Life After Dark

My car? Was that it? No. Couldn’t be. I haven’t changed my CDs in there for God knows how long. Haven’t listened to the radio since high school either. They talk too much on the radio. Gets on my nerves. Grocery store? They never play anything good at the store.

Dit di-dit dit da. Song’s been stuck in my head all day. It’s going to drive me crazy. I wouldn’t care so much if I could remember any of the words. It’s just the melody, over and over again. Dit di-dit dit da, dit di-dit dit da. Over and over.

For the love of God, where did I hear it? If I can remember that, I bet the whole thing will come flooding back.

Oh shit! It was that guy! That guy down the street. The one with the parrot. I don’t remember his name. The guy’s not the parrot’s. I don’t know the parrot’s name either. He always had his radio up too loud. Not enough to call the cops, but loud enough to annoy me while I’m trying to sleep.

I made small talk with him a while ago to see if he had bad ears. Heard me fine. Said he was going on a trip some time in October. Bahamas or something, I don’t know. I could hear the parrot all the way from the porch, even over the damn stereo.

I don’t think that was it though. Too long ago. This has got to be recent. When was it? Dit di-dit dit da.

It had to be his stereo. The way it faded in and out during a song and warble at weird times. Wouldn’t be so bad if it were just playing music normal. I can ignore that. It would sputter and cough right when I was about to drift off. It’d wake me up, you know? He even left it on when he was out. Now that I think about it, might be he was trying to keep the bird company. Something to talk to. Never occurred to me ’til now. Well, whatever.

A couple weeks ago, October, the guy’s stereo was keeping me up like always. Crackle and pop. Bam, I’m awake, you know? It wasn’t the song though, I know that. Some Motown piece; kinda fast. Not very soothing if you ask me. So I remember, he’s out of town! The Bahamas, I think. I can just go over there and turn it off. He’ll never know. Not like he locks his doors or nothing. Read more…

Scot Short Stories

One time I met this guy who was afraid of mailboxes. Honest to God, mailboxes. Isn’t that something? He had to install one of those slats on his door for the mail to slide through. I guess the mailman didn’t want to use it at first. He shoved letter after letter into the box until it all got permanently wedged in. They had to saw the whole thing in half so he could get his paychecks out. Eventually he gave up and made the trip up the guy’s driveway every morning. It was one of those houses with the gate and the looooong yard. The guy had to get special permission from the Post Master General to have his mailbox removed entirely.

I lived down the street from him for a while and I couldn’t keep from asking about the mailbox. It was sort of our thing. I’d come home from 6^th grade, he’d wave, and I’d hassle him about it.

“Are you afraid there’s spiders in there?”

“Don’t have a problem with spiders.”

“You’re crazy. Spiders are gross. Think the door’s gonna bite you?”

“Course not.”

“Is the mailbox cursed? Like a mummy?”

“Does it look cursed?”

“How should I know? I’m twelve. I don’t know anything about mummies.”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Go do your homework or something.”

Can you believe that? Shivers like an Eskimo if you even talk about it. Poor fella should be on the pills. How can you get through life afraid of something so simple and common place as a mailbox. Now me, I’ve got a perfectly respectable fear.

Balloons.

Read more…

Scot Short Stories

A tremor filled the house as Jeremy slammed the door behind him on his way to work. A spare set of keys jingled on a nail hanging from the wall. He always kept a few rings scattered around the apartment in case of last minute emergencies. Ever since he’d moved into his new place, he’d lost the ability to keep track of any of his possessions.

A tiny lasso whipped up and closed around one of the empty nails, pulling itself tight. After that came several minutes of tiny huffing and puffing. Then a tiny hat rose up the wall, followed by the tiny body attached to it.

Pep, house sprite and keeper of the Hearth, heaved himself onto the the nail for a quick break. He wiped his brow, satisfied in a rope well climbed. He readied up and hopped to the neighboring keychain. Bracing his back against the wall, he managed to shimmy the keys up and over the nail’s head and down to the floor below.

“Incoming!” he called to whomever might be out for a stroll along the wall. He listened for the impact. Nobody screamed, so he was fine.

