Story #25

Dear Readers,

We offer this week’s edition of ‘Very short stories r us’ in honor of Halloween. Warning: ghoulish.

Yours sincerely,

Matthew Sharpe

Story #25

After Charlie died he was more at ease. Once you’ve reconstituted yourself from your own ashes, you tend to have a positive attitude about things. It was three a.m. and he was naked, walking down the street, feeling great. “Get some clothes!” yelled a young man smoking a cigarette on his fire escape. “I will!” Charlie yelled back, smiling and waving under the streetlamp. He walked into the park, known to be dangerous during the dark hours. He strolled along a wooded path, enjoying the cool night air on his skin, the soft dirt on the soles of his feet, and the sweet fragrance of the flowers and trees. A man who was a murderer and a thief approached him and pressed a bloody knife to his neck. “Hi,” Charlie said. “I’m going to kill you,” said the man. “Why?” Charlie asked, gesturing at his own naked, possessionless self. “I just killed a guy over there and you saw me do it.” “I didn’t.” “Well but now I’ve told you.” “True, but I’m already dead so you can’t kill me.” The man looked Charlie up and down and said, “I wish I was dead.” “I know the feeling. In life I was mean and alone and hated and miserable and poor. I did a lot of harm to myself and others. I, too, wanted to die, but I didn’t kill myself, I was run over by a garbage truck. I see now that it’s not a good idea to harm yourself or others.” “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Listen, you need breakfast or something?” “Okay.” The murderer threw his bloody knife into the woods and they walked to his apartment, which was spacious and clean and tastefully furnished. “All this stuff is stolen. Have a seat at the kitchen table and I’ll make us some eggs, but first put on these sweatpants, I’d rather not have your naked dead buttocks on one of my kitchen chairs, I just had them re-upholstered.” The murderer was a good cook and Charlie enjoyed his first post-life meal. “I’m exhausted,” his host said, “I need to sleep.” “Okay, well, thanks so much for the meal.” Charlie got up to go and the man said, “Uh, I hope this doesn’t sound weird, but would you mind lying down with me?” Charlie thought about it. “No, I wouldn’t mind.” They went to the bedroom, where the murderer stripped down to his underwear and climbed under the fluffy comforter of his king-size bed. Charlie climbed in from the other side and lay on his back. The man scooted over, draped his arm gently across Charlie’s chest, and pressed the front of his body against Charlie’s side. As the sun came up over the river out the window, the men fell asleep. Being dead, Charlie experienced himself and this man as two tiny animate objects in a light-filled corner of the vast universe. And then they were not two objects but two aspects of the same larger thing. Charlie knew all the man’s memories, feelings, and thoughts, a catalogue of ugliness, squalor, hatred, and abuse. Waves of fear and anger and sadness and, above all, tenderness coursed through him. At midday he and the man woke up and looked at each other. “How do you feel?” the man said. “I feel good,” Charlie replied. “You?” “Lousy as ever. Are you going to leave now?” “Yes.” “Here, take this suit.” The man went to his closet and pulled out a beautiful blue linen suit and a white dress shirt. He gave Charlie underwear, socks, and shoes, too. They parted company with a handshake. Charlie looked deep into the man’s eyes and the man had to look away. Strolling down the street that warm sunny afternoon, Charlie realized that in addition to clothes he would need some money. He came up with an idea for a new business, a sure-fire winner. He walked into a bank and was ushered into a pleasant glass-walled office by a loan officer named Cheryl. He smiled at her and she smiled back. They chatted about her children, of whom there was a photograph on her desk. He described his idea, Cheryl said, “Wow, that sounds amazing, Charlie,” and gave him the loan application form. On the form, Charlie gave the murderer’s address as his own, he didn’t think the murderer would mind. He wrote in a few other plausible and harmless lies where necessary, since, for example, being dead, he had no credit history, but he told the truth wherever possible. “I don’t usually do this, but let me go expedite your approval. I’ll be back soon.” Cheryl walked out with Charlie’s papers and returned a while later smiling. “You’re approved!” “Terrific, Cheryl, thanks so much.” “Take these papers to the teller at the front and you’re all set.” They chatted and joked a bit more, shook hands, and Charlie walked out of Cheryl’s office. She sat down at her desk and sighed with pleasure. In her enjoyment of Charlie’s company, she had forgotten for a moment that her husband had not returned home last night and that she had not heard from him. She did not yet know, of course, that he was lying stabbed to death in the park ten blocks away.

