Imperfect Fiction

Seven Stories

Seven Stories

Ken Sparling

I was thinking about my hand, where it had been last night, where it was now in space, there, beside me, little residual bits of where it had been yesterday still clinging to it. The taste of yesterday when I raised it to my mouth and took my index finger in, sucking on yesterday like I could pull it back, pull it here into today, into this moment, a taste remembered.

 

The door said PUSH.
Push, I thought. What is push?
The door opened.
I must have pushed!
I knew push!
I went out. It was cold.
I looked for another door. A way back in.
“There he is.” They wanted to interview me.
“Are you the one who pushed?”
“I think I am.”
“You know push?”
“I think so. I did know. At one time. I think.”
“You need to be sure. We don’t have time. If you aren’t sure… are you aren’t sure?”
“He’s the one. I saw him. Why don’t you come clean, fella? We don’t have time for this.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Should we interview him?”
“No. Fuck him. He doesn’t know anything.”
“Must have just got lucky. You think you just got lucky, fella?”
“I think so.”
“You’re still here. You don’t know how to get back in, do you?”
“Okay. Thanks for your time. Let’s go.”
They were gone.
There was wind. It was cold.
There were people. They were wind.
There was everything.
Everywhere.
It was wind.
In my hair.
On my arms.
I tried to speak.
Like wind.

 

“You're never supposed to see the penises of people you work with,” said the boy, “except maybe in the storage cupboard, or at the office party.”
       “You can photocopy a penis,” said the girl, although she was not entirely sure of this. She simply wanted to be part of the boy's world, to be able to converse with him.
       “Or else,” continued the girl, “the secretary in the skirt can sit on the photocopier and you can try to figure it out if she has underwear from the copy you make.”

 

Yesterday I ran out of aspirin, so I went over to the drugstore, but they were out of aspirin, too. I thought, There are other drugstores. This isn't the only drugstore.

 

The sun was setting. That peculiar moment when the quality of light robs the world of all its ugly detail.
     I chose that moment to look at Jane’s cheek.

 

I have to pay the phone bill.
I wish I could fly.
Last night, I was a ball.

 

The girl was typing an email to Brad in France when she noticed she’d spelled “too” as “to” and she fixed that. I need people to love my emails, she thought. She was nearly in tears. "Love my emails, you fuckers!" she shouted. Inside her head, she went to the washroom. Peed. When she got back to her desk, she felt spent, but relaxed. Like her peeing had been a sort of mild orgasm. She put her headphones back on, sat motionless in front of her monitor. The monitor went to sleep.

Note for George

Note for George

Playing House

Playing House