This is a collection of Alexia Markopoulos's published work, short stories, and poetry. Although she lives and breathes comedy, this selection of work showcases her range. Enjoy the wacky, sad, magical realist, and creative non-fiction pieces she put her heart into. And don't worry, many of these pieces are sprinkled with comedy.
13 Things You Absolutely Need To Do Before Working Out
Yesterday you weren’t doin’ so hot. Your friend dared you to eat an entire gallon of ice cream, and who are you to refuse a dare? To balance out the sweet overload you then ate a savory Carne Asada burrito smothered in hot sauce.
After a restless night of meat sweats and a lingering sugar high, you wake up the next morning, look down at your swollen belly and think: I need to work out.
But there are some things I have to do before hitting the gym.
1. Make Breakfast: You’re not going to skip breakfast and starve. That’s anorexia. So you select specific ingredients to make a fine omelet, brew a cup of Joe, and sit on the front porch letting your senses take the morning in. You shouldn’t ignore crisp omelet mornings like this. Life is too short.
2. Watch TV: You can’t hit the gym on a stomach full of omelet. That would just be absurd. No one wants to see you vomit on the StairMaster. So you catch up on current events, your favorite TV show, and try watching 90 Day Fiance for the first time while you let your stomach settle.
3. Clean Your Room: It’s been a couple of hours and it’s time to get dressed for the gym. But when you walk into your room you suddenly see it for the mess it really is. Like a tornado whipped through tossing your underwear, trash and energy drink cans all over! You can’t focus with this clutter, how are you even supposed to find your work out clothes! Clean it up before the gym. You’ll feel better and be able to get a better work out in.
4. Walk The Dog: Keys in hand, you’re ready to jump in the car and get your blood pumping, but then Rocco, your 13-year-old Shih Tzu, confronts you. Rocco looks at you with his sad brown eyes and you realize he’s going to pass soon and you haven’t walked him in weeks! Take Rocco on a walk, it’ll lift your guilt and provide a little exercise.
5. Help your sister with her resume: Wow. Doesn’t she know you have to work out? It should be obvious you’re wearing gym clothes. To be fair, she emailed you and can’t physically see you. Okay fine. You’ll help her with her resume but not the entire thing because you really have to go to the gym. You end up writing the whole resume for her because she doesn’t know what she’s doing, despite how many times she tells you she doesn’t need any more help.
6. Make Lunch: Well now you’re hungry again! You can’t go to the gym on an empty stomach, and you heard somewhere that if you eat before you work out you burn more fat! The calories you’re consuming for lunch might as well be delicious, so make an intricate sandwich.
7. Watch TV: That tuna melt was a bit heavier than you anticipated so you put on 90 Day Fiance and watch Nicole yell at Azan while ignoring her two-year-old daughter, and wait for your stomach to settle.
8. Get a drink with Carly: After five episodes of 90 Day Fiance, your best friend Carly calls. It’s her birthday tomorrow. You really want to work out but it would be a total dick move not to get a drink with Carly the day before her birthday. One beer won’t hurt. Make an appearance, bring your work out clothes, go to the gym.
9. Black out: You’ve eaten another Carne Asada burrito. You won’t remember this.
11. Wake up with a stranger: It’s morning again and you’re hungover. There’s a stranger in your bed wait this isn’t your bed. It’s time to go. Well now you really need to work out. Those beers and tequila shots aren’t made of air. At least you didn’t eat a huge dinner. But there are a couple things you need to do before you work out.
12. Find your car
13. Make breakfast
Published in Transfer Magazine
Spring 2013 Issue
This One Day
Black coffee spit from the cup Lauren Davies held in her cold white hands. It singed her chicken skin. Her walk was brisk. She stepped as if she were punishing the cement, and punishing her feet. She had just left the coffee shop with her brains overcast from the night before. After a large gulp of French roast Lauren’s veins tickled with rushing blood.