Story #24

Dear Readers,

Here is the twenty-fourth in a series of fifty-two very short stories I am publishing here once a week. Thank you for reading.

Yours sincerely,

Matthew Sharpe

Story #24

Eleanor hadn’t felt good in years. She’d been to many specialists. One told her to eliminate sugar from her diet. Another told her to eliminate dairy. Another told her to eliminate wheat. One said no coffee, one said a cup of hot water first thing in the morning, one said cold shower first thing in the morning. And then there was don’t eat anything that can look at you. But everything looked at her—quinoa with its little eyes, kale, a gluten-free breakfast patty. She crawled into bed one day and slept for 36 hours. When she came to a strange man was standing over her. He had bright red glasses, straight black hair, and a camera. “Hi, I’m Bruce Philipos, an art therapist. I take photographs of sick people and heal them. May I photograph you?” “How did you know about me?” “Dr. Urgreif told me.” “I can’t handle this,” Eleanor said, pulled the covers over her head, and rolled away from him to face the window. “That’s great, stay just like that.” She heard him clicking away behind her. “The play of light and shadow on the gray blanket is fantastic,” he said, moving down toward her feet. She felt a strange tingling sensation on her skin and in her pelvic area that she eventually recognized as sexual excitation. She concealed her pleasure by coughing. “Okay, that’s enough pictures,” she said. “Do you feel better?” he asked. “I don’t know. I’m hungry.” “Let’s get you something to eat.” She threw the blanket off, stood up out of bed, and collapsed to the floor. Bruce picked her up and helped her down the hall to the kitchen, where he fixed her some toast with butter and jam. “This has wheat, dairy, and sugar, there’s no way.” “Try it,” he said, “let’s see if the therapy worked.” She ate a few bites, enjoyed them immensely—she hadn’t eaten these foods in years. She stood up and vomited into the kitchen sink. “I feel awful, worse than ever. Take me back to bed.” He helped her back down the hall. “Well,” he said, “I have to be leaving. Same time tomorrow?” “I’m not going anywhere.”

Story #23

Dear Readers,

I am writing to you from New Orleans, where it is raining, and there are homemade biscuits. Thank you for reading.

Sincerely,

Matthew Sharpe

Story #23

Alvin was talking on the phone with his son, Russ. “So how’ve you been?” Alvin asked. “Not so good.” “Why?” “Mom didn’t treat me that good and neither did her boyfriends, one in particular.” Alvin was 34 and Russ was 17. They had never spoken before. Alvin hadn’t known Russ existed till a minute ago. It was nighttime and Alvin was standing in the bedroom of his small suburban house. He lived off the modest proceeds of a motorcycle accident, had jobs sometimes but they didn’t last. He hoped Russ wasn’t going to ask him for money. “What do you mean, didn’t treat you that good?” “Beat me.” “With what?” “Different things, belts, fists, books.” “Books?” “He liked to read.” “Do you?’ “I’m more of an action guy.” “Me too. How often did he beat you?” “Once or twice a week.” “I got beaten too, same amount of times, different objects except the fists.” “By who?” “My dad.” “Would you have beaten me if you were around?” “I don’t know, I’ve been in lots of fights. Why are you calling me?” “I don’t know.” “Do you need money?” “You offering?” “Is that why you called?” “Gonna hang up now.” “Wait!” “Why?” “I don’t know. He still hit you?” “Not since I hit him back.” “Where are you?” “Outside your house.” Alvin walked down the hall to his front door and opened it. The face of his son made his knees shake. There was beer and soup and bread in the fridge. He figured there’d be a fight at some point, hopefully not more than one. They seemed about evenly matched.

