Van Go

        Composed mentally at 2am in a state of semi-sleep, and written the following

morning in a matter of minutes, this was my first foray into the world of micro fiction. It

didn’t last long. The night I meant. Nor the writing. I thought for hours on how best to

impress myself but to no avail. Instead In the dead of night, a cheese sandwich found its

way into my overly large mouth which I hate, feeding my inspiration as I surveyed a

landscape that had been blown to shreds, and now lay quiet, limp. I was left with grease

around my mouth, which I saved and stored into a tiny thimble sized jar, which I

delivered to my mother the next morning, leaving it on her pallid doorstep with a gigantic

post-it-which smothered it-saying in gigantic bold letters a gigantically dramatized little

phrase I had grown used to. “THIS IS WHAT YOU’VE DONE TO ME”. It was quaint,

with no exclamation marks or the writing style of a hurried hand. I felt content. Less than

I had felt in years past after the family dog had suddenly croaked and taken up

residence with the wind, but still satisfied, in that I had done my day’s work. The next

night she called me, sobbing morosely on the line, breaking the chatter with annoying

quirks of her nose as she expelled her anger into the tissues my father handed her. I

was ten then. I never talked to her again. She died after my father did. She died alone. I

went to Colchester Zoo the day of her funeral, hoping to mooch around the pygmy

hippos and meet a nice girl. Instead, all I got my hands on was a reindeer with a broken

antler. The monkeys seemed to be stuck with painkillers and anti-happy medicine. Even

the fat-tailed sheep shunned me. I think it may have made me cynical about love.

        But what to write about?

        The plume of smoke rose in the distance. Strange, he thought. No buildings on the

island, nothing to burn. A barren lump of rock. Only one way to find out.

He headed across the rope bridge, stretched high above the shark infested waters. The

island, the smoke, drew closer. On solid rock now, on he went to the opposite shore.

There, in flames, the matching eastern bridge fell to the sea below. A jaw dropping

sight. And a distraction from the distant sound of footsteps, the spark of a match, and

the smell of burning rope behind him.

        "I love you," she says.

        "I love you too."

I don't mean it. I look at the axe in my hand. Another minute and it will all be over.

Finished. Never again will I hear her stupid voice.

        "We have enough wood, let's go inside."

She won't get that far. Two steps is all, maybe three. My rage grows as she looks at me.

Insufferable woman. My grip tightens, heart beating faster. Seconds away from freedom

now. She turns. I raise the axe high above my head. The director yells…

        "Cut!"

It is over.

        My wife and I had thirty years of happiness. Thirty years of fun. It had been a life of

constant joy and satisfaction. Frequent holidays, the best restaurants, a packed social

diary. Dozens of mutual friends. A shared sense of financial security. In short, a life

without worry or stress. And what’s more, we both agreed the sex had been fantastic.

Three decades of love and laughter. Life had indeed been good to us. The happiness

came to an end one day last summer. August 5th, 2003. A week after my thirtieth

birthday. It was the day we met.

        The thing about hate is that it’ very different from love besides the obvious. When

you love someone or something, you’re never afraid to tell your friend, say it before you

fall asleep, and shout it atop a high-rise parking garage. But the story is different with

hate. When you hate someone, all is silent. You’re even afraid to admit it to yourself,

carving an ill-fated scenario in your head or an eerie circumstance while thinking about

it. It leads me to ask which emotion is stronger? Which makes you do the craziest

things? And what is it like? Which makes you feel more…alive? Such deliberations

churn like butter in the stew between my ears, from whence it drips, and splatters the

page. Blood. A common sight. An emblem.

        None of these work. I’m getting too caught up in my own selfishness. I can’t help

but think about my mom and if it really did happen. If so, then how did I react. I forget.

It’s the cheese sandwich. It could be. It tasted like the Comet powder in the sink. But I

don’t know why, unless particles can fly from the sink to the oven. They can can’t they?

Can wind affect such small particles so low to a surface, or does the wind fly right over

them? And where is the wind coming from? It’s not even windy outside. I check outside.

No. Not a flutter. No. It’s the medication. I can’t concentrate. I go to the medicine cabinet

and take two of them. Then I sit back down and write some more.

        But what to write about?

        They lay in the meadow on a warm summer’s afternoon. The sky blue, the sun

shining. He looked across at her, peacefully asleep by his side. How he loved her. Their

year together had been one of joy and happiness. He idly chewed on a piece of grass,

Her funny haircut in the spring. The matching coats they’d worn last winter. He smiled. It

was love alright. They both slept. Later, the truck from the abattoir arrived and loaded

them up with the other sheep. And then the bears inside ate the sheep because they

snuck in with them. But how’d they miscount a bear for a sheep. It doesn’t add up.

Steve looked down proudly. The jigsaw was complete. He'd been searching for that

missing piece for weeks, with no success. The jigsaw had lain there untouched,

incomplete, useless. A source of constant frustration. But no longer. Such a small,

insignificant piece on its own, but so vital to the whole. He'd turned the house upside

down looking for it. And yet there it had been, lying on the floor in full view. How had he

missed it? It was indeed a puzzle. But ultimately he didn't care. Happy now, he picked

up the jigsaw, plugged it in, and began cutting. He cut it lengthwise then across the top

with an ice pick and a really sharp knife. Then he ate the slices, grinding his teeth down

like a miniature trash compactor, and washed it down with a glass of milk. Later, his

toes resembled the same colors. In his crazed, colorblind state, he ran outside into the

street, staring into the sky as his stomach churned over itself. There was no moon. No

streetlights. Rarely a passing car. A few houses, but none with lights on at this sort of

time. He hid in the bushes, dressed from head to toe in black. He could make out a

figure approaching. Hear footfalls on the pavement. It was her. She had no torch this

time. He had the element of surprise. As she neared, he pulled the balaclava down,

covering the last few inches of white skin, and stealthily emerged from the bushes. The

sun dazzled him. He fell. She ran. Steve sat in the bushes crying, thinking of what she

thought of him, and how he thought of himself. Later that night, as he slept, the solution

to the jigsaw became clear in his mind, and suddenly his dilemma that night seemed

disproportionate. He fell back asleep and had the best night ever.

        No, no that’s not a good story at all. It needs to be retooled. They all do.