She combed through the greasy roots of her chocolate hair with coffee stained fingers, yanking through the wildly dry ringlets that spread across her back. It left a coat of oily film. Her scent began to permeate up up and up her nasal passages with every curt movement: cigarettes, day old perfume, and baby powder. She felt like a rat. The flavor of hardboiled egg and Lays she had for breakfast condensed in her mouth. She slid her greying tongue across the front of her pearly whites and someone grabbed her arm. Her body squealed.
“She ruined my life!” The old man’s grip on Lauren’s arm tightened.
“I’m sorry,” Lauren said to his tormented blue eyes. She followed the grubby pink finger he pointed across the alley to a woman wearing three baggy brown sweaters. Her wispy hair mirrored the wisps on her chin, which she withdrew into her loose neck.
“She ruined my life!” Syrup dribbled from his mouth into the grey beard crawling up his face with parasites. Brown droplets kissed the freckles on Lauren’s left cheek. He stared back into her charcoal eyes with fervor, and she resisted wiping her face. She thought it would have been disrespectful.
“What happened?”
He let go of her arm and flexed his pointed grubby pink finger at the shrunken lady wearing three brown sweaters.
“She drank all my beer! And smoked all my crack!” He spat at the air.
Lauren and the old man then looked to the accused for a response. Away from the pregnant shopping cart, her mobile home, she stepped into the alley and looked up at the pair with swollen red puppy-dog eyes. She folded her hands behind her back and puffed up her chest with a smile, “You know I don’t drink beer Charlie.”
Lauren wiped her face and left the alley so they could argue in private about the matter. Suddenly Lauren felt a little beautiful.
From The Grave
I ate an infant sized burrito. It was bloated with fries and savory creams, and it looked like it was about burst. So I devoured it, to spare it the pain of bursting from its doughy flesh.
And then I felt like I was about to burst from my doughy flesh.
Although my belly was pregnant with beef and cream, I still craved something sweet. To balance the saltiness of course. So I leaned over to grab the chocolate bar from my side table. That’s when I caught sight of my birthday dress.
I sighed.
It hung slim and sparkling blue among my other clothes. As I peered over the mound that was my stomach, I pictured my burrito body squeezed and contorted in that dress. That glorious dress. Hot damn. Ugh. My birthday party was at the end of the week. Unless I found another way to appropriately abort my burrito baby, I had get my blood pumping to move it out. I had to move my body.
The thought of moving was horrifying.
The digestive juices in my belly gurgled and spat at the burrito baby.
Ugh, fine.
I peeled myself out of bed and laced my running shoes on. Of course I wasn’t going to run, that would be suicide. But I would walk for a while.
When I got to the park I scanned the mountain I was going to hike. It had trails that slithered through dry brush and crept along eroded cliffs. All the trails led up to a rocky peak. I pictured myself standing on that peak, triumphantly pumping a fist to the sky. Hazaah! But first I would have to master the trails.
As I neared the base of the mountain I noted gravel scattered over the cracked earth. I wondered how such a thirsty terrain could hold the Eucalyptus that lined it. The trees, the brush, Hell, the entire mountain seemed to sit and endure the heat.
Other than the forestation, there was no other sign of life.
Perfect.
It was to be my personal training ground. There was no one around to spoil my athletic focus. I could hike in perfect solitude.
There was also no one around to notice if I left and went back home.
Looking at the trails was workout enough. I was already sweating balls. There was no shame in leaving. Plus, no one even knew I was there. If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?
A strong gust of wind pushed me forward. “Jeez”, I yelled back at the wind, “Alright”. It was insulting of the wind to assume I wasn’t going to hike the trails after it rudely read my thoughts on how I was not going to hike the trails.
Watch this bitch, I thought. I played my music, raised a middle finger to the sky, and took the first step forward.
Dirt clods crunched and exploded under the pressure of my feet. I felt like a Giant.
No.
A Monster.
