Story #25: "Knew Me When"

I don't know where this #astoryaday June Writing Challenge story (#25 in the series) came from. I neither hold any animosity toward any of my former classmates (high school or college), nor do I ever anticipate becoming as successful as the guy in this story aspires to be. But it's interesting nonetheless. To me, anyway.  ~  JH

"Knew Me When"

Someday I'm going to write a New York Times bestseller, and you're going to say you knew me when. And I'll say when exactly was that? Because when I was nobody, just some guy in your class with a head full of ideas and no real outlet for them, you were not even an acquaintance of mine. Sure, we were both aware of each other's existence, but neither of us could have cared less about the other. The only reason you'll want to act like you know me then, when I'm rich and famous, is for your own selfish benefit, and maybe a little piece of the pie, for old time's sake. But there are no "old times" to speak of, and you know it. You're actually a bit of a horrible person, when it comes down to it, for even thinking of leaching off the successes of others when, with a shred of initiative and a measure of hard work, you could have achieved the same or even a greater level of success than I will one day. But you're too stinkin' lazy to put forth the effort, and that's why, when I make it big, and believe me I will, I'll never take a second glance back at you or anyone else who thought that I was foolish to dream.

Story #24: "The Man Upstairs"

Here's Story #24 on this, Day 29, of my #astoryaday June Writing Challenge. The end of the tunnel is approaching. I can see the light. This story may very well not be what you were expecting it to be by its title, but I think you may still enjoy it.  ~  JH

"The Man Upstairs"

The man upstairs is spying on me. 

He listens at my doorway when he thinks I'm not paying attention. Sometimes, he calls me on my phone and when I answer, he says nothing, only breathes heavily and grunts incomprehensibly. When I go out at night, he peeks down at me from his bedroom window, jostling the blinds carelessly and giving himself away.

I know what he wants from me, but I'm not going to give it to him. After all, it's only the twentieth of month. The rent's not due for eleven more days. 

Sometimes I feel like screaming out loud – and maybe I should, because he's probably listening – "Payday is what it is, man! You can't squeeze blood from a turnip, and you can't stalk me into paying up early. It doesn't work like that. We have an agreement!" 

But it probably wouldn't do any good anyway. He'd probably slink upstairs like the snake he is, and do whatever it is that creepy people do in their spare time; and the second he got bored, he'd be right back at my door – the wretched mouth-breather.

Five months is a long time, but it's all I have left on the lease. I can neither afford to buy out my lease, nor can I risk the consequences of breaking it. 

Occasionally, I've fantasized about opening the door when I know he's out there listening, binding his hands, and dragging him forcefully back up the stairs to his living quarters. But I'd probably get arrested for that. And I can't afford to let that happen, either.

Not to mention the fact that my mother would probably bawl her eyes out and never forgive me. You see, the man upstairs – he's her husband.

Story #23: "Mr. Bubbles"

And we're back to my #astoryaday June Writing Challenge, and not a moment too soon! It's Day 29, and this is Story #23. In case you may think I have backed myself into a corner from which I cannot escape, there are three more stories coming later today. Which means, I am merely four stories away from meeting my goal. Four stories to write over the next two days is no small task, but I am up to it. I hope you will enjoy this one, as well as the next few stories to come!  ~  JH

"Mr. Bubbles"

So sue me, I like bubbles. That I'm fifty-six years old and well past what many would consider my bubble-loving prime is no concern of yours. At least, it shouldn't be.

There's something about bubbles, a certain joy they brogan that can't be obtained through any other means. 

I dip my wand into the bubble mixture, extract it, and blow; and magically, I am transported to a place where all is right with the world, evil is nonexistent, and pain is obsolete. It is, in a word, heaven. 

A mere capful of bubble solution under a running faucet leading up to my bath is sufficient to drive me to paroxysms of childlike laughter.

The world is a terrible place to live in, but bubbles make it just a little easier, just a bit brighter, and the value of this temporal mirth – artificial though it may be – cannot be understated.

