The Interview
“I hate this place.” Bill muttered.
“RE-lax,” Trica said. “I know it’s not your cup of tea but it’s just an interview. Who knows if you’ll get the job,” In truth, calling it an interview was a stretch of magnificent proportions, the likelihood of him landing the job was so low that the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. Bill didn’t even know what he would do if he got the job, perhaps something with gin or vodka. Four years ago, he graduated with a degree in liberal arts from Clemson and a head full of dreams about writing the next Inception, accepting awards and having wild sex with whatever B-list actress his producers cast to star in his movies. But a head full of dreams is just that, and the last four years had not been kind to him. Unable to hold on to a job for more than a month, he turned to the only person from his graduating class who didn’t have a big head from the minimal success they had. Trica, being just as lonely as he was, welcomed him with open arms and introduced him to her boss, who then in turn scheduled an interview, for the tenth of September. The tenth eventually rolled around and here he was, sitting in a rented suit, not even within a hemisphere of his cup of tea.
“I probably should just go, I bet I’m wasting her time,” Bill said, making to get up.
“I told you relax,” Trica said, holding out her arm to stop Bill from leaving. “They’ll love you and her time isn’t worth that much anyways,”
“I don’t know what I’ll do here,” said Bill anxiously, he started to bounce his leg on the floor in anticipation.
“Don’t worry, I still don’t know what it is I do, and I’ve been here half a year,” replied Trica.
“People like you” Bill said, the bouncing becoming more severe. “You’re easy to talk to. I’m not”
“Oh will you stop being so hard on yourself?” Trica scolded. “And will you stop bouncing that damn leg? It’s driving me crazy.”
“Sorry,”
“Uhhhh, Bill Anhouwzer?” A pretty, young blonde leaned out of the doorway in front of Bill and Trica. “I’m ready to see you,”
“Good luck,” Trica smiled and squeezed Bill’s hands. Bill stood up and walked slowly to the door, amazed he hadn’t ran away in fright. His legs were shaking so much that he spotted a flicker of worry skirt across his interviewer’s face. He reached the door and stuck out his hand.
“I’m Bill Anhouwzer. But I guess you already know that,” he said, silently cursing his lack of social skills.
But the woman grasped his and warmly and said “Name’s Amanda Pauler. Nice to meet you.” Bill glanced briefly back at Trica, who grinned at him, he grinned back and crossed the threshold. Amanda closed the door closed with a soft, ominous click.
AN: It's the start to something, I don't really know what though. If it should be another short story or my first crack at something longer. Let me know what you think, if you feel inclined, whether or not it has the legs to stand up for more than 20 pages.
Just between friends.
Hey buddy,
I'm back, didya miss me? You used to like me, what happened? So what we did it alot? So what we got into the extreme side? I think thats a good thing, living so close to the edge. Come on, I know you, liked that. The risk, you're so bored with everything, everyone, A sober life can't bring you the joy like I can. You hurt me leaving so abruptly like that. Nobody abandons a friend like that. I'm the only one who's seen the real you. If you like about it, I'm the closest thing you have to a friend. Nothing in your life will matter anyways, so let's do it! I hate how you act like I never existed. Does anyone know about me? I bet your too ashamed to tell anyone, you think they would hate you, and your right. Step down to my level, you will love yourself for it. I'll tell ya what, do it NOW and I'll throw in a free orange bottle from your friend's cabinet, he doesn't have to know. No one does. Just between friends.
With love and grace, Addi.
About 50 years ago
"Well, what laws did he break?" the lawyer snapped, sick of the cloak and dagger.
"He pretty much shattered every law in physics, and quite a few legal ones," Affi said.
"Meaning?" the lawyer sighed.
"If he come back, he'll simultaneously be awarded the Nobel prize and a life sentence."
