She smiled at him. She smiled. She was almost convincing. But he knew what was happening, and reality parted beneath him. The smell filled his nostrils. She hadn’t been looking at the corner, but at him. He had already smelled what she smelled: himself. Behind her smile her eyes were transfixed by slivers of growing horror. As if her eyes were mirrors he could see what she saw.
In his chair she saw an eyeless face of mottled bone, grinning at her through its gaping cheeks.
At last he managed to look down at his hand. He felt his neck-bone creak. His hand was still flesh. But he could feel his corpse. It was inside him, slowly corroding its way to the surface, a core of numbness spreading outward, reaching lazily for him. It was unhurried. It had as much time as he.
Melons
She tells me to go ahead, unzip her top. That she’s not wearing a bra.
Must I, really?
It’s a cute top. A mint green sweater with darker green stripes. Soft, with a zipper and a hood and two large front pockets. And her breasts are just right there against the fabric. Very large and—I assume—soft, too.
Jenny seems to be getting impatient with me. She takes my hand and starts leading it towards the zipper. A mid-air tug of war match until she pulls so hard my fingers hit her sternum. Want to listen to some music or maybe see what’s on TV? I could probably find the key to the liquor cabinet. How about playing a card game that requires all hands to be filled? With cards, I mean. Anyone for tennis?
I know what my parents had in mind when they set up this date, but I can’t imagine Jenny’s parents going along with it.
“Sure, Jenny,” they must have said. “Go on a date with Freddy Jenkins and prove he isn’t a fudge packer; a knob gobbler; a backdoor butler; a trunk monkey. Be home by eleven.”
We’ve had the house to ourselves for the entire evening. So all night, I’ve been trying to deflect Jenny’s advances. And they say men are the ones with only one thing on their minds.
“What are you so afraid of, Freddy?”
Global warming. The current housing market. The coming robot revolution. Her hand on my hand on her zipper. That last one, definitely.
“Do it, Freddy. Love me.” It sounds like a threat.
My Adam’s apple makes an audible clicking sound when I swallow. Like a lighter you just can’t get to light. I pull the zipper down, the sweater parting and falling to the sides. She wasn’t lying, she really isn’t wearing a bra.
Jenny makes a low whistling sound: like squeezing the last bit of air out of a balloon. The cantaloupes that were her breasts bounce off her knees and roll across our living room floor. Her torso collapses into apples and oranges and two sliced strawberry nipples. Her pants deflate as blueberries and grapes pour out of the legs like candy from a broken gumball machine. A single peach rests in her thong, a sling ready to slay a giant.
Her head, a large coconut, thuds onto the couch cushions. A black ink smile is scrawled across the shell. Above the grin are two doodled eyes, one dropped in a wink.
Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I make a fruit salad.
Advice
Q. I recently turned fifteen and I was wondering, when is it a good time to start shaving?
A.The first time you get neck hair caught in the zipper of your jacket is the perfect time to start shaving. When it happens, remember these helpful shaving tips:
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The first step is buying a razor. You have two choices, electric or disposable. Both types are expensive enough to make you wish you were born a eunuch. Since we are hardwired to think only in the short term, you will opt for the less pricey disposable ones. You probably won’t spring for an electric shaver until you grow your first batch of ear hair and need special attachments.
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Picking out a good brand of razor can be tough, but look for ones with names like AeroFusion+ or Dynamo II: Simba’s Pride. They might not get you a closer shave, but they look cooler. You can also spring for a type that vibrates. Why you would possibly want this feature in a blade you hold near your eyes is not known at this time.
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The more blades a razor has, the bigger your penis is. Remember that.
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If you go disposable, you will also need shaving gel (or shaving cream, if you somehow asked this question from the 50’s.) Some brands of gel numb your skin, because not being able to tell the dimensions of your face is perfect for when you’re hacking away at it with a sharp object. The gel’s main job is to clot the blood. And, yes, there will be blood.
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When you nick yourself, you must resist the urge to scream. Remember, you are now a man, and men don’t scream. Even if they lose an ear. To distract yourself from the pain, slam a bottle of shampoo into your crotch. If you feel yourself start to white out, be sure to hold the razor away from your body.
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You can tell you’ve shaved far enough down your throat when your Adam’s apple begins to bleed. Apply pressure, and try not to swallow.
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Remember, head wounds bleed easy, but the likely hood of bleeding out are slim.
Reading this might have put you off of shaving, you might be wondering if you should grow a beard or at least some Stubble© instead. Get real. You’re a long ways away from being able to do that. At best you’d look like a Wooly Willy done by some ADD addled kid. At worst, you’d look like your menopausal aunt. Do you really want to give your uncle another reason to invite you for a weekend at his hunting cabin?
Call Now!
Do you feel safe when you shower?
You shouldn’t. In today’s dangerous world, if you haven’t been brutally murdered while bathing, then you likely know someone who has. If you’re still living, it’s only a matter of time until you’re not.
