by Mark Reep
In the bathroom a redhaired girl sat hunched on the toilet with her face in her hands. She stirred and said you get it? I said sorry, no. You okay? She looked up, blinked. Fuck are you? I shook my head. Nobody you'll remember, I said. I was closing the door when she said hey, something's wrong with my legs. She stood swaying, trying to button her jeans. Lean on the sink, I said, it'll pass. No, she said, my legs. Her eyes glazed. She crumpled. I caught her, picked her up. She wasn't heavy. Don't throw up on me, kid, I said. Her head rolled and she didn't hear me. I turned sideways so her feet wouldn't hit the doorframe and carried her down the hall. Her arm dangled. A tattoo said No Adjectives. In a bedroom where I'd stayed once I propped her up against the headboard. No one should die choking on their own puke. The lamp on the nightstand didn't work anymore but yellow streetlight shone in the window. When my eyes adjusted I watched her breathing. Sometimes she'd stop, sometimes you couldn't tell. The room was stuffy and the window wouldn't open and I needed to piss but I didn't want to leave her. Across the alley a boy sat on a fire escape talking on a cellphone and smoking. Downstairs a door slammed. Cars started. Basslines thumped. When they faded the house was quieter but sometimes you could still hear someone laughing. I wondered whose room this was now, who slept here. The girl whimpered. She'd slumped sideways. I sat beside her and straightened her up again. She turned her face into my shoulder. You want to call somebody? I said. She might have shaken her head. She was crying. I put my arms around her and patted her. Across the alley the boy's cigarette flared. He flicked it away and closed his phone and rose and climbed in the window. The light went out. The girl made a choked sound and sat up and vomited. Sour whiskey puke stink filled the room. She fell back groaning. It's okay, I said. I'll get some water, we'll get you cleaned up. She moaned, flung an arm across me. Kid, I said, I gotta piss. She murmured something. What? I said. She was snoring. I moved her arm aside and got up. The bathroom door was shut. I knocked. Occupied, a boy said. A girl giggled. I went downstairs. No one was in the kitchen. The back door was open and I pissed off the stoop. When I was done I dabbed puke from my pants and rinsed my shirt out in the sink. A cellphone on the table played Crazy Train. No one came to answer. It stopped. I wrung out my shirt and hung it from my belt and took a Molson's from the fridge. Upstairs somebody said what the fuck. The phone was almost fully charged. I put it in my pocket and went out.
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Another from the 'String Money' sequence. Published in Black-Listed Magazine.
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Fave!
yup!
Very well written. Entertaining snapshot.
yes, what a well-written, active piece! *
Nice work. Effective form and phrasing.
Good story. I liked the voice and pacing.
Thanks, guys!
Nice flowing, detailed observations by the narrative voice character, Intriguing scene and setting. Good title and technique.
Great job here of writing the whole picture without wringing the soul out of it. Excellent.
A walk on the wild side. Darryl's comment is on the money. Fave.
TOTALLY LOVE the "driving energy / can't take a breath" that pushes this story. Real and raw in a filmic way.
*
Like this, it's so unflinching. The one paragraph structure works for this, as do the shorter, choppier sentences. *
Thanks, everyone, for your feedback & kind words. Much appreciated!
wonderful form, this grabs and feels very true, Mark, if it were my story i may end it at "It stopped". I love the final image being the phone playing Crazy Train, then stopping. Either way Its super.
intense and true indeed. very arresting perhaps because it's so visual. made me think about the use of adjectives in scenes. i've written about that but in a very self-centered way and you've just illuminated this whole issue by showing not telling.
Just getting to your other stuff. Great narrative and descriptive energy. . .
Terrifically understated and I LOVE those short sentences. I am so glad I have many of your stories ahead of me. *
super stuff.