Mania
Boots. My mother always bought me boots whenever she fucked up. The cost of the boots depended on the size and severity of the aforementioned fuck up. Sometimes, she would buy me two boots if things were really shitty. But now, three pairs were standing on my bed, like skyscrapers, jutting up from the blankets. I had just gotten home from school. It was six o’clock, exactly. She shouldn’t even be home for couple hours. So what had happened to make my workaholic mother stop working, buy these boots to just come home to drop them off?
I moved to inspect to boots, hoping they might tell me how badly Mom screwed the pooch. I recognized the brands: Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Prada. The Gucci was black, the Louis Vuitton was a stark white and the Prada was a brilliant red, and, of all things, damp. The fuck? All of the boots looked familiar like I’d seen them before. Probably in the front display of a shop, I imagined. The total cost of the boots must have been around ten thousand dollars, several times more than any of the other pairs my mother had gotten me over the years.
“Jesus Christ,” I said to myself “What have you done now?”
I looked some more, trying to deduct more from the three boots. I turned the red Prada upside down looking for the note I knew wouldn’t be there. To my great surprise, a note fell out of the left boot.
I fear I haven’t done everything in my power. I’m sorry Tracy.
What the fuck? What kind of power does a business magnate really have? And why in fresh hell would one need to use that power? More troubling though, was the use of my full name. She didn’t write Tee nor Trey, she wrote Tracy, a name she knew I hated. The last time she had used my full name was when she caught me screwing that British boy, frightened by the possibility of an STI. But that didn’t worry as much as the words I’m sorry did. Because if I know one thing, it's that the great Madeline Leninshowz never, ever, apologizes. So what caused her to now?
My cell phone started to buzz in my pocket. I pulled the phone out to check the number. The number was unlisted.
“Hello?” I said. No answer.
“Hellooooo?” I said again. Still, no answer. Probably just a prank call. I shrugged, putting my phone back in my pocket, determined to figure out what had happened to my mother.
I walked to the door and opened it to a pitch black hallway.
Who turned out the lights? My subconscious thought. I chose to ignore this troubling idea.
“Goddamnit,” I cursed. Spending most of my teenage years in my room, the kitchen or the games room had severely distorted my scope of the house. The house always felt like a modest little thing, in truth it was more of a mansion than a house. The subconscious feeling of all the empty rooms merely spooked me when I was a child, yet the sight of that long dark hallway sparked some long forgotten need, the need to survive. I curled my shaking hands into fists attempting to calm them, but they just started to shake more. Footsteps sounded in the distance, Pit-pat pit-pat pit-..., I waited for the second footfall; it never came.
“Mo-” I caught myself before the second syllable
Pit- pat pit-pat. The footsteps sounded closer
“Stupid, stupid girl,” The forgotten spark scolded “They don’t know you’re here. Do you really want to let them know?”
“Depends on who Them, is,” I babbled.
“They are bad, they will kill you on sight but most importantly, they are coming. Now RUN!” ordered the spark. Pit-pat pit-pat pit-pat. The steps resumed, louder, faster, coming down the darkened hallway. I ran down the stairs. Pit-pat pit-pat pit-pat. I could hear it following close behind. Pit-pat pit-pat pit-pat. I sensed it on the back of my neck. I felt the faintest of touches against my back.
“Trrrrraaaaaacyyyy” something whispered right in my ear. It was like the bowels of hell itself had touched me, it’s cold hand trailing down my back.
“FASTER, FASTER, FASTER,” screamed the spark. I shot through the kitchen, living room, and ran into a study, slamming the door behind me. I shoved my entire weight against the door. A bellowing screech sounded throughout the house. Then a monumental force plowed into the door. I flew back into the opposite wall, my head whiplashed back, spiking it into the wall. With the scream, I launched myself at the door and held it shut. Screams and growls, each more terrifying than the last. The spark was now a raging inferno, reaching from my head to muscles to every nook and cranny in my body. The door rattled like a tornado, still, I kept it firmly shut. It had one more go at the door, almost smashing it. The door cracked, but held fast. I waited for another sound, something that to tip me off to the flurry of attacks that was sure to come. Nothing came. No attack, no sound. I strained my ears, attempting to hear the faintest of footsteps or screams. Still no sound. Not even that ringing white noise, present only, in the quietest of places. Yesterday, I would’ve found it relaxing, now, it was the calm between the onslaught, the silence before the scare. I didn’t dare move. In fact, I braced myself harder against the door. I heard faint footsteps. Not the pit-pat pit-pat but more of a click-clack, the sound of heels against the hard floor.
