As she sat under the old oak her father had planted decades before, she thought back to last night and how she had snapped, just like one of those crazy ladies on the tv show, and she realized she was one of those “crazy ladies” now, but she wasn’t thinking about these things when she plunged the knife over and over into her lover’s stomach, she was thinking about how good it felt when his warm blood spurted onto her pale face, how he began to cough and beg and cry, how he, for years, had ripped apart her muscles and veins with words like “cunt,” and “bitch,” and “worthless,” and how this was her doing the same to him, this was karmic justice, and when he finally stopped moving after a few minutes, she realized he was never much of a fighter and she just wasted ten precious years of her life, and so she sat down beside him and cradled his lifeless, warm body in her arms and cried, but all of that was yesterday, and today she had come outside in her bloodstained overalls and sat under the tree and lit up a cigarette in one hand and held his handgun in the other and she contemplated her life–how she would be a “crazy lady,” and how she would have to defend herself on trial, and how, after everything, someone else would be deciding her fate again, and she didn’t want that, she had finally regained control and she would not lose it again.
Anika does not often think about the backs of her knees unless she is sitting on her heels, head tilted up like some sort of sick prayer, and don’t worry because she only has to do that on weekends and off-days like Veteran’s Day or Thanksgiving which if you think about it is not that often and when it does happen she tucks her hands under the backs of her knees and feels the soft flesh there and knows that it is maybe the only part of her unruined, and she does this because he thinks her hands should be locked away when she is kneeling: hands give her so much control, their dexterity an ugly threat—think about all the things she could do with exposed hands, like stabbing and tearing and hitting and all the things that women do when they are not thinking about the backs of their knees.
The genie granted her one wish, to which she asked, “only one?,” to which the genie replied, “yes, that three wishes thing is a myth, but there is a trick in that you get only one wish, but you can make many wishes with just one wish if you are creative and smart enough to figure out the trick,” and so she thought it about really hard, and then she thought about oppression, and about people who are without homes, food, medical care; and about children being separated from their parents; and war; and sex trafficking, and gangs; she thought about pollution and violence and hate, and she thought about debt and greed and mental illness, and sickness, and addiction, and loneliness, and she thought about the patriarchy and climate change; and she thought about lack of accessibility, inequality, sexism and fatism and zionism, and she thought about the genie being trapped in its bottle, and she thought real hard to come up with one wish that would to eradicate all of these things, and she said, “I wish all humans would prioritize compassion and quality of life over profit and hate,” but then the genie asked, “and what of us non-humans?,” but it was too late, as the wish had been made, and the ground began to shake like an earthquake, but it wasn’t an earthquake, and the buildings collapsed around them and were swallowed, and grass began to grow, and trees, and she could head her ancestors singing.
It is a habit – a bad one as it turns out – but she had done this for years, going as far back as her childhood when she would have breakfast with her dad and they would eat “Fruitloops” or “Cheerios” and happily talk about the funny mascots one can find on the paper boxes of these cereals, and then later when she went off to college and had a bowl of cereal every morning to hold on to something that reminded her of home, and then when she studied abroad for a semester in Portugal, she would try new brands and kinds of cereal every other week and send her dad a picture so he had something to laugh about like in good old times, and now she is here, sitting at the kitchen table looking at the ingredients list on the paper box of the one thing that has always played a role in her life and wonders how it has come to this as she remembers the doctor’s words from yesterday, “cereal scandal,” “pesticides,” and “infertility” echoing in her ear.
It’s 2021 in who knows where, Michigan. I am sitting outside on a faded bench watching the misty lake move. It’s so still and quiet.
Suddenly, the calm lake is interrupted by a breeze which creates a ripple from one side leading to the other. The trees pick up their movement, leaves rustling lowdley. My eyes are pinned on a dark object emerging from the lake. I hardly notice my boyfriend calling. We have been calling everyday since the lockdown started. My eyes stay on the dark object as it emerges from the lake. It’s a stick. The phone stops ringing. The call stops coming in. The more I watch the lake, the less I notice his calls.
