A Quiet Passing

Haven’t written fiction in a while. Short stories are fun.

And when it came down to it, he knew everything about himself was a cliché, the pigpen room with sour-caked pipes, the wet pizza boxes, the turpentine cocktail he sipped from a martini glass at this, his lowest. It was all in good fun until every bit of it seemed so ordinary, and then the self-loathing scabbed over. He’d pick at it, pick at it until it was time to rip it off and bleed out. Checking the ol’ ticket in this, a room where every skittering cockroach, every expended condom was a dire reminder that there was not a shit to be given.


“The image will be complete if I die sucking on my bong,” he thought. A kidney went as he lit the crusty thing up.


His mind sloughed knowing that when his grisly remains were found later everyone would know that he was such a slob, so he decided that his last action may as well be doing the dishes. Stomach wasn’t too pleased when he stood. A cap gun pop from inside and some blood on the undies.


“Jeez,” he said, to no one.


The dishes hadn’t been done in weeks. He regretted, too late, that he was so fond of eggs and cream cheese.


Plate one. A dried piece of ham and festering brown sauce.


Plate two was actually Solo plastic, probably should’ve been thrown away, he decided. Rock hard ramen, another sip from his glass.


The soup in the sink smelled like Hell and he bathed in it, doubled over the counter, the bits of mold, the flakes of avoided digestion slapping against his head like the ocean waves, that rancid piece of ham jammed into his ear. He convulsed – suddenly – and the rest of his work went crashing down. He fell backwards and sat on every shattered bit before ejecting a pasty nothing onto the linoleum.


“Ghhnohgod,” he retched.


Then a thought to make a phone call. She picked up. He picked up? Who was he calling?


“I’ve ghhhhad something to drink,” he said.


His roommate walked in as the line went dead.


“Did the dishes,” turpentine said. “Where’s the bong?”


“This place is a mess,” roomie responded. He walked over to the couch, recovered the water pipe, took a hit. Blew out a steady stream and then, “Yo, dude, are you fucked up?”


“I’m ghhha little fucked up.”


“Well, it is Tuesday. You want to hit this?” And then no response.



2 Responses to “A Quiet Passing”

  1. wow.

    I’m jealous.

    And impressed.

  2. Writing is the bestest escape. I decided to click your little banner on PA since I recognized the logo (I just joined WordPress). Neato.


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