Monday, September 22, 2014

Bathroom Monologue: End of the World Sale


My nephew forced me to buy the chair at a yard sale. The "End of the World Sale," the plywood sign called it, and the chair was propping up the left side of the sign. The chair had only been owned for a week, real leather on the arm rests, and real steel in the supports. Walnut brown with a red undertone and yellow stitching, not as elegant as black models, but distinct. My nephew said I'd use it in my new writing room. He said I had to get writing again, which was his way of saying I needed to get over my wife. Little did he know, little did I know.

See, the seat cushion sighed when I sat on it for the first time in the morning. The same sound as so many of Ruth's sighs, when she'd get in after double-shifts and plop beside me to boot up Netflix. And I have this habit of leaning to much to the left when I'm hesitating over a plot idea, and every time I did, something in the supports grunted. I swear, grunted, like when Ruth was upset at me, the minor upsets, like I'd forgotten the turn signal on a vacant road, or put the toilet paper in facing the wrong way. I figured the chair had sat on the grass too long and some dew had gotten into whatever gears a chair has.

Then there was this Wednesday night when I wrote. Really wrote, for the first time since I couldn't anymore. A whole short story in one sitting, and I was at least a third of the way into another one when I realized I'd been holding the same posture the whole time, my back never touching the chair. I rubbed my eyelids and reclined, and the chair…

Man, I know that noise. I'm the only person who ever made Ruth make that particular squeal. Me, and peppermint gelato.

I never got it to make that sound again. You know what nephew said? To oil the chair. With peppermint oil. And people ask why Ruth and I never wanted kids.

It's not haunted. I don't know if I believe in hauntings, but I know I don't believe in this one. It's that one time I got the wrong e-mail from my sister-in-law at the wrong time, and I sighed, and I know I sat forward, and air escaped the cushion at the same time, and it sounded like Ruth was sighing with me. And that never happened when she was alive, but I spent the next two hours imagining how it could've. Wishing it did. I slept downstairs instead of in the bed across from the office.

The urge is to write about this, or take it as a sign and write about Ruth. Except I can't start a paragraph about her without devolving into how much I fucked hate and don't understand what are aneurysms are, and I'd need to research them, and I can't enter that word into Google. I can't bear the sound the chair might make, or that it might not make a sound afterward. That it might go as quiet as a floor model.

Anyway, I'm writing again. Three terrible short stories, and now something that's inflating into a novella. The chair has sounded like she was giggling at three parts so far. It's about the things you might find at an end of the world sale.

17 comments:

  1. Your labels nailed it. Horror, tragedy and writing...
    And, as is often the case with your flash fiction, I want more. Please.

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  2. A haunted squeaky chair?
    i don't question why you didn't want kids. I know...

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  3. Wow, just wow, I really love this!

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  4. Welcome back, friend. You have a wonderful way of making me smile and making my heart hurt all in the same story.

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  5. Sweet and sad. I love how your stories always make me think. The peppermint oil cracked me up, too.

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  6. Terrific story, Mr W. After one like this, I'd love to meet in person ....

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  7. I like the idea of the end of the world yard sale. Clean sheets and starting over, poignantly represented

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  8. I don't know about haunting either, but it's a nice thought to think Ruth may be watching over him, encouraging him too, from her adopted place in that chair.

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  9. Coming here is always a precious moment, and what a gift it brought this time. Stunning story, John, and I love the end of the world yard sale along with breathing memories chair. A quick favorite this one.

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  10. Not only a great idea, but well expressed too. You gave him a wide range of emotions in a very concise space. Well done!

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  11. Ah this was terrific! What a wonderful idea.

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  12. I heard a line last night while watching Heartland on Netflix, something about how houses or barns aren't haunted, but rather it's the living who are haunted by what's inside them. I can't help but think this guy needs a rather good exorcism, to get it all out so he can get on with it. I like the idea about things you might find at an End of the World sale. You might pick up some really good bargains at a fire sale like that.

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  13. There are so many memories in the things around us. This guy's just taking it a little further than some.

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  14. Don't argue with the chair, it will just nag you till you comply with its wishes.

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