But after digesting that burrito I would become the dainty bird I once was. Okay so I was never a dainty bird. But I was dainty compared to the sweaty gelatinous pig that briskly walked up that hill. Yes, briskly. I walked briskly, I didn’t just casually walk like an asshole.
With heaving breath I unintentionally inhaled the desert terrain. Egh. The pleasant fragrance of lilac and golden poppies only made me hyper aware of how dry my nasal passages were. The sun was blaring and I felt my wet face redden.
I almost gave up but my sour cream filled stomach curdled. Blue dress. Birthday.
Okay you fat fuck, you can do this, I thought.
The peak of the mountain was in sight. I almost jogged. Almost.
As I picked up the pace, the crack of each dirt clod reminded me that I was strong enough to look sexy. You’re fast, you’re strong, you’re sexy, or at least you will be when you shit this baby out, I thought. All it took was one foot in front of the other.
And then I felt something crunch. The crunch was so textural it sent a vibration clawing up my leg.
I tried to whip my foot away but it felt like it was stuck in tar. I had to jerk it out of whatever I stepped on. It was a creature. A wooly, black tarantula. Its body was crushed and demented. It had a wet and deflated hunchback. Disgusting. Horrifying. A black pool flooded from the arachnid and I realized what I had done. I had broken its pregnant sack. It’s babies poured out from the burst hole in its tight black skin.
I leapt back in horror and collided with what felt like a brick wall.
I screamed.
Whatever I backed into pushed past and the impact almost threw me to the ground. A rush of hot and cold needles wavered beneath my skin. An onslaught of vertigo lifted my brain and tickled its juicy cortex. My insides wrung like a towel and I spewed creamy brown chunks into the brush. Through blurry eyes I searched for
what I had backed into. It was a man in dark jeans jogging down the hill. Fucking jogger. Fucking jogger scared the shit out of me.
I held my knees. They were sweating. Parts of my body I didn’t know could sweat were dripping. I cursed myself for not bringing water. But it wasn’t my fault it was so fucking hot, and someone else made me vomit, why should I have cursed myself? So I faced the sky to curse the sun. As I wheezed a curse with a throat torn up from stomach acid, I noticed the sun looked odd. It looked tangible. Like pearlescent ping-pong ball glued to an orange sky.
Was it dusk or twilight? I shook my head, I could never remember. If my trauma, upheaval and delusions weren’t reason enough to leave, it was starting to get dark.
It was time to go.
While regained my breath with my hands on my knees, I observed the peak. Maybe next time I’ll reach the peak, I thought. Also I don’t really care, I thought. I straightened up with the intention to walk back down at the slowest pace I could muster when a silhouette appeared atop the peak. It folded open like an envelope.
I thought it was a fellow jogger, but it wasn’t jogging. Yes it was moving forward, but it looked more like it was gliding.
Just a mirage. Right?
I turned away, pushed my headphones deeper into my ears and played music for the walk down. I turned up the volume and quickened my pace because I was really good at running downhill. Although it was easier to move without my burrito baby, it felt like gravity was my enemy. There was a force weighing me down. The wind was with me, I didn’t understand, so I swiveled backward to face the cooling breeze. That’s when I saw what was once a mirage.
It was a man in dark jeans. He looked like he was gliding before because he was running inhumanely fast. He was close enough for me to see his featureless face. It looked like it was covered in beige mesh.
He was coming for me.
I turned back on the loose dirt and I fucking ran. My hands cut through the thick air and ripped the music from my head. The only thing I could hear was my heart throbbing.
I saw the opening of the trail, which meant I was close to the parking lot. I broke through the brush and almost saw my car but an arm shot out from behind the hedge and caught the back of my neck. It was the jogger that passed me before. And then a wall knocked me down. It was the gliding mirage that chased me.
The impact against the hard ground caused my left eye to bulge from its socket. Several of my ribs cracked, one bent and slipped through the skin. My lungs had temporarily collapsed and my pelvis crushed into tiny flakes of bone like a bag of cereal. Sharp pain ripped through every vein in my body. I could feel my joints scratch against each other while the jogger rubbed his groin against me.
