East
Crappy Imitation
I can't believe I just found this place, and yet I've been on smashboards for so long. I really enjoy writing, so I think I'm going to like this niche of the board. It's really weird, Over the past few weeks I've been toying with idea of a short story like this one, and when I saw the prompt for WWYP X, I decided I would go for it.
“Your pant leg is tucked into your sock.”, the stranger spoke.
“Huh?” another responded.
“Your pant leg… it’s tucked in your sock.”
“Oh… Uhh thanks. I’m going in for an interview, so-“
“The light's red you can cross now.”
“Yeah… t-thanks again.” I heard the familiar voice stammer. Unfortunately my vision was limited to dark copies of crinkled resumes on one side, and on the other the inner lining of a black burlap sack. I couldn’t be sure but I thought we were outside. I could hear the muffled howls of car horns in the distance, and the constant tapping, clopping, and shuffling of feet against the pavement.
Within moments the sounds became no louder than a whisper, I could now hear Peter’s stuttered breaths. Moments passed again, and I found myself hard pressed upon the ground. As he unzipped the bag, a white fluorescent light flooded the sack. From one side I caught a glimpse of Peter’s face. He patted his short brown hair, dropping his hand over his forehead and down to his neatly shaven goatee. He tugged a little at the tie around his neck trying to calm himself, but it did little. His eyes held a jittering uneasiness. He was on edge. Without looking down, he extended his hand into the bag rifling around for the resumes. This was my fourth time on a trip with Peter. Each time was the same and I expected nothing different from this excursion.
In a failed attempt at grabbing a resume, he placed his hand on my neck. He froze with fear. He was always nervous around me for some reason. We went everywhere together, but no one ever saw me. Peter was always weak willed, and as of late I could feel even that waning, degrading into nothingness. He always said I was the devil in him. I was the manifestation of his other half, the shadow in his eye.
He tried to regain his composure, only half succeeding, while tearing his hand away from my slender throat. His face cold with little beads of sweat, he quickly grabbed the resumes and zipped up the big. Again all became quiet, the only sound in the outside world were the soft pattering of shoes. With only the white noise to hold my attention I quickly grew bored and dozed off.
I didn’t know how much time had passed, but I was violently shaken awake. In the distance I could hear the screech of the passing train, its obnoxious horn sounding off repeatedly. The bag opened once more, and Peter grabbed me by my neck again, this time it was no accident. I sat on the side of his kitchen table, newspapers all around me, the classified sections all circled and “X-ed” in red marker. Weakly he plopped down on his couch looking around in discontent. His sight caught an old picture. Grasping it, he stared at the photo with stern concentration. Peter, annoyed, tossed the framed picture on the floor, the glass over it shattering. I tried to peer down over the table but to no avail. In our silence he continued his visual trip around aged-yellow walls of the living room, sticking his index finger in a small hole in the fabric of the couch and swiveling it around, bored. Heaving a sigh, he rose from his spot, pinching a small bit of foam from the hole in the sofa cushion and apathetically dropping it on the floor as he stood up. Moving over to the shade, which cast a depressing shadow over the room, he pulled down on the string and let it go. The canvas-like material flipped up, lighting the small apartment with cloudy-gray daylight. Pressing his finger at the window pane, he stared blankly outside for a moment. He closed his eyes, drooping his forehead onto the glass as if disgusted with something.