Sure, bubbles may not solve all the world's problems – and indeed, may only assuage a few of my own – but in my estimation, they are as good a place to start as any.

Story #22: "To Smell Your Feet"

Today is Day 25, and this is Story #22 in my #astoryaday June Writing Challenge. Not too shabby, if I do say so myself. I have a really good chance of conquering this challenge in the next 5 days. As for the story, let me be clear that it is 100% fictional and does not in any way, shape, or form depict me or anyone I know. I can, however, relate to the sentiments of its narrator. Until that last sentence, at least. Enjoy? ~ JH

"To Smell Your Feet"

I love you with all of my heart. You are my best friend, my lover, and my soulmate. I fully intend on spending the rest of my life loving you, always in all ways that matter. My love for you is irrevocable, impenetrable, and unconditional. I will do anything for you, anything you ask, whenever you ask it, assuming it is within my power to do so. With one exception. 

I do not now nor do I ever wish to smell your sweaty feet. I realize that it means a lot to you and that you derive some degree of inexplicable pleasure out of merely offering your feet for me to sniff, to inhale deep the earthy aroma of perspiration between your cute toes. But that's not my thing. Not even close. 

I love you dearly, but that's disgusting. Not sexy, just plain nasty. So, please, for my sake, for our sake, just stop offering. Or at least wash them first.

Story #21: "The Birds Will Eat Your Eyes"

This little story derives, in part, from a number of obsessions of mine, including the safety and welfare of other drivers (and, by proxy, myself); listening to and following rules, no matter how arbitrary; and Alfred Hitchcock movies. Intrigued yet? If not, the title of the story alone should have been sufficient to suck you in. It would have worked for me. Enjoy?  ~  JH

"The Birds Will Eat Your Eyes"

You should always listen to your parents. (My parents told me this.) The reasoning behind this is very serious, and it's very real. 

You see, if you don't listen to your parents, you are liable to make bad choices. One bad choice you might make is trying to send and/or read a text message while you are driving. This is not only illegal in some places, it's also quite reckless. 

Because when you redirect your attention from what it's front of you on the road to what's in front of you on your phone, you're opening yourself up to all kinds of bad possibilities. For instance, you might hit a pothole and lose control of your car. In a panic, you might overcorrect your steering and inadvertently hit a tree, spinning your car around three-hundred-and-sixty degrees in the blink of an eye.

In the process – if you also did not listen to your parents about always wearing a seatbelt no matter what – you might be thrown from the vehicle at a high rate of speed. You might be propelled bodily through the glass, landing with a surprisingly hard thud on uneven terrain, breaking limbs and possibly vertebrae in the process. 

If you happen to have crashed on a particularly desolate road – which is entirely possible, depending on where you live – you might not be found or rescued for quite some time (if ever). If you are losing blood rapidly, you will probably die a lonely and miserable death. 

If you are immobile but otherwise not seriously in jeopardy, you may still be at risk of consumption by wildlife. Generally, the birds will be the first to come, not to your aid but to what they perceive to be an extremely fresh meal. The birds – and we're not talking about sparrows, we're talking about big, ugly, ravenous vultures – will peck at your eyeballs and pluck them out and eat them. And then it gets really bad. 

After the vultures are done consuming your eyes, the wolves will come (or coyotes – again, depending on where you live) and begin to munch on the remainder of your carcass. You won't see them coming, because by this point you will be blind. If the vultures have spared your nose, you may smell the wolves (or coyotes) approaching. By this time, you may have a heightened sense of smell thanks to the loss of your eyeballs. 

You may smell them coming, but you will be able to do little to stop them from biting large chunks out of your torso. The worst part about all this is that you will probably live for quite a while, fully aware that your demise is imminent and – assuming you are not in a state of shock – writhing (as much as an immobile person can writhe) in unbelievable agony as the wolves chomp on your entrails.