The trip down went much quicker than the climb up. Rappelling down the rope was exhilarating, but doing it so often was burning holes through his gloves. Only so many pairs could be requisitioned before he’d have to pay a replacement fee. When he reached the ground, Pep gave the rope a flick of his wrist and it fell into a perfect coil at his feet. He reattached it to the hook on his belt.

With no small amount of effort, Pep waddled his way to the kitchen jingling all the way. The ring was almost as big as he was, but somehow it slung comfortably over his shoulders.

A couple heads covered in moppy red hair popped over the island counter top and followed his journey to the back wall. The boy called out to him, “Ahoy, Pep! What’re you doing down there?”

Pep was in no mood for the twins’ shenanigans and answered them curtly. “What does it look like?”

Kristofer, the girl, squeaked excitedly, “Mischief? We can make mischief now? Fredrick! Did you hear? Mischief!” She grabbed a hold of her brother and shook vigorously. Read more…

Scot Short Stories

The snow had already begun its descent by the time we reached the Oregon border. Giant flakes careened into the windshield of my ‘85 Ford Taurus. They did little to no visible damage. I couldn’t believe it was already snowing so hard in November. The Northwest sucks.

Mitch let out a sigh from the passenger seat. Fifth one since our last potty break. I’d kept count. I gave him my best reassuring smile. “Doing OK? You look bored.”

He glanced over, but I could tell he was looking right through me. “Nah, I’m fine.”

“You sure? You can drive if you want. I wouldn’t mind the break.”

He shook his head, “Better if I didn’t. Lately it’s been hard to… you know, keep it together.” He clenched his hand, inspecting the grip. “I could lose control and you’d end up frozen to death in some ditch. Mom would be pissed.”

He smiled weakly, obviously concerned about seeing the family for the first time since the accident. He asked me to keep it a secret, so I wasn’t sure if anybody else knew. I had no idea what to say to him. Brotherly acts of concern and affection are weird enough when you’re not behind the wheel. What was I supposed to do? Call him slugger and punch him in the arm? It would just pass right through him and I’d look like an idiot.

I flipped the windshield wipers up to the next setting. “If we do this right, we’ll get in before dinner, stuff ourselves stupid, drink a couple bottles of wine, and pass out on the floor. Then we can sneak out in the morning while everybody else is out Black Friday shopping. No mess, no explanations. Easy as apple pie.”

Mitch raised an eyebrow, “You ever bake an apple pie?

“No, why? Are they hard?” Read more…

Scot Short Stories

“I wish you would shave that hideous thing. It’s taking over your face. I can’t stand it!”

Karen had been nothing but vocal about Hank’s new mustache and the conflict was finally coming to its climax. He didn’t want to fight about this anymore. It was his face, why couldn’t he decorate it as he pleased? The whole thing was ridiculous. A nice handlebar mustache is more than attractive. It’s classy, borderline regal. How could she not understand?

“Why can’t you understand?” He pleaded, “This is who I am now.”

“A coal miner? No. I didn’t marry Dapper Dan, and I have no intention of letting that horrible mess near my face. Cut it off or I cut you off.”

An ultimatum. He hadn’t prepared for this. The assumption was several more weeks of bickering followed by begrudging acceptance. That plan was right out the window. The choice was between his mustache and his wife.

“I’ll have to think about this.” With that he sulked out of the room, leaving his wife alone with her gaping mouth.

Later that night, at the bar, Hank’s friend Tim was sympathetic to his cause. “Hey man, that’s rough. You look good in that thing, like… real good,” he said mainly to his beer. “If you were single like me, it would net you all kinds of trim. Ladies love a well groomed face. Shows principle.”

Hank shrugged as he pinched one of the curls as he’d grown accustomed to when he was thinking. The mustache wasn’t something he had planned. It had grown in over a single night. When Hank discovered it in the morning, he was resistant to the idea. But after some grooming and waxing and combing and just a little bit off Allspice, he had before him a work of art. It curled just right at the very ends. When pulled it sprang right back into shape. If God had a mustache, surely this is what it must have been like. He decided to keep it. Read more…

Scot Short Stories