I always hated when it was like this, Peter eerily quiet. He would sulk around his apartment in silence as if contemplating and lamenting something at the same time. In his depressed state he’d then look at me and just freeze. He would look at me like he looked at that picture. I would stay silent. Tunnel vision took over, and nothing else seemed to matter. The time he would just stare at me would last anywhere from a few minutes to an hour, but it felt like it was even longer. When he summoned up enough courage to speak, he would do so in a nearly inaudible level. “I’m not a bad person, am I?” I’d stare at him in silence. I never had the courage to reply. Peter would then slam his fist down on anything near him: the wall, the table, the couch. He was not happy. “I haven’t done anything wrong! Why am I being punished!?” His breathing would quicken, his brows would furrow, and I could see his body was tense. Approaching me, he would place his hand over my body quickly then suddenly stop, his fingers shivering. I would try to say that it would be alright, but somewhere along the lines, the words stopped. We would exchange another moment of silence, tears welling up in his eyes. “It’s not fair…” he sniffled. Dropping to the beige-carpeted floor on his knees he banged on it with his clenched fist, the tears streaming down his face. “It’s just n-n-not fair! Not fair! NOT FAIR!” He screamed in rapid breaths.
Turning away from the window, he looked at me. “I’m not a bad person, am I?” Peter whispered. Oh no… it’s happening again.
Luckily, for about a week Peter seemed to be doing well. We didn’t have any of those awkward conversations, for which I was glad. I’m not that old, and I don’t know much about Peter, but he seems like a guy always down on his luck. He never seemed to catch even the slightest break. His life was just one let down after another. That picture he threw down a few days ago, I finally got a chance to see it. It was a picture of him, a little girl, and two older people, a man and a woman. I think they let him down too. Sometimes I really wish I had the power to do something for him.
SLAM!
Peter sigh, falling on his couch, exhausted. He gave a slow grunt before turning his head to the side. In the corner was his phone, a red “1” blinked signifying an unheard message. His eyes widened as he pushed himself up from the sofa. Quickly moving over he eagerly pressed a button on the device.
“You have… one new message. First new message…” A ladies voice took over, “Mr. Shepherd, this is Marie from Intelligent Systems. I’d just like to inform you that we have reviewed your resume and interview, and we’d like to invite you back for a second interview. This will be a panel interview. If you are still interested in the position, please meet us at 6 A.M. at our offices Tuesday. We look forward to seeing you. If you have any questions please call us back at the return number."
Peter’s face lit up with an excited brilliance I’d never seen before. A little shocked, his hand was on his forehead, his eyes wide in glee. He began prancing around the room, bobbing his head back and forth. “Finally!” It didn’t sound like a sure fire job, but the people were definitely interested in him.
That night, Peter set his clothes out and got to bed early. I lay in the darkness just as eager as him, except unable to sleep.
A repeated honking sounded from Peter’s room. “Holy…” Peter raced from his room in a frantic shuffle with nothing but a pair of blue boxers on his pale, thin frame. “How did I set the wrong time?!” Smacking the alarm, he quickly raced to complete his morning routine as fast as he could. He frantically stuffed all of the essentials in the black bag: gum, resumes, a comb, pens, paper. I decided to follow along too, and within moments we were off, flying out of the door.
Quickly tapping down the pavement, I could hear Peter talking to himself. “At this rate, I’ll be late…” he puffed. He grew quiet, and then, “I got it!” he exclaimed epiphanously. “Short cut.” The sounds of shoes upon concrete suddenly turned to the unsteady crunch of gravel. Peter gave a sigh of relief. Things were back on trac-
“Ka-chk.”
“Give me your wallet, empty the sack and you won’t get hurt.” I shook violently as Peter fell to the loose stone ground below.
“P..p..please. D…d….d….don’t shoot.” Peter shuffled along the ground and the zipped open the bag. Outside, it was still nearly dark. The dawning sun cast a slight orange glow on the girders that lined the area both horizontally and vertically. His hand slowly trembled as he slowly reached into the bag, pulling out the cluster of resumes that were crumpled beyond repair and placing them on the ground. Peter placed his hand around my neck and froze. I couldn’t see anything except his face, which was shaking with terror. It was worse than when he grabbed me on the last trip.