And sooner or later, you will die. All because you valued sending and/or reading a text message more than you valued your future. All because you refused, no matter how many times you'd been admonished to do so, to wear your seatbelt at all times. All because you didn't listen to your parents. Shame on you, dead person.

Story #20: "Anybody's Guess?"

It's Day 24 of my #astoryaday June Writing Challenge, and once again I'm a few stories behind. It's my goal today to catch back up. Here's Story #20, and #21 will shortly follow it. Hope you're able to get something out of it, though what that will be is...wait for it...anybody's guess.  ~  JH

"Anybody's Guess?"

Excuse me, folks, could I have your attention, please? Thank you. No, actually, I'm not yelling. Now, could you all gather – ? No, I'm speaking in a normal tone of voice. Now may I talk? No, I will not whisper. I demand to be heard! 

Yes, forgive me, that was slightly yelling. Regardless, I have a few questions for you all and I'm going to need some pretty specific answers. 

First off, what are you all doing here in my house? Considering the fact that I've never seen a single one of you before, I'm pretty sure you don't live here. So there's that. 

Secondly, will the owner of this pair of Guess jeans please identify yourself? Anybody? No? Well, they're obviously a lady's, so that rules out about half of you. Come on now, don't be afraid to speak up. I won't bite. Much. 

Oh, these are yours? Well, aren't you a cute thing? Come forward, dear, and collect your jeans. Yes, it's simply the strangest thing. You see, I found your jeans balled up at the foot of my bed, on my husband's side of the bed. Odd, huh? I tried to talk to him to get him to explain, but he's in pretty much the same state as you and your friends here. Which is to say, mostly incoherent. 

You know what else is strange, sweetie? When I leaned down to speak to him, I caught a whiff of a very distinct perfume on his chest. Your perfume. Well, I shouldn't assume. Let's compromise and say that it's the same kind of perfume you're currently wearing. Add to that the jeans by the bed, and well, I'm not a mathematician, but it all adds up.

No, of course, I'm not going to kill you, child. And you are a child, just look at you, what are you, nineteen, maybe twenty years old at most? Twenty-one? Sure you are, dear. Keep telling them that at the bars. I'm sure they'll buy your smile and your fake ID, you're certainly pretty enough. No, I'm not going to beat you up either, though it is tempting. I would like a few more minutes of your time, however. 

The rest of you can go ahead and clear out. NOW! It wasn't a request! Yes, I am yelling! And I'm only going to get louder the longer it takes you to leave! Thank you.

Now, dear, please come with me. We're going to wake my husband and get to the bottom of this. Why am I bringing you with me? Well, to wake him up, of course. After all – and again, I'm assuming, but the numbers still match up – you are the one who put him to sleep. 

How do I know? Well, sweetie, I've been married to the man for twenty-five years. I should certainly hope that I know what it takes to put him into as deep a slumber as that. One thing, and one thing only, works every time. And that smile on his sleeping face is a dead giveaway.

Story #19: "While You Were Sweeping"

Okay, last story of the day. Here's Story #19 of my #astoryaday June Writing Challenge, and with it I am officially caught up. Whether I remain on target for the duration of the weekend remains to be seen. I'm betting not. Enjoy?  ~  JH

"While You Were Sweeping"

While you were sweeping, I went to the closet and dug out all of our old love letters. I tossed them all into a garbage bag, stepped outside, and dropped it in the Dumpster.

While you were mopping, I packed up all my clothes. Well, not all of them. I left the ones you really liked on me. Do with them as you wish.

While you were vacuuming, I roused the kids from their sleep, walked them to the car, still in their pajamas, and secured them in their seats. I'd already packed their clothes while you were dusting.

While you were washing the dishes, I cranked the car and drove away, leaving you once and for all and forever.

Don't bother to look for me – you'll never find me. But then again, you probably won't even notice that I'm gone. Not yet, at least. After all, there's still all that laundry to be folded and put away. Or is there?