I felt a warm leakage soil my gym shorts and run down my leg. The rancid smell was my own filth.
I went numb.
The man leapt off and my lungs ballooned open. I gasped and sucked in dust and thick saliva. The faceless men flipped my body and dragged me back up the hard mountain by my arms and hair. If I wasn’t in shock, I imagine I would have felt my spinal chord rattle. Once we reached a place of deep brush they dropped my hair and my arms.
They cut my shirt open with what looked like golden surgical scissors. The metal gleamed in the haze of the setting sun. I attempted to lift a hand to push the beautiful metal away, but they gently pressed a moist cloth over my mouth. As I breathed in scentless fumes with my head resting against a pillow of gravel, I gazed at the sky. It was cloudless and the color of merlot. I wondered if that pearly white sun was actually the moon. It seemed to grow larger before everything went white.
That was not the last thing I remembered.
Published in Transfer Magazine
Spring Issue 2013
From Where She Sat
the haircut he clipped from his eyes
in the alluringly pale living room
Norwegian rolls began to spoil
while the television projected
wet balloon breasts and smoked lids
her organ throbbed like
a hot degraded battery
Short Story
Comedy
Excerpt from original "Bad Moon Rising"
Black Dove
Clayton walked to Civic Center with the twelve-dollar gourmet sandwich he’d been dreaming about. He felt he deserved it. His meeting with the choir officials, including the lead director, was very productive. It was very productive, for them. For Clayton, very productive wasn’t quite the way to describe it. Other ways, better ways, to describe his meeting were: devastating, somewhat degrading, totally and utterly soul crushing.
By eating this fatty sandwich he gave his athletic body the cream-based punishment it deserved. Why did he pick such ambitious pieces of music? What made him so confident in his skills? How could he be so foolish?
He plopped down on the steps of the San Francisco Public Library with a tail -bone bruising grunt. The marble steps were not kind and he welcomed the abuse. He unwrapped his sandwich and took an uncomfortably large bite. The toasted ciabatta scraped the roof of his mouth and simultaneously swaddled his tongue. His salivary glands blasted saliva at the high carb chunk like a drive-by shooting. He forcefully swallowed the chunk down his gullet and it plopped into his stomach. His insides went to war.
He deserved this.
Lazily munching on his sandwich like a barn horse chomping on an apple, he watched the pigeons of Civic Center socialize. Recently he and Lauren walked down the pier on a hung-over stroll, a big mistake, and she referred to a gang of pigeons as the rats of the sky. Clayton told her doves are white pigeons, would she say the same about doves? Lauren grumbled she believed in equality. They were all equally rats of the sky.
The Civic Center pigeons were young with busty chests of teal and charcoaled-purple feathers they proudly puffed. They cooed and cocked their heads at the sky and pecked at the ground. Lovers nuzzled each other’s necks and others flitted in playful banter as the sun beat down on their healthy wings. And in the outskirts, deep within the shadow of the Pioneer statue another stood alone, a pigeon of it’s own kind.
This game, although gangled and greasy, radiated a stone-like strength reminiscent of the gargoyles hunched over Notre Dame. He had seen things. He was a survivor, a true city bird. He was a black dove.
Clayton could not tell if the elder pigeon watched the others socialize in a protective or judgmental way. Maybe it was just staring into space. Maybe it was simply waiting to die and could not possess the notion of suicide. But maybe, just maybe it was watching for something else. Something more important than friendship and fleeting love.
Clayton ripped a large piece of his bun and chucked it amidst the birds.
The young pigeons met the airborne bread with an uproar, flapping away as if it had canonballed their presence. But when their hungry eyes discovered it was a chunk of doughy sustenance, the Civic Center pigeons went for the gold. As the younguns charged, they were entirely unaware of who lurked behind them.