“You heard me! I said empty the bag!” the unseen voice demanded. Peter winced, as if waiting to be hit. He slowly pulled me to the lip of the bag, where I was just able to see around. There was something in front of him, the rising sun behind the figure beamed, enshrouding its front in a shadow. The figure moved forward like a raging apparition grabbing a tuft of Peter’s hair and placing something at his neck. “I'm not afraid to kill you! Stop messin' around and give me the stuff!”
“Kill.” I had never heard that word before, but I instantly knew what it meant, as if acquiring the knowledge supernaturally. That was the moment I could no longer take it. Peter deserved better, and I wouldn’t let it end like this. I was going to give him the chance that he deserved. I didn’t know what to do, so I did the first thing that came to mind. I closed my eyes and I screamed. I screamed as loud as I could, yelling at the figure. My voice rang out in the crisp morning air, reverberating in the city for miles.
The mugger jerked upward and staggered back before limply falling to the gravel. His hand trembling, Peter looked at the jet black gun in his hand, its barrel smoking from the single shot. The orange glow of the sun in the distance blinded him. Using his hand to shield his eyes, he slowly rose from the ground. Moving over to the figure, it was a guy no older than himself. The bullet had pierced right through his skull from under the chin. Blood leaked out in a steadily growing pool from the top of his head. The violent rattle of the gun in his hand tore away his attention from the presumed dead man to his own body. Blood splatters stained the midsections and forearms of his navy blue suit. Peter’s entire body was uncontrollably trembling. The entire event suddenly caught up with him, and he dropped to the ground. He looked at the gun in disgust throwing it to the side.
I hit the ground with a hard smack, feeling the scrapes across my body from the stones that heavily populated the area. I had somehow done it. I wasn’t sure exactly sure how or what had happened, but I did it. Still exhaling smoke from the cold air, I happily looked at Peter. He was not happy though…. His face was buried in his hands where I could recognize the familiar heaving. I tried to call out his name again, but the words would not come. I wanted to tell him that it would be alright, but somewhere along the lines, the words stopped. As the sun rose for the new day the gleaming orange and yellow rays cast on both of us, our shadows extending far behind us. I tried to say something, anything to console him, but Peter would not move. The tears rolled down his cheeks that day for as long as I could remember.
Something Better
“Your pant leg is tucked into your sock.”, the stranger spoke.
“Huh?” another responded.
“Your pant leg… it’s tucked in your sock.”
“Oh… Uhh thanks. I’m going in for an interview, so-“
“The light's red you can cross now.”
“Yeah… t-thanks again.” I heard the familiar voice stammer. Unfortunately my vision was limited to dark copies of crinkled resumes on one side, and on the other the inner lining of a black burlap sack. I couldn’t be sure but I thought we were outside. I could hear the muffled howls of car horns in the distance, and the constant tapping, clopping, and shuffling of feet against the pavement.
Within moments the sounds became no louder than a whisper, I could now hear Peter’s stuttered breaths. Moments passed again, and I found myself hard pressed upon the ground. As he unzipped the bag, a white fluorescent light flooded the sack. From one side I caught a glimpse of Peter’s face. He patted his short brown hair, dropping his hand over his forehead and down to his neatly shaven goatee. He tugged a little at the tie around his neck trying to calm himself, but it did little. His eyes held a jittering uneasiness. He was on edge. Without looking down, he extended his hand into the bag rifling around for the resumes. This was my fourth time on a trip with Peter. Each time was the same and I expected nothing different from this excursion.
In a failed attempt at grabbing a resume, he placed his hand on my neck. He froze with fear. He was always nervous around me for some reason. We went everywhere together, but no one ever saw me. Peter was always weak willed, and as of late I could feel even that waning, degrading into nothingness. He always said I was the devil in him. I was the manifestation of his other half, the shadow in his eye.
He tried to regain his composure, only half succeeding, while tearing his hand away from my slender throat. His face cold with little beads of sweat, he quickly grabbed the resumes and zipped up the big. Again all became quiet, the only sound in the outside world were the soft pattering of shoes. With only the white noise to hold my attention I quickly grew bored and dozed off.
