A Collection of Short Stories from the Archives of my Laptop

A Story by Janelle

Jim:

Now Jim, like many other individuals of disinteresting life styles, often fantasized of being whisked away from the ennui of day to day life into something…more. With Quixote-level delusion, even the tritest of experiences could be twisted into something more significant than one would initially believe. And such delusions killed Jim from the inside.

Anticlimax:

He knew something was wrong, but he’d never been able to figure out what. Maybe it was the way the faucet never really seemed to stop dripping, no matter how tight he closed it. Maybe it was the way the curtains always seemed to blow in the wind, even when the window was closed. Maybe the most unsettling things about the apartment, were the amount of packages he received.

Every morning they appeared, piled up over his doormat. There were never any names, and never any return addresses, only mangled, illegible remains of such labels. Frequently he made mention of this anomaly to the landlady, yet his landlord always insisted that no occupant had lived in his residence for several years. The odds of the packages being addressed to the previous owner were absurdly slim. So, with an anxious stomach and a foggy head, he would gather the packages from each morning and settle them in a pile by the door.

He often found himself staring, wondering…why? What could be held within them? What could be so urgent as to demand the floor of his doormat ever morning? They came in all shapes and sizes, and in poor condition, in want of cellophane and badly bruised, as if haphazardly thrown onto his floor.

Had it ever occurred to him that the packages were a fluke? A pathetic attempt advertisement? A misplaced year’s supply for moisturizing cream? A death threat? How could it be certain that such packages were intended for himself, and not some other resident of the complex?

Well he couldn’t be certain. And he could never be certain, unless he knew what was inside. And that’s exactly what he did. And what he found in it…was rather…anticlimactic.

What had he been expecting? Money? Food? A life-changing invitation? Unfortunately for him, such experiences would only bother gracing the most extraordinary of human beings. And he was anything but extraordinary. No, when he lifted the package up to his lap and removed the packing, he was astounded to find that the box carried nothing but garbage.

For the past few days since he had moved in, some inconsiderate neighbor or inattentive passerby had been dropping off discarded pieces of wrappings and plastics all packaged in brown boxes in an effort to consolidate space. His doormat had not been the destination for some secret admirer or global company, but for trash�"unwanted, unhelpful, and really rather bothersome. And by unwittingly “disposing” of each pile of packages within his residence, he had invited a janitorial role upon himself.

So no, it wasn’t the fact that his faucet was third-rate and never served its purpose. It wasn’t the fact that the air conditioning shaft always blew in at the most inconvenient angles. And it wasn’t the fact that his own home was deemed a suitable place for other individuals to dump their own unmentionables on to. Here, where the most interesting occurrence was the appearance of another individual’s discarded trinkets, did he realize how blatantly dull his own life was.

A child’s epiphany:

It’s come to my understanding that sons are to adore their Fathers; relish on their every word and action. Or else they are to absolutely abhor them�"resenting their presence as an intimidating male and all the while pining for their Mothers. To my surprise, I was neither. I neither loved nor hated my Father. I treated him with a respectful indifference. When he commanded, I obeyed; not out of love, but out of deference for his position as my provider. When he scolded me I did not spite him from the fires of my bosom, rather, I treated his words as one might treat the complaint of a landlord. In the few moments when he did show affection, I did not reciprocate with a welling of happiness, but rather with a sense of duty as a puritan might explain the matters of reproduction to her child. Ours was a relationship held up by my own self-interest and my Father’s lack thereof. A tragically one-sided relationship parenthood must bestow…isn’t it?

Shoes:

As children, we’re often told to keep our chins up, but I’ve found that there’s an underrated kind of merit with keeping mine down. During most hours of the day, whether in deep conversation with others or myself, I tend to fix my eyes on the ground below me, fascinated with the shoes of myself and of others around me. My tendency to literally keep my head down does not stem solely from my own social ineptitude (but that certainly doesn’t help matters). What may have started out as an avid effort to avoid eye contact has turned into a relaxing game and suitable alternative to staring at faces.

During my walks home, keeping my head down has also allotted me the ability to collect gleaming treasures of loose change and lost house keys people tend to strew along streets.

Shoes (alternate):

I’ve always been terrible at remembering faces, this is probably because I’m usually staring at my feet most of the time. That being said, I’m wondrous at recalling people’s shoes.

Their treads tell stories about the marathon they ran last week. Their untied laces give hints about their laziness and lack of order. Finely manicured nails and open toed stilettos heed me of their attention to detail and love for elegance. It's fascinating how much more interesting it can be to not look someone in the eye. Some like to move them around a lot, the hyper ones; some content themselves with remaining still for hours, the relaxed ones; some seem to constantly tap their toes and point towards the exit; the impatient ones, and others with their toes pointed inwards; the shy ones. But even a person’s sole can’t tell me everything about them.

Scraps from Sonhood:

To say I detested my Father would be a bit of an overstatement. It’s more likely that I’d given in to the more Oedipal aspects of a filial relationship.

That day, Father greeted me with a huff and a confused glance. Rather than fatherly pride, it was clear that he viewed me as a slight inconvenience that had shown up at his door unwarranted. And in truth, that would prove to be the indelible nature of our relationship: inconvenient. I viewed him as an obstruction from my maternal relation; he viewed me as a leech.

In the morning, Father would rise--long before I had stirred�"in an effort to prolong the illusion of his previous life. A life in which he had no child, no responsibility, no alimony checks. Then the clock would chime and he would have to brace himself for the onslaught of the real world. He’d often mumble some half-hearted greeting of affection

After clocking out, he would resign himself to his responsibilities: me. I would be waiting at the dinner table; eager to feed on his provisions.

© 2017 Janelle

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D-Wizzel

A lot of stuff is said in these short stories, and all of it said with elegance and deftness. I loved reading these, and am excited to see more from you.