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Killer Ending
November 24, 2006 in 299 Words, Books, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Literature, novels, Poetry, reading, Short stories, Stories, Very Short Novels, Writing | Tags: Brother, Death, Grave, Horror, Kill, Killer, Murder, Mystery, Novel, Sibling, Violence | by davidbdale | 16 comments
If ghosts could kill themselves, they would. They long to be either here or there. Bodiless but not yet dimensionless light, they darken like shadows the houses they lived in. My dead twin brother finds ways to tell me he’s still half-with us, and I more than half believe him. Ghost stories have it all wrong. Rattling chains aren’t threats or warnings; they’re diplomatic feelers from the nearly departed. So far, he’s dropped hints about the gun I helped him buy, about his accidental death, and about the novel he was writing, but not enough to pull it all together. With my clean record, my legitimate ID, and a photo of the face we share, I secured a license to arm ourselves against what I never knew, but it helped him sleep, and so it helped me, too. He’d gotten it in his head that his foot was diseased, or menacing in a way that his chapter drafts don’t specify. In the garden at dusk, he aimed down the barrel with single-eyed intensity, fired one shot, and severed the pinkie toe, then laughed at what he called my much ado. He got it in his head that we were triplets next and aimed at me in turn, calling me the one in the middle before he fired. Lonely as Adam, I dug a hole that seeped a bit and laid him in damp earth, then filled it alone. I meant to write that it pains the ghost to haunt the living, but it doesn’t ring true. This note I found in his own hand, which looks so much like mine, bears no hint of anguish or remorse. There is no twin, it says, the novel has always been mine, and who will bury you now that you’ve killed me?
Copyright © November 24, 2006
Boss’s Girl
October 23, 2006 in 299 Words, Books, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Literature, Poetry, Short stories, Stories, Very Short Novels, Writing | Tags: Boss, Business, Office, Violence, Work | by davidbdale | 3 comments
Stepping from the long car outside his office building, Number2 straightened the crease of his trouser leg, freeing it from the tongue of his shoe, and turned toward the private entrance. The freed pants leg flapped like a penitent in the wind. He considered his reflection in a mirrored wall and wondered could the shortness of his stride cost him a promotion? He must have meant pennant. Number2 delivered a full-armed slap, putting his shoulder into the effort, across the upper half of the doorman’s face. Morning, Jimmy, he said. Morning, sir, said the doorman. Boss in yet, Jimmy? Yes, sir, said the doorman. Bright and early. Number2 punched the doorman just above the belt buckle. Did I ask you when she got in, Jimmy? No, sir, said the doorman. No, sir, you didn’t. Number2 walloped the receptionist with a fist to the side of her head and picked up his overnight packages. Morning, darling. Morning, sir. With a knee brought swiftly from behind, he caught the elevator operator unaware between the hams and slammed his body against the wall. Eleven, Jack. Eleven, sir? Number2 banged Jack’s head against the cluster of buttons 21 through 29. Boss in? Number2 asked the boss’s girl. She’s waiting for you, sir. Number2 tipped her chair, spilled the girl against a bank of cabinets, and entered the boss’s office. Number1 was standing on her desk. Her head and shoulders disappeared through an open frame in the ceiling. Need help, boss? Asked Number2. Number1 clocked Number2 with a quick kick to the head. I think I got it, said Number1. Number2 crashed to the floor and lay there quietly, awaiting further instructions. He looked up at the boss’s legs, silently considering. His lip was beginning to swell. Thanks for coming in early, she said.
Copyright ©1997
Very Short Novels 