Clayton saw the elder pigeon in the shadow jerk to life. It’s eyes zapped red with laser focus on dinner.
There was no fucking way these prepubescent punks were going to dine on toasted ciabatta before him.
The black dove took a running jump, jetting into the air with the swirl and speed of a nerf ball on steroids. Within less than a second he was above the bun and twirled headfirst into a dive. He pummeled the unsuspecting pigeon closest to the bun with a superman punch, knocking him unconscious and snatched his prize. He swiveled to face three oncoming attackers and greeted each one with a headbutt so swift and powerful, it would’ve been praised by any Spanish bull.
From behind a young cock dared to attack. He must have thought the others distracted the elder pigeon, but he could not have been more wrong. Clayton gawked as the black dove anticipated the flustered feathered attack from behind with ninja-like response. He dropped the bread and caught it in his left claw. With his right claw he roundhouse kicked his attacker to the face and pinned him to the ground. He bore his sharp little beak into his victim's neck, and raised his bloodied face in a territorial war purr, fending off the rest of the flock. If the young cock were to survive this would be his first scar, and his first lesson.
The elder did not snatch his feast and fly away in a hastened manner.
He walked.
Plucking it from the ground, he strode in Clayton’s direction heading for the Library staircase. He individually took each step, one by one, all the way up to the top. It took the elder at least five minutes, and Clayton gaped for the entirety of it. Once he reached the plateau, the black dove set his food down, and dined on a platform in front of one of the best landmarks in San Francisco.
Clayton was irritated with himself for having watched the whole scene. It was dirty and animalistic. Then it was slow, and ridiculous, why would he waste his time watching such a thing?
Because it was impressive. With speed, skill and grace, that pigeon performed a symphony of survival.
Clayton tentatively walked over to the king pigeon and set down the remains of his sandwich at it’s feet, and raised his hands, surrendering to the pigeon’s awesomeness.
The elder did not need the holy white coloring of his dove counterparts to gain respect from humans, nor the support of a large group of ignoramus to survive. He was his own pigeon. Clayton walked to the MUNI with an elated mind. He was going to be a black dove.
Poetry
I Was Once
I was once tangled within the beak of a white squid, weird with silver cut skin. Bikini oil baked its bleached arms and dropped my body into a shaded sinkhole of granulated salt.
I was once a black panther patrolling the soaked pavement with a loaded shotgun. Those with sinister dexterity were awarded self-inflicted spaghetti minds.
I was once mutiny scraping aboard the blue-eyed orphans merchant ship. He was incapable of ironic discourse no longer.
Contemporary Fiction
Feminist/
Comedy/
Magical Realism
Feral Woman
Feral Woman
I woke up to what looked like a crime scene. Blood soaked my inner thighs and into my mattress. Red hand and fingerprints marked my legs and sheets. Apparently, not only had I started my period, but I also touch my vagina in my sleep.
Aunt Flow was wringing out my uterus like wet rag. I could not get out of bed. I had only enough strength to insert the tampon I stashed in my night table. My insides gurgled and spat like a fat snake writhing with the stomach flu. Ugh. Aunt Flow could be such a bitch. Then a peculiar impulse struck me.
I want to shit on everything.
The thought was there and gone in an instant. It sparked like a light bulb in an eerie hallway, leaving a faint mirage of what was just seen. Did I…did I just think…I want to shit on everything? After a brief moment of deliberation I came to the conclusion that, yes: I do want to shit on everything. I wanted to establish dominance by shitting on everything. Like a bear.
A siren wailed beyond my window. I looked out at the Los Angeles skyline, glittering behind a veil of toxic haze and saw it for what it really was. The veil was lifted.
It was my playground.
The pain in my uterus throbbed like the steady beat of a war drum.
Hey-uh
Hey-uh
Hey-uh
It invigorated a hellish energy so strong it could not be ignored. I did not want to ignore it. Right then and there I decided not to take Advil. I decided to hone my organ-ripping- hormonal-agony and embrace it like a God-given super power.