I didn’t know how much time had passed, but I was violently shaken awake. In the distance I could hear the screech of the passing train, its obnoxious horn sounding off repeatedly. The bag opened once more, and Peter grabbed me by my neck again, this time it was no accident. I sat on the side of his kitchen table, newspapers all around me, the classified sections all circled and “X-ed” in red marker. Weakly he plopped down on his couch looking around in discontent. His sight caught an old picture. Grasping it, he stared at the photo with stern concentration. Peter, annoyed, tossed the framed picture on the floor, the glass over it shattering. I tried to peer down over the table but to no avail. In our silence he continued his visual trip around aged-yellow walls of the living room, sticking his index finger in a small hole in the fabric of the couch and swiveling it around, bored. Heaving a sigh, he rose from his spot, pinching a small bit of foam from the hole in the sofa cushion and apathetically dropping it on the floor as he stood up. Moving over to the shade, which cast a depressing shadow over the room, he pulled down on the string and let it go. The canvas-like material flipped up, lighting the small apartment with cloudy-gray daylight. Pressing his finger at the window pane, he stared blankly outside for a moment. He closed his eyes, drooping his forehead onto the glass as if disgusted with something.
I always hated when it was like this, Peter eerily quiet. He would sulk around his apartment in silence as if contemplating and lamenting something at the same time. In his depressed state he’d then look at me and just freeze. He would look at me like he looked at that picture. I would stay silent. Tunnel vision took over, and nothing else seemed to matter. The time he would just stare at me would last anywhere from a few minutes to an hour, but it felt like it was even longer. When he summoned up enough courage to speak, he would do so in a nearly inaudible level. “I’m not a bad person, am I?” I’d stare at him in silence. I never had the courage to reply. Peter would then slam his fist down on anything near him: the wall, the table, the couch. He was not happy. “I haven’t done anything wrong! Why am I being punished!?” His breathing would quicken, his brows would furrow, and I could see his body was tense. Approaching me, he would place his hand over my body quickly then suddenly stop, his fingers shivering. I would try to say that it would be alright, but somewhere along the lines, the words stopped. We would exchange another moment of silence, tears welling up in his eyes. “It’s not fair…” he sniffled. Dropping to the beige-carpeted floor on his knees he banged on it with his clenched fist, the tears streaming down his face. “It’s just n-n-not fair! Not fair! NOT FAIR!” He screamed in rapid breaths.
Turning away from the window, he looked at me. “I’m not a bad person, am I?” Peter whispered. Oh no… it’s happening again.
Luckily, for about a week Peter seemed to be doing well. We didn’t have any of those awkward conversations, for which I was glad. I’m not that old, and I don’t know much about Peter, but he seems like a guy always down on his luck. He never seemed to catch even the slightest break. His life was just one let down after another. That picture he threw down a few days ago, I finally got a chance to see it. It was a picture of him, a little girl, and two older people, a man and a woman. I think they let him down too. Sometimes I really wish I had the power to do something for him.
SLAM!
Peter sigh, falling on his couch, exhausted. He gave a slow grunt before turning his head to the side. In the corner was his phone, a red “1” blinked signifying an unheard message. His eyes widened as he pushed himself up from the sofa. Quickly moving over he eagerly pressed a button on the device.
“You have… one new message. First new message…” A ladies voice took over, “Mr. Shepherd, this is Marie from Intelligent Systems. I’d just like to inform you that we have reviewed your resume and interview, and we’d like to invite you back for a second interview. This will be a panel interview. If you are still interested in the position, please meet us at 6 A.M. at our offices Tuesday. We look forward to seeing you. If you have any questions please call us back at the return number."
Peter’s face lit up with an excited brilliance I’d never seen before. A little shocked, his hand was on his forehead, his eyes wide in glee. He began prancing around the room, bobbing his head back and forth. “Finally!” It didn’t sound like a sure fire job, but the people were definitely interested in him.