Story #22

Dear Readers,

Thank you for reading.

Matthew Sharpe

Story #22

Harvey, who had been unemployed for several months, went to the modern art museum hoping to clear his head. He found himself in a small dark room where a video was playing on the wall. In it, a blurry woman was doing something ambiguous to her body against a gray background. This made Harvey anxious, so he walked toward the exit of the room, but he accidentally went out a different way than he’d come in. He entered an enormous bright room with a high ceiling. The floor and walls were made of concrete. Tall wooden crates lined the far wall and several forklifts were transporting giant irregularly shaped pieces of metal from one part of the room to another. Not far from him a small gray-haired man and a large red-haired woman were arguing vehemently. “I will not agree to that!” the little man shouted. “I’ll never agree to it!” “Well then I don’t see how this museum can continue to do business with you,” said the woman, towering over him. The man tilted his head back and looked up into her face. “Of course you will continue to do business with me. I am Vladimir Sharkovsky!” The woman’s face turned purple. She squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them she saw Harvey standing a few feet away. “Oh, Mr. Devlin,” she said, “you’re here, thank God. Maybe you can settle this for us.” She beckoned Harvey to her and when he arrived she grasped his shoulders and kissed both his cheeks. “Devlin,” Sharkovsky said with stiff cordiality, and held out his small hand, which Harvey shook. The woman said, “Mr. Devlin—may I call you Edward?—as you can see, we’re at an impasse. Help us.” Harvey was a people person and he said, “I don’t think you’re going to make much progress now, you’re both too worked up. Why don’t you sleep on it and meet again tomorrow?” “What do you say, Vladimir?” Sharkovsky looked warily at Harvey and then at the woman. “Fine, Gladys, but I thought we were going to sign the contract and have a celebratory drink, so I’ve got two hours to kill before my driver comes to pick me up. What the hell am I supposed to do now?” He stared at Harvey. “Oh, no,” Gladys said, “you can’t just ask Edward Devlin to babysit you.” But she, too, looked askingly at Harvey. “I don’t mind,” he said, “let’s go for a drink.” Soon he and Sharkovsky were sitting at the bar of the chic hotel across from the museum. Sharkovsky had the bartender line up three double whiskeys for each of them. They downed one together and Harvey stopped but Sharkovsky drank his second. “Something is weighing on you,” he said. Harvey said, “I lost my job a few months back. I’m not Edward Devlin.” “Of course you’re not. No one is. Gladys does that all the time. What was your job?” “Car salesman.” “Pshaw. I have a new job for you.” “What?” Sharkovsky gulped his third double whiskey, ordered two more, described the job, and made a salary offer that surprised Harvey. The drinks arrived and Sharkovsky drank them. “Sir, that’s flattering, but I come from a small town and go to church every Sunday. And I don’t know how my wife would feel.” “Yes, your wife. We must go and ask her permission, but you’ll have to help me up, I’m blind drunk.” Harvey helped the staggering little Sharkovsky to his car and drove him out to the suburbs. When they arrived the twins were in their high chairs at the kitchen table and Ernestine was feeding them their supper of cream of broccoli soup. “Ah, Ernestine, you are just as I pictured you. And the twins! I love this family!” The artist was holding onto Harvey’s elbow for balance but speaking clearly. “Vladimir Sharkovsky?” Ernestine said. “I studied your work in college. You’re amazing.” Sharkovsky looked bored, then announced his intentions with regard to Harvey. “You’re going to use Harvey—Harvey Marmle—as your model?” She laughed and slapped the table and laughed some more. “Don’t you ever—” Sharkovsky roared, “disrespect this man! He is your husband!” Ernestine silently shed a few tears. The twins cried and Harvey went to quiet them. “You’re right, Mr. Sharkovsky,” she said. “I’m sorry, Harvey, it’s just, I’m here all day with the twins and I get slaphappy while you’re out doing God knows what.” “Well today I got a lucrative job,” Harvey said, sulking. Sharkovsky, clinging to the stove, said, “No, it is I who must apologize, Ernestine. I understand how much strain economic hardship puts on a marriage. My father was a successful shoe manufacturer until Stalin sent him to the poorhouse, then to Siberia and his death!” Sharkovsky’s eyes now also leaked tears. “But please, Ernestine, Harvey, promise me you will always respect each other. Respect is paramount. Here,” he said, reached with a shaky left hand into the inner breast pocket of his blazer, removed ten $500 bills folded together, and handed them to Harvey. “Your first week’s pay.” He then pivoted toward the stove, vomited into the remaining cream of broccoli soup, crumpled to the kitchen floor, and lay there unconscious. Ernestine rushed to Harvey, wrapped her arms around him, and pressed her whole body into his. “Congratulations, my husband. I’m so proud of you.”