Pain is beauty.
I jumped out of bed, smashed through my sliding glass door, and leapt off my balcony into moving traffic. Under the pressure of my feet and one fist to the ground the pavement cracked. Cars honked and screeched to a halt. I rose with the same grace and danger of the smoke rising from their engines.
The air was sticky with heat. I stripped my pajamas until I was bare, popped into a Sumo squat and ripped out my slimy tampon by it’s cottontail. Saliva fell from my mouth as I craned my neck and grinned. The sewers would run red tonight.
I threw my arms out to my sides and rugged nails shot from my fingertips. My leg and armpit hair and that one hair on my nipple, curled from my pores like spray
cheese, and the hair on my head sprouted into a silky mane. As my muscles bulged it felt they were splitting apart and I grew to be
Ten
Feet
Tall
I heaved and gurgled and spit. I threw my body back as if I were sacrificing myself to the sun and released a throaty roar from the base of my lungs. I was an animal. Unleashed.
My stomach earthquaked and I sniffed the hot air for something tasty. Sushi.
I sprinted like a rabid beast through the motionless traffic and plunged into MacArther Park Lake. Despite the rumors that it was teeming with dirty needles, I was undaunted. Danger fueled me. I caught a rainbow trout with my massive hand and pushed myself out of the lake like a missile. I thudded on the surface, dug my teeth through the trout’s soft belly and ripped out a chunk of meat. I locked eyes with a boy and laughed with my mouth wide open, exposing the wet, unclean flesh inside. He dropped his candy bar and ran. I jerked my head and sniffed. Chocolate. I ape walked to the milky chocolate. Mmm oh baby yes. And scarfed it down without removing the wrapper.
More
And perhaps a bottle of Merlot to pair.
I grew another ten feet. Stomped on cars, knocked over palm trees and left a path of fiery destruction all the way to Food 4 Less. The doors slid open and I crouched to get inside. Saliva pooled in my mouth as I snatched three gallons of chocolate ice cream and moved on to the wine section. Huh. They had a great deal. Six for the price of five.
So I grabbed twelve.
As I walked back home with seven stuffed grocery bags and a smile, I shrank back down to size. I was charming. I was powerful. I was a Goddess. My confidence incited another peculiar impulse: Arousal.
Damn.
I can date myself but I can’t dick myself.
I jumped back on my balcony, stepped through my broken door and walked past my bed. I thought about any and every guy I wanted to sleep with. I wanted to slap his sexy ass face. I wanted to smack it.
I wanted to push my tongue into his mouth and shove him away.
Then I wanted to “Sh sh sh baby its okay I’m sorry,” and as soon as he forgave me I’d slice off his face and sew it onto my face but then because I couldn’t lick his face, because it was sewn on to my face, I would sew it back onto his face
I called a man. Ring. Ring ring ring. No answer. Sigh.
So instead I shit on everything and watched Romeo Must Die with my chocolate and wine.
But alas, those were just impulses, thoughts, dreams, feelings, emotions. I am still in bed, covered in blood, staring at the city. Simply walking around with unshaven legs, armpits and that one nipple hair would make others uncomfortable. It is frustrating. There’s so much more I want to do. I don’t want to be a nasty woman.
I want to be feral.
Short Story
Creative Non-Fiction
Vintage
I asked my Dad what the sixties were like because I wanted to burn my bra and have something honorable to fight for.
He said high school blew, but his four years at Rutgers were the greatest of his life. He grew a long curly black beard, and a fro because his hair only grew up. People used to think I was homeless he laughed. He was a pre-med major. One time he painted this huge neon diagram of the human cell. He watched it swirl and glow under the influence of a black light the first he tried heroin. I asked him if he went to Woodstock and he shrugged yeah almost. Thousands of bright colored cars were parked on the freeway and blocked every entrance into the venue. He and his little brother drank whiskey and shared joints with other dirty hippies partying in the motionless traffic. They talked politics and swayed to the music. Bob Dylan should have been there he said. I asked him if he was mad about the war or if he screamed with young crowds in protest, like I think I would have. It was cool to protest, braid daisies into your hair, and drink cheap red wine he said. No one really listened to what was shouted into the mic.