With this in mind, we proudly introduce the Sav-T-Shower Door. Specially tempered glass that deadbolts shut from the inside. The glass is unbreakable* and comes in three aesthetically pleasing designs. Available in both standard or advanced models (see chart below).
Our product has all the celebrities talking. Jamie Lee Curtis says, “My mother might still be alive today if she had had a Sav-T-Shower Door.” Mariska Hargitay says, “My mother died in a car accident. Why do you keep calling?”
But wait! Act now and we’ll throw in a bonus. A special alarm that sounds if, somehow, your Sav-T-Shower Door breaks. You will be butchered by the time the authorities arrive, but you’ll go out with a big Eff You to your neighbors.
Call now. Operators are standing by!
*Breakable under certain conditions or if bather is not a virgin.
Death (In A) Sentence
In the crash, it’s the back bumper, the one with the ‘How’s My Driving?’ sticker, that takes off her head.
Fame
The difference between fame and infamy is the width of a knife blade sliding between ribs.
Going in and in and in. Each time, a little easier. Each time, with a small gasp of breath. The sound of young lovers, sweaty and crowded in back seats, searching searching searching for something, finding it and left wanting more out of life.
The difference between fame and infamy is what side of the blade you find yourself.
After washing up, you peek back into the nursery. The mobile spins, blood dripping down into the silent crib. You are ready for the sirens.
The difference between fame and infamy isn’t so much really. Either way, you make the papers.
They Say
The Handlers’ is the last house on a dead end street, not quite three blocks from your own.
Their backyard is surrounded by a high wooden fence. The children brave enough to have peeked through the slats say they saw it playing back there.
Sitting alone in a sandbox eating mice. Or lying on its stomach, claws digging into the dirt. Some say it’s a girl, dressed in pink, with glowing red eyes. Others swear it’s a boy, that you can see ridges of scales on its bare skin.
Everyone agrees that it’s a monster.
You have not peeked. Not yet; so you believe every story you hear about the Handler family. Both the ones your classmates tell you, and the ones the adults whisper when they think you are not listening.
Like how when Susanna Handler went into labor, the Handlers never made it to the hospital. Their car went off the side of the road. The rest of the trip was in the back of an ambulance, sirens wailing. A week later, they returned home. The new mother, one arm in a sling, the other cradling a swaddled bundle. A month later, the fence went up.
They wouldn’t let anyone see the child. Susanna did not return to work. The stories began. Nurses and doctors were quizzed. They all said that they were not at liberty to say. That poor family, they said. The stories grew.
The Handler family walks at night, they say. Mother and Father pushing a stroller down dark streets, Susanna’s heels clicking on the cooling sidewalks. They keep to the edges of town, walking late in the night, as the hour climbs towards morning. Those who pass them say Benjamin Handler always tips his hat.
Only one person has ever admitted to seeing the child during these walks. Even then, just a bone white hand reaching from the dark of the stroller.
It is this story that compels you to finally peek. To learn which stories are true. A warm spring day, school just finished, you trail your fingers along the Handlers’ backyard fence. There is nothing but a whirring and humming forest behind you. You find a small gap between the slats, with the taste of a Popsicle still on your tongue, you bend and look and see.
A rose bush. A bee crawling along the yellow petals level with your squinted eye. You look through the next gap in the boards. And the next. Seeing only yellow roses.
The next day, you tell your friends how you saw the monster. It was playing.
The Bidding War
“Five. Five, I got five. Do I hear six?”
“Six!”
“Six! We got six. Seven? How bout seven? Going once. Going twice. Sold to Vicki, who’s such a good sport. Linda, go ahead and tell the fine lady your story. She’s promised to give six shits about it.”
“Oh, we were bidding shits? I was doing tinkers’ damns.”
“Oh. Ouch. In today’s market, with the exchange rate what it is, maybe you’re better off holding onto that cat stor—”
“I hate your parties, Stephen.”
Feudal
Somewhere in California:
“I asked you a question.”
“Please. Why are you doing this to me?”
A twist of a dial, an electric jolt. “Answer.”
“A porcupine!”
“Very good. Name another animal that would be difficult to keep as a household pet.”
“I can’t. I can’t do this—”
“Yes you can. You must. There are families depending on you.” Hand on the dial, waiting. “Would you like the pliers again?”
“God, no. Please, no.”
“Then answer the fucking question.”
Two hours later, the survey is over. “Bring in the next one.”
Only ninety-nine to go.
The Risks of Cutting
When the school implemented a reward for being the first in line to come in from recess, there were inevitable consequences.
Peter asked Sally, “What do scissors do?”
“Cut out your still beating heart,” she replied, driving a pair of them into his chest.
They were only the safety scissors she had managed to smuggle in her skort, so they didn’t cut deeply, but, her point was made nonetheless. Peter went to the back of the line.