Story #21

Dear Readers,

Thank you for visiting ‘Very short stories r us,’ where we are celebrating our twenty-first week with the twenty-first story in an ongoing series.

Best wishes,

Matthew Sharpe

Story #21

with thanks to AT

Susan had just been yelled at by her mother-in-law. This time it was about leaving the butter out on the kitchen counter after fixing a snack for Arnold, her three-year-old son. “I know it’s not your fault, dear, it’s the way you were raised. I only hope that, at 35, you’re not too old to develop some, how should I say it, coherency in your behavior.” When they had all rented this same vacation house together last summer, Myrna, the mother-in-law, had treated Susan similarly, and Susan had appealed to her husband, Rip, who had in turn appealed to Myrna, who wept bitterly, so Susan wasn’t going that route again. She went into the dark wood den and sat in one of the old musty armchairs. She looked out at the storm churning up the water of the harbor. Myrna was raising her voice to Rip in the kitchen. There would be no getting off the island today. On the small table next to Susan’s chair was one of those old fashioned land phones, black, with a big heavy receiver, to which someone had taped the handwritten message, “If you need help dial _____.” Susan dialed. A man answered. She explained the situation to him. “You’ve done the right thing by calling me,” he said. “Throw on a rain slicker and be on the dock in front of the house in five minutes.” Susan checked on Arnold, who was taking his nap, and then did as the man said. The air in the yard was warm but the wind was high, and the rain came down in thick waves. Susan’s legs, feet, face, and hands were soaked. He pulled up in his speedboat, she climbed in, and he roared off over the giant swells in the harbor, the boat rising and falling in stomach-turning swoops. He was old, about eighty, with a red, sun-weathered face and thick, callused hands. On the other side of the island, they approached a rocky cliff and he slowed down. He eased the boat into a little cave in the side of the cliff. It was dark and quiet and the water was calm. He maneuvered toward a narrow rock ledge, tied the boat to a protrusion, and helped Susan out onto the ledge. They stood on it and he pointed to the rock wall next to them, where someone years ago had used a sharp tool to scratch out the words “Jared loves Myrna.” He looked away toward the opening of the cave, his eyes bright. Susan said, “I’ve asked Rip about his father but there’s so much silence in my marriage.” “I did love Myrna,” he said, “but her unhappiness was gobbling me up, I had to get away. Rip has not been gobbled up. He is a strong young man, very inward. That must be hard for you. Keep an open heart. He will come to you slowly. We must go back now.” He rode her once again across the violent sea and deposited her on the dock. “I’m dying and you won’t see me again. No tears, my beauty.” She approached the house and saw Myrna at the window glowering out at her. Behind Myrna stood Rip, solid and vertical, as if holding up the roof.

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