“Tee?” my Mom shouted, “Can you come down here?”
“Mom?” I shouted back.
“Tee come down here,” She repeated “Please?”
Haven’t heard that word in awhile. I thought. A realization hit me. My mom would never use, please. It’s trying to lure me out.
“It’ll have to try harder than that,” I whispered to myself.
“Tee?” The monster asked, still far away, “Where are you?”
“In your study,” I replied. A plan started to formulate in my head. I rummaged through a desk, took out a ballpoint pen and ran back to the door ready to attack. Right when the monster reached the study. I was going to ambush it. The sound of heels grew louder. I could faintly hear the pit-pat pit-pat pit-pat between the click-clacks of the heels. A poor disguise. I thought. A few knocks emanated from the door.
“Tracy? Why are you in here?” The monster said. Another queue, my real mother would never call me by that name. The door opened, the monster stepped into the room.
“Are you okay?” it asked. I leaped at it, stabbing repeatedly at its eyes.
“Tracy what are you doing?!” It screamed. “Stop it!” But I didn’t care, the monster could try any trick, I would stay firm. I kept stabbing it, screaming, adrenaline pumping through my veins.
“FUCK YOU!” I bellowed. “DIE MOTHER FUCKER!” The pen went in and out of its body, blood poured out of the wounds. I didn’t stop, I was covered in its blood, I didn’t give a shit. It had to die. Eventually, I felt its heartbeat stop. The body gave one last terrible shudder, a black gas exited its mouth and rose through the ceiling into the sky. I collapsed, lying in its blood, exhausted. It was over.
The police were called to the Leninshowz residence on reports of screams coming from the house. There, responders found Miss. Tracy Leninshowz lying next to the body of Mrs. Madeline Leninshowz, clutching a bloody pen. Tracy is currently living in Creedmoor Psychiatric Center. No boots nor note were found in the house.
Writer’s Block
“The world doesn’t need people like you anymore. It needs more doctors, more engineers, not more writers. Put down that pen, it can do you no good.” Maybe I should’ve listened to my father. But the world figured out it’s problems just fine without me. Wars were won, laws were passed and the greenhouse gases went away, and I sat here, at my desk writing. People will sometimes ask me what I’m writing about. “I don’t know,” I reply. “Something magnificent,” People don’t like this answer. They tell me to quit, or to hurry up, once in awhile they say “Good for you” and smile at me. I like that, it gives me motivation to write some more. I never do though, I sit at my desk staring at the beautiful sky, thinking about what my father said. My trusty pen hasn’t done me any good, but it can do me no harm either, for I love what it does and as long as that is true I will continue to sit at my desk staring at the sky. I will continue to write but most importantly I will continue to think about what my father said “The world doesn’t need people like you anymore. It needs more doctors, more engineers, not more writers. Put down that pen, it can do you no good.” Maybe Dad, maybe.
Astronaut Application
We regret to inform you that your application to be "one of those space people" has been rejected. I don't know what made you think you were qualified, when it is clear, you don't even know the name of the job you are applying for.
Your listed qualifications were good, but proof of these qualifications, was not. Keeping water in a straw by covering the top end with your finger, does not count as a sufficient knowledge of physics. The formulas you sent us are not physics formulas, but I applaud you for remembering how to calculate percent error.
We here at NASA aren't music experts, but the lethargic playing of an oboe and occasional recitation of the pledge of allegiance does not count as a mixtape in our eyes. Finally, you can keep the five dollars you sent us as a bribe. We do not want it. Please get your BAC checked.
Sincerely, NASA