, holding a gun, water flowing from said gun. Very dignified. Ø’s hand and penis would be an issue. If he sat like The Thinker, he could hide the erection, and if he rested his head on the partial fist, allowing the middle finger to reach for his temple, that might work. Or he could go nude like David. Where to stand. What to wear. Plaque or no plaque. None of it mattered. As a monument, he would be ridiculed for generations as a reference point in lecturing on the follies of delusion. Ø would find a secluded spot and spend eternity as he had life; unknown. A woman dropped a coin in his coffee cup as she passed.

Ø, “Ey!”

She was wearing headphones and heard nothing. Unwilling and unable, Ø decided against pursuit. It had been a hassle getting the coffee to the bench without spilling it, he emptied the remaining coffee into the grass and fished out the coin.

After three rounds of heads or tails, of which he won none, Ø shuffled to the edge of the fountain. He flipped the coin between his fingers, smiled, closed his eyes, and flicked it into the fountain. After allowing some time to pass, he opened his eyes, inspected his body, exhaled in defeat, turned to leave, lost his balance, and stumbled to the ground.

Day Six

With an umbrella for a cane, Ø was able to keep from falling as he carried his body across town. One last time. When he closed the door that morning, he left the keys behind on purpose. Abandoning excessive censorship, the parcel hung suspended in the air at all times, the oven glove covered his bad hand. A cap, and sunglasses, did the rest.

It was painful and heavy to move. Close to impossible. It was like dragging a wagon. The comparison was not coincidental; Ø happened to be passing a horse tied in front of a hansom cab. He stopped to watch the beast breathe. A prop for lazy romance. The coachman was going to and fro, undoing belts and straps on the animal. When he undid the last strap and went back behind the hansom cab, nothing physically kept the horse in place. Acting on noble impulse and kinship, Ø stepped onto the street, and smacked it on the behind.

“Hyah!”

It lifted a hind leg and violently kicked Ø across the shin. He felt nothing but it made a brutal sound which summoned a frantic coachman, “Christ, are you OK?”

“Sure,” Ø began, “I’m OK… I-” but quickly smacked the horse again, “Hyah!” Again, the horse violently kicked him across the shin.

“Oi! Stop that - piss off to an emergency room, buddy.”

“I’ll go,” Ø stepped back onto the sidewalk, and turned to add dramatically; “but not to an emergency room.”

“Fine, just piss off.” The coachman turned and continued his work.

*

Ø walked one block as snow started to fall. Ø walked two blocks, snow falling, the smell of cinnamon and deep fryers all around. Ø walked three blocks, snow falling, the smell of cinnamon and deep fryers all around, his bones heavy. Ø walked four blocks, snow falling, the smell of cinnamon and deep fryers all around, his bones heavy, his body tired with strain. Ø walked five blocks, snow falling, the smell of cinnamon and deep fryers all around, his bones heavy, his body tired with strain, his nose runny with snot. Ø walked six blocks, snow falling, the smell of cinnamon and deep fryers all around, his bones heavy, his body tired with strain, his nose runny with snot, his stomach nauseous with churro. Ø walked seven blocks, snow falling, the smell cinnamon and deep fryers all around, his bones heavy, his body tired with strain, his nose runny with snot, his stomach nauseous with churro, amongst crowds electric with life.

*

By the time Ø reached the river, streetlights lit up the bridge. His condition had worsened since that morning alone. There was no time for reminiscing, nostalgia, regret, or finding amusement in a seagull dropping a turd on his shoulder. The river would wash everything away.

He walked along the bridge railing with determination. Few cars, no people. Most of Ø was in the final stages of petrification. He felt the cold wind against his good eye, his nose, and his tongue. Movement would be impossible within a few hours, if not minutes. Without the umbrella, it might already have been impossible.

Above the centre of the river, Ø tilted his stiff frame against the railing and sneezed. His face petrified mid-sneeze. It became his last breath. With the tip of the umbrella, he was able to push off from the sidewalk and tip over the railing. The wet crash that followed was not seen or heard by anyone.

Beneath the surface, his umbrella unfolded, and conveniently stabilised Ø’s decent to the bottom. The oven glove and parcel both dislodged and ascended. He waited patiently, but fruitlessly, for asphyxiation to finish him off, but hit bottom with a thud and without the need for a further breath of air.

And what, kids, might we learn from this statue?

That no one has suffered, unless it was in vain.

That’s right; absolutely nothing. Not a goddamn thing.

Written by: J. Gaasdal-Bech

E-Mail: PepWritesShortShorts@gmail.com