Six months of sweet nothings and empty promises and if you think about it no promises were ever made as it is all in her head – a hope that these nothings will turn into something and some days, they almost do until he chooses someone else, someone better, someone prettier, the kind of pretty Melody could never be – doe eyes on a round face with plump lips, skinnier than her yet, Melody takes it because at the end of the day, it’s her he always comes back to so she puts on a nice dress, tight enough to make her look slimmer but not too tight to give away the excess weight, she lines her lips and traces the black liner to craft innocent wings that toned down her natural foxy allure but maybe it is too intimidating so it’s better to mask it and pretend to be someone else and maybe then, she would feel worthy enough to be a little more than a nothing
6 responses to “1-Sentence Story (Weds)”
As she sat under the old oak her father had planted decades before, she thought back to last night and how she had snapped, just like one of those crazy ladies on the tv show, and she realized she was one of those “crazy ladies” now, but she wasn’t thinking about these things when she plunged the knife over and over into her lover’s stomach, she was thinking about how good it felt when his warm blood spurted onto her pale face, how he began to cough and beg and cry, how he, for years, had ripped apart her muscles and veins with words like “cunt,” and “bitch,” and “worthless,” and how this was her doing the same to him, this was karmic justice, and when he finally stopped moving after a few minutes, she realized he was never much of a fighter and she just wasted ten precious years of her life, and so she sat down beside him and cradled his lifeless, warm body in her arms and cried, but all of that was yesterday, and today she had come outside in her bloodstained overalls and sat under the tree and lit up a cigarette in one hand and held his handgun in the other and she contemplated her life–how she would be a “crazy lady,” and how she would have to defend herself on trial, and how, after everything, someone else would be deciding her fate again, and she didn’t want that, she had finally regained control and she would not lose it again.
Anika does not often think about the backs of her knees unless she is sitting on her heels, head tilted up like some sort of sick prayer, and don’t worry because she only has to do that on weekends and off-days like Veteran’s Day or Thanksgiving which if you think about it is not that often and when it does happen she tucks her hands under the backs of her knees and feels the soft flesh there and knows that it is maybe the only part of her unruined, and she does this because he thinks her hands should be locked away when she is kneeling: hands give her so much control, their dexterity an ugly threat—think about all the things she could do with exposed hands, like stabbing and tearing and hitting and all the things that women do when they are not thinking about the backs of their knees.
The genie granted her one wish, to which she asked, “only one?,” to which the genie replied, “yes, that three wishes thing is a myth, but there is a trick in that you get only one wish, but you can make many wishes with just one wish if you are creative and smart enough to figure out the trick,” and so she thought it about really hard, and then she thought about oppression, and about people who are without homes, food, medical care; and about children being separated from their parents; and war; and sex trafficking, and gangs; she thought about pollution and violence and hate, and she thought about debt and greed and mental illness, and sickness, and addiction, and loneliness, and she thought about the patriarchy and climate change; and she thought about lack of accessibility, inequality, sexism and fatism and zionism, and she thought about the genie being trapped in its bottle, and she thought real hard to come up with one wish that would to eradicate all of these things, and she said, “I wish all humans would prioritize compassion and quality of life over profit and hate,” but then the genie asked, “and what of us non-humans?,” but it was too late, as the wish had been made, and the ground began to shake like an earthquake, but it wasn’t an earthquake, and the buildings collapsed around them and were swallowed, and grass began to grow, and trees, and she could head her ancestors singing.
It is a habit – a bad one as it turns out – but she had done this for years, going as far back as her childhood when she would have breakfast with her dad and they would eat “Fruitloops” or “Cheerios” and happily talk about the funny mascots one can find on the paper boxes of these cereals, and then later when she went off to college and had a bowl of cereal every morning to hold on to something that reminded her of home, and then when she studied abroad for a semester in Portugal, she would try new brands and kinds of cereal every other week and send her dad a picture so he had something to laugh about like in good old times, and now she is here, sitting at the kitchen table looking at the ingredients list on the paper box of the one thing that has always played a role in her life and wonders how it has come to this as she remembers the doctor’s words from yesterday, “cereal scandal,” “pesticides,” and “infertility” echoing in her ear.
It’s 2021 in who knows where, Michigan. I am sitting outside on a faded bench watching the misty lake move. It’s so still and quiet.
Suddenly, the calm lake is interrupted by a breeze which creates a ripple from one side leading to the other. The trees pick up their movement, leaves rustling lowdley. My eyes are pinned on a dark object emerging from the lake. I hardly notice my boyfriend calling. We have been calling everyday since the lockdown started. My eyes stay on the dark object as it emerges from the lake. It’s a stick. The phone stops ringing. The call stops coming in. The more I watch the lake, the less I notice his calls.
Six months of sweet nothings and empty promises and if you think about it no promises were ever made as it is all in her head – a hope that these nothings will turn into something and some days, they almost do until he chooses someone else, someone better, someone prettier, the kind of pretty Melody could never be – doe eyes on a round face with plump lips, skinnier than her yet, Melody takes it because at the end of the day, it’s her he always comes back to so she puts on a nice dress, tight enough to make her look slimmer but not too tight to give away the excess weight, she lines her lips and traces the black liner to craft innocent wings that toned down her natural foxy allure but maybe it is too intimidating so it’s better to mask it and pretend to be someone else and maybe then, she would feel worthy enough to be a little more than a nothing