I So Awkward

Test

You wake up. There’s a fishtank behind you and you’re pretty sure it ain’t yours. And your pants are in it. You check your watch. Wait, you don’t own a watch, but the Rolex on your wrist tells you it’s 7:33am. What did you do last night? Your phone beeps, it’s dying, but where is it? You search the room. You’ve been in a few living rooms in your time, but none like this. The orange accent wall, neon green chairs, black tables, and polka dot couch assault you with their modern gaudiness. You hear your phone under the cushion of said couch, frantically search for it and watch as it brightens and dies, severing your ties to a world that might have your shoes which, you notice, are not on your feet. You snatch your phone as the open bay windows catch your attention. The sun, still rising over the rim of tan townhouses in front of you, spills dawn light into the room, warming the orange and cream candle that’s resting on the window ledge. “Shit,” you think. “My legs are white.” 

The neighborhood is unrecognizable, but its cookie-cutter houses make it seem very familiar. Are you on the East side? You look and your car is gone. Gone? That’s assuming it was here in the first place. Okay, it’s not out front at least. In the garage? You turn and walk to the hallway. On the way, your foot catches the table and the lamp atop it goes crashing to the ground. “Fuck!”

The din settles for a moment before you hear it. 

A gruff, deep voice shouts from another room, “What the fuck!” And a gun shot reports from the room, followed by another one. Stomping shakes the floor beneath your feet and…it’s getting closer. What do you do?

To hide in what you assume is the closet to your left, turn to page 16.
To run towards the front door across the living room, turn to page 22.
To stand your ground, confused and pantsless, turn to page 12.

A little context: I’m incorporating the Pomodoro Technique into my life (Google away). So, for 25 minutes each day (like there’s an each day for me), I’m going to write original works of short fiction. Now, the idea is to freewrite, so they probably won’t be “good.” But who knows? That being said and without further ado, I bring to you Pomodoro Fiction Theatre!

The Good Samaritan

Every morning, at approximately six, Margot, a chubby blonde with the type of coy smile that makes you wonder if she’s a virgin or a whore, jogged by Jack’s house. This is important because at approximately 6:45 every morning, after his coffee had made him sufficiently horny, Jack would masturbate to Margot’s tits bouncing in his mind’s eye.

Today, he didn’t. Jack was 60. Bulbous, bullish, and balding, he lived his life like a real bachelor should, he said. He was tolerated down at the VFW where he spent most weeknights and he frequently used his mostly toothless smile and yellow moustache to scare any kids that happened to be around. 

“I knew Jack,” said a waitress who wished to remain anonymous. “He just spent too much damn money in this place for me to be mean to him. I wanted to kick him to the curb so I could bring my kids sometimes and not pay the babysitter.” 

Margot didn’t care for him either. Occasionally, he’d yell something at her as she ran by, but she never took her headphones out in time to catch it. And she would have changed her course, but running by his house, making sure he was at the window, and not dead, was her daily Good Samaritan deed—it’s true! she even wrote it on the card every Sunday at the church she attends because she doesn’t want her mom to know she’s an atheist. 

Where was I?

Oh yeah, Jack died in the night, in his bed, where he shouldn’t have, but that’s for another story. So, that Thursday when Margot jogged by, he wasn’t staring salaciously at her.

So she pulled out her phone and called the police.

The End.