That night, Peter set his clothes out and got to bed early. I lay in the darkness just as eager as him, except unable to sleep.
A repeated honking sounded from Peter’s room. “Holy…” Peter raced from his room in a frantic shuffle with nothing but a pair of blue boxers on his pale, thin frame. “How did I set the wrong time?!” Smacking the alarm, he quickly raced to complete his morning routine as fast as he could. He frantically stuffed all of the essentials in the black bag: gum, resumes, a comb, pens, paper. I decided to follow along too, and within moments we were off, flying out of the door.
Quickly tapping down the pavement, I could hear Peter talking to himself. “At this rate, I’ll be late…” he puffed. He grew quiet, and then, “I got it!” he exclaimed epiphanously. “Short cut.” The sounds of shoes upon concrete suddenly turned to the unsteady crunch of gravel. Peter gave a sigh of relief. Things were back on trac-
“Ka-chk.”
“Give me your wallet, empty the sack and you won’t get hurt.” I shook violently as Peter fell to the loose stone ground below.
“P..p..please. D…d….d….don’t shoot.” Peter shuffled along the ground and the zipped open the bag. Outside, it was still nearly dark. The dawning sun cast a slight orange glow on the girders that lined the area both horizontally and vertically. His hand slowly trembled as he slowly reached into the bag, pulling out the cluster of resumes that were crumpled beyond repair and placing them on the ground. Peter placed his hand around my neck and froze. I couldn’t see anything except his face, which was shaking with terror. It was worse than when he grabbed me on the last trip.
“You heard me! I said empty the bag!” the unseen voice demanded. Peter winced, as if waiting to be hit. He slowly pulled me to the lip of the bag, where I was just able to see around. There was something in front of him, the rising sun behind the figure beamed, enshrouding its front in a shadow. The figure moved forward like a raging apparition grabbing a tuft of Peter’s hair and placing something at his neck. “I'm not afraid to kill you! Stop messin' around and give me the stuff!”
“Kill.” I had never heard that word before, but I instantly knew what it meant, as if acquiring the knowledge supernaturally. That was the moment I could no longer take it. Peter deserved better, and I wouldn’t let it end like this. I was going to give him the chance that he deserved. I didn’t know what to do, so I did the first thing that came to mind. I closed my eyes and I screamed. I screamed as loud as I could, yelling at the figure. My voice rang out in the crisp morning air, reverberating in the city for miles.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
The mugger jerked upward and staggered back before limply falling to the gravel. His hand trembling, Peter looked at the jet black gun in his hand, its barrel smoking from the single shot. The orange glow of the sun in the distance blinded him. Using his hand to shield his eyes, he slowly rose from the ground. Moving over to the figure, it was a guy no older than himself. The bullet had pierced right through his skull from under the chin. Blood leaked out in a steadily growing pool from the top of his head. The violent rattle of the gun in his hand tore away his attention from the presumed dead man to his own body. Blood splatters stained the midsections and forearms of his navy blue suit. Peter’s entire body was uncontrollably trembling. The entire event suddenly caught up with him, and he dropped to the ground. He looked at the gun in disgust throwing it to the side.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
I hit the ground with a hard smack, feeling the scrapes across my body from the stones that heavily populated the area. I had somehow done it. I wasn’t sure exactly sure how or what had happened, but I did it. Still exhaling smoke from the cold air, I happily looked at Peter. He was not happy though…. His face was buried in his hands where I could recognize the familiar heaving. I tried to call out his name again, but the words would not come. I wanted to tell him that it would be alright, but somewhere along the lines, the words stopped. As the sun rose for the new day the gleaming orange and yellow rays cast on both of us, our shadows extending far behind us. I tried to say something, anything to console him, but Peter would not move. The tears rolled down his cheeks that day for as long as I could remember.