I asked my Mom what the sixties were like because I wanted to wear eyelet dresses and see Jimi Hendrix live.
She said she had to cover her bruised arms in high school and graduation day was unreal. After her class of 50 threw their tasseled hats, five boys were called to the wooden stage. They were men and their country needed them. Her college peers thought her country upbringing was cool, she said. She let her straight hair grow to her waist just like Cher’s, but golden blond. She was a live-in maid her first school year. Then she waitressed at the King’s Inn where she had to dress as a sexy Robin Hood, green tights, mini skirt, feathered hat and everything. That mini skirt got me through college she said. I asked her if she took any hallucinogens, if she had revelations and danced around a campfire in the desert like I think I would have. My friend asked me to lock him in a closet she said. He took multiple tabs of acid every day for a week. She made him sandwiches and brought him water. Psychosis was how he tried to escape the draft she said. But no one cared if you weren’t ready to fight.
10 Stories About Food
1. So I’m not supposed to eat the sandwich…?
2. A trio of preschoolers had a club they called “Treasure Hunters” where they would dine on the gold lodged in their nasal cavities. No one wanted in. No one wanted out.
3. The confused old man received two bills: one for a helicopter rental of one hour, and the other for two-dozen linked hot dogs.
4. Please stop eating so fast Michael. You’re choking.
5. She thanked god her pockets were large enough to fit a sandwich.
6. It scares me to think about all the things I haven’t eaten.
7. It was baffling, frustrating, and ultimately horrifying when he received chips with his cheeseburger.
8. She did the waltz with her burrito, a hunger dance.
9. In his famished state, he did not realize he had just ordered pigs ears and chicken feet. They weren’t so bad.
10. I wish I didn’t just eat so I could eat again.
Poetry
Comedy
Poetry
Creative Non-fiction
That Must Have Been Funny
My father’s secretary had a secret
With my binder pressed
Against my chest
She gossiped
They found his body
The marble foyer floor
Had never been so interesting
She said goodbye
The door slammed
Shut
Maybe I was hungry
For something light
I filled a white bowl with green grapes
And I began to eat them
Alone
The doorbell rang
He wanted to hang, but Joe was dead
He giggled
I had pressed my bowl of grapes
Against my chest
And some had fallen
Chardonnay
The dashboard flashed 9:00 pm as she passed the neighbors
Her house had a red Spanish rooftop, and the others had red Spanish rooftops
But her house had white stucco exterior with a front yard of bubbling jasmine
The salmon slate path trailing to her blue front doors crossed paths with a swinging cherry-wood bench on the small porch
Her eyes grated towards her bench, which was blemished with mold and moss
She peeled the blue door open
The air had not worked in weeks and her tall white walls were going to crack
Containing the baking heat
She turned on the large floor fan creasing the cream carpet in the living room
After pouring herself a glass of golden wine in the kitchen she had designed
And redesigned
She found both children in one room too small for the two of them
And kissed their sleeping heads
She held both shoes on the tips of her fingers as she walked up the cream carpeted steps
Once spattered with red from her youngest’s punctured toe
Then gently pushed open her bedroom door
Where a plush king bed waited
Her emerald eyes fell on the clock above the bed
9:00 pm
She pricked the silent clock from the dimly lit wall it rested on
And wrapped it in a pillow sham, placing it beneath the hanging clothing in her closet
A dense fog had accumulated outside pulling her to the window
Where she watched a graveyard of tree houses
Sprout from the static fog
She held a sip of her golden wine
Until her taste buds were satisfied
Short Story
Contemporary