The Beginning of a Short Story

Kira used to love summers.

Until, her ultra-conservative father decided to cave into mid-life crisis, purchase an engine-red Porsche and have an affair with his Executive Assistant; a woman twenty years his junior.

Her mother got the short end of the stick in this bitter divorce. She got stretch marks, saggy thighs, drooping boobs and a dilapidated Buick.

Kira couldn’t stomach the sight of her father anymore, and instead of living with him and his silicone bride-to-be in suburbia, she moved with her mom to a microscopic studio in the middle of WeHo.

The building is ancient. It dates back to 1940s, and the lobby still has remnants of Art Deco in the ceiling and the molding of the walls.

Other than that, the hallways reek of urine and boiled cabbage. Some of the lights are broken and it makes it very hard to navigate down the hallway at night, not to mention super creepy. The elevator hasn’t worked for months, and the windows get broken at least twice a month by the crazy junkies that like to huddle outside, by the dumpster.

And, the building is plagued with uninvited guests.

Roaches.

Kira encountered one while sleeping on a sofa bed that she shared with her mom. She turned on her side and there it was, staring boldly at her on her mom’s empty pillow. It didn’t even scurry off until she screamed and jumped out of bed!

Since then, she triple-checked the sheets before going to sleep, and never left food on the counter or the table anymore.

Kira pushed open the moldy door to the studio, with her foot, and walked inside.

It was unbearably hot and stuffy.

She slumped her backpack down on the floor and walked towards the opened window.

The sweltering heat wave smacked her face and with it, brought the thunderous sound of honking, sirens wailing in the distance and smells of greasy, fast food.

Kira shut the window and turned on the decrepit A.C.

At first, it coughed up dust, but then after an hour it began to blow out cold air, and with it, brought a foul stench of rotten eggs.

Kira let out a deep, exasperated sigh and wondered if her life would ever get better.

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The Beginning of a Short Story

Stay

I sipped on a Daiquiri and listened to him joke with his friends. They were haughty – branded from head-to-toe in designer clothes, raced around the streets of L.A. in 7-series beamers and trophied silicone bimbos.

He was wasted, his speech was slurring, and his advances were getting bolder.

I peeled his sweaty palm off my bare knee, and stood up.

He stopped me. “Where are you going?”

“Bathroom,” I lied.

Instead, I snuck out of the bar and strolled down the Hollywood Blvd. The air was warm and thick, polluted with pungent scents of weed, cigarettes and greasy food.

My nose bleeding heels walked across the stars, and I dodged the lecherous stares my black, skintight dress earned from the guys that guzzled beer and smoked cigarettes in the nearby bars, and searched for a drunken conquest to take home.

I ignored the salacious invitations, and frowned at the loud whistles.

The man I ditched at the bar was a rebound. He was not you. He was just an aftermath of your nonchalance.

You were right.

I lost myself amidst the bright lights, phony glamour life and pretentious prima donnas. I stabbed you in the back by craving the spotlight – but all I ever wanted was your attention. Not sure where I went wrong.

You got angry; called me an attention whore and marched out of my life.

But, she’s not me.

You blocked my number – was that really necessary? Yet, my name is still on your lips. You still ask about me. If you don’t give a damn anymore then why bother wondering if I’m still alive or dead? Doesn’t make sense.

Yes, I was playing a role, but you were being a coward.

You said I hurt you, but you hurt me first. I bruised your ego a couple of times, but you wounded my pride. You can’t just kiss me and feign ignorance to the feelings that surfaced in the pit of your stomach.

You didn’t want to talk about it then, but what about now? Don’t say it’s complicated. It’s not. I hate that word.

Now be a man, own up to your mistakes. Stop playing games and call me out on mine. Let’s face each other, fist fight through our differences and walk away like grown-ups, not churlish kids.

Stay

48 Hours

Three cold, dark nights seeped through my fingers like sand, and unraveled a prickly silence between us.

It lay across my lips like a girth and hid your somber eyes from mine.

Cold as an iceberg, distant as a foreign continent and stubborn as a goat.

Suddenly, you erected walls around your heart without a single word.

I cannot scale these walls nor can I penetrate them anymore.

The battle I waged for your heart is lost, and now there is nothing but an arctic distance between us.

What happened between then and now? What caused this strange behavior?

Tell me, please…

Now, I don’t know how to act around you. You’re neither friend nor foe.

I simply keep my eyes to the ground every time I see you and hope that the pain you spawned inside of my heart will soon disappear.

Such a shame, such pity that my gilded words of love fell on a deaf ear and a stupid man.

Surrounded by so many people that love me, yet I feel so alone without you.

You’re not even mine and I want you.

It’s funny – no it’s sad – actually, it’s quite pathetic to yearn what you cannot have.

What must I do now? Leave? Stay? Fight? Cry?

No. I will sail out of your blasé reach – float down the river of life and never breathe your name again.

You have been discarded into the pile of cowards that I once knew.

There, you will remain for the rest of your life, buried and forgotten.

There, you will fade away.

48 Hours