You’d think being out of school would mean I’m slightly less busy. Nah. This Friday I have a college thing, and this Saturday a writer’s conference. After that, apparently my grandparents are stealing me away to go on a trip with them. Haha. All I know is I better write a few posts in advance so all I have to do is copy-paste.
Anyway, today I thought I’d share a short story I wrote when I was bored. Not sure if I still like the title; it was kinda just the first thing I thought that sounded related/okay. Tell me what you guys think!
(Oh, another quick note, I didn’t use any character names. This was deliberate.)
“Murdered Motivation”
The apartment door creaked as she pushed it open, keys jangling from the knob. Her purse and work bag, full of colored folders and an ipad with a cracked screen, hit the floor in quick succession, then the keys and her jacket shoved onto the bare coat rack. She inhaled deep the homely, faint scent of old coffee and traces of bourbon and kicked her sneakers off. The dishes in the kitchen sink received a tired glare whilst she made herself a bowl of cereal. Spots of dish soap on the back of the sink mocked her, reminded her of past nights in which motivation was still her ally. She sighed and plodded to the living room, sock-feet silenced against complaining floors. The living room tripled as a dining room and guest area, and she collapsed readily on her cheap couch which had to have been made of grain sacks and used cotton balls. Milk splashed her thumb and once she had settled, she licked it off with a slurp. The crunch of raisin bran soon filled her ears and mouth and she stared mindlessly at the dark tv screen. It had not been granted life for several weeks now–the only news she had been subject to was what little she could pick up on her car’s radio.
The front door opened; she didn’t bother to see who came in. She listened while the other person locked the door, hung up his coat, and sighed. He walked heavily through the kitchen, then poked his head into the living/dining/guest room, an eyebrow raised.
She raised an eyebrow back, crunching her cereal.
“The door was unlocked.” he said.
She knew he meant it as a question. He always said his questions like statements, like he was testing her to pick up on the double meaning. Even when he proposed, he’d said, “I want to marry you.” instead of the normal, “Will you marry me?”
She guessed she liked it. His oddities kept her sharp, always wondering about double, or even triple meanings. But right now, she didn’t have the motivation to play his game. She had something else on her mind.
“I want to murder someone.”
He acted surprised enough to go from looking around the doorframe to leaning against it.
“Who.”
“Anyone.”
He grunted, then a few clunks and tinkles later, he offered her a mug of wine. They sat together for a few moments, sipping the dark liquid. She mixed the bittersweet wine with mouthfuls of cereal haphazardly, until it finally became too much for her stomach to handle and she put the cereal aside, feeling nauseous. She cradled the cup of wine with both hands. He put an arm around her.
“The loss of the president would cause a ruckus.” he said, matter of fact.
Another question. But the suggestion didn’t sit well with her. Someone else.
“More intimate than the president.”
She heard him slurp his wine. His arm around her shoulders tensed a little. She looked out the window at a bird hopping on the windowsill.
“That friend of yours who ostracized you would probably be better off dead. I hear he’s a convicted rapist now.”
She twitched her arms. He didn’t notice. She faked a stretch and he took his arm away.
They swirled their wine in silence.
“Still not right.” she said.
“You saw it today.”
He watched her with a patient gaze. She shrugged. The bird outside flew away.
“You want to say something.” Another question. So many of them.
She almost laughed. He leaned away from her, a bit less friendly now. The wine in their mugs stilled like the air in the room. Her eyes finally darted over him, rested on his hands. Where had those hands been?
She set her mug next to her bowl. “I don’t have to say anything,” she turned to stare; his lips parted to speak, then she said, “And neither do you.”
Her words hung there in the stillness.
The tension faded and was replaced by a heaviness. He looked angry, then sad, then regretful; her face was a stone.
He gulped the last of his wine, then got up.
“Goodbye, then.”
She listened to the rustle of cloth and clink of metal, feeling her resolve and strength not to weep leaving with him. She looked out the window with eyes of liquid glass. The bird was back.
And the man she wanted to murder was gone.
Word Technician 