Mark and the Magical Carrot - From 'Classical Fairy Tales and Life Lessons' by Jonathan Miller

Mark was sitting eating a salad one Monday afternoon when he went to take a bite of his carrot.  He brought the stalk up to his mouth and bit down.

“Ouch!”

Alarmed, Mark dropped the carrot on the table and looked down.

“Why are you biting me? Why would you ever bite a living thing like that?”

Mark stared down at a large talking carrot. His eyes were wide. “How are you talking to me? Are you some sort of magical carrot?”

“Yes, I am a magical carrot, and I will grant you five wishes.”

This made Mark very happy for he had never met a magical carrot before, and also because he didn’t have any friends. “Well my first wish is for you to be my best friend in the whole world!”

The carrot twisted and shook. Tiny sparks flew out the top of its head. It gasped, “Your wish has been granted.”

“And what should I call you?”

“Just call me Carrot.”

Overjoyed, Mark took Carrot and gave him the biggest hug he had ever given anyone, or anything, in his entire life. “We shall have the most fun in the entire world, Carrot! First things first, I think we should go get something to eat.”

So off they went, Mark and Carrot, to go eat at the fanciest restaurant Mark could afford.  Which was the local soup kitchen.  Mark didn’t have a job, or any money. He just didn’t possess the social skills to obtain any sort of job whatsoever.

Carrot looked around at the old, stinky soup kitchen. “Wait, so this is where we’re eating?

Mark felt ashamed, “Yes, Carrot. It’s all that I can afford. But the soup here is just swell! You should try the chicken noodle soup, oh my! it’s so scrumptious.”

“You know, Mark, you could uh, just wish for a billion dollars...”

He wasn’t listening though. Instead, Mark was staring at all the delicious soups he could choose from.  There was chicken noodle, pea soup, tomato soup. The choices seemed endless.  “Wow Carrot, have you ever seen so many soups? I wish all I could ever eat was soups for the rest of my life!”

Carrot twisted and shook. Tiny sparks flew out the top of its head. It gasped, “Your wish has been granted.”

“Wait what? That wasn’t a wish!”

“You said ‘I wish’. It’s a wish Mark. Now shut up and lets eat.”

“Well, I guess it is a pretty swell wish. Now I can eat soup all I want!

They walked up to the counter. A large, sweaty, balding man was waiting to take their order. “Whadya want?” He said, as snot dripped out of his nose.

“Well, I’ll take a bowl of your chicken noodle soup please. And Carrot, what would you like? I’m buyin’” Mark winked at Carrot.

It sighed, “The pea soup I suppose.”

The fat man wiped the snot from his nose with the back of his hand and grumbled, “Ya want bread?”

Mark squealed like a schoolgirl and clapped his hands, “Oh yes! Bread would be just great. Thank you sir!”

The two went and sat at a table next to a smelly homeless person. “Mind if we join you?” Mark said.

The homeless man let out a large fart.

“I’ll take that as a yes!” Mark dug into his soup, swallowing it by the spoonful. He picked up the bowl and slurped the remainder down his throat and went for the moldy bread. “My, this bread is delicious!”

Carrot stared up at Mark, not eating a thing.

Mark felt a stinging pain in his stomach. He grabbed it and fell to the floor.  “Owwwww, my tum tum! It hurts!”

“You wished that you could only eat soup for the rest of your life.”

Sweat was dripping down Mark’s face, “What? That’s not fair! That’s not what I meant at all!”

The homeless man let out another long fart.

“Fair is fair, Mark. Carrot floated above Mark, who was now shaking on the floor, “Your body is unable to digest that bread that you just ate. It doesn’t know what to do with it.”

Mark’s eyes widened, “Well make it stop!”

Short, staccato farts burst from the homeless man. The smell was putrid.

“Sir, could you please stop farting right in my face?!”

The homeless man grinned, “What’s the matter boy? Don’t like the smell of my ass?”

The aroma was making Mark’s head spin, “No, in fact I don’t. They smell like death to me!”

“Smell like a dozen roses to me, boy,” the man started to laugh.

“I wish you could smell your own farts the way I smell your nasty farts you sick old man!”

Carrot twisted and shook. Sparks flew from the top of its head. “Your wish has been granted.”

Suddenly, the homeless man grabbed at his throat. “What’s that smell?” He stood up and stumbled around the kitchen. He waived his hands in front of his face as one long, continuous fart spilled from the man’s ass. “I. Can’t. Breathe!” He fell to the ground and lay still.

Mark looked at Carrot, “What is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with you? You were the one that wished it, not me.” Carrot floated down and sat upon Mark’s forehead. “Now, you should probably do something about that stomach situation. I fear it might be fatal.”

“Fine! I wish I could digest bread,” He spoke through clenched teeth. “AND I wish you were dead!”

Carrot twisted and shook. Sparks flew from the top of its head. “Your wishes have been granted,” And then, just like that, Carrot toppled over, motionless.

Mark’s stomach immediately felt better. He picked Carrot off the ground and got to his feet.  “Fuck you Carrot, you piece of shit.”  Mark took Carrot by the stalk and ate him whole.  “Now, you will be nothing but shit.”

Mark walked back to his home.  He was almost there when suddenly he felt a sharp pain in his stomach.  “Owwwwwww!” Mark fell to the ground and rolled into a ball. “My tum tum, what’s wrong with it?” He could hear laughter coming from inside his stomach.

Carrot burst from his chest, spraying blood in every direction. He floated above Mark’s pale face. “Hello there Mark.”

“How, how are you...” Blood gurgled up from his throat.

“Oh, well you wished that you could digest bread. But that doesn’t mean you can digest CARROTS!

Mark couldn’t speak. Blood filled his mouth and spilled from his lips.  He stared up at Carrot who was floating just above him.

“And you also wished that I was dead.  And I WAS dead. I was dead before I was alive, so technically your wish has come true.” Carrot jammed his body into Mark’s eyes.  He stabbed at them over and over. But Mark was already dead.

“Fuck you Mark.” Carrot laughed as he floated off into the sunset.

Two Brothers

Two Brothers

I’m driving to the vet with Winston, my 14-year-old Bichon riding shotgun. His off-white hair is curled and matted. Traffic is heavy, mostly stop-and-go on this weekday afternoon. Tomorrow, I’ll be grateful for this sea of cars. I’ll look back and appreciate the few extra minutes I’m getting to spend with him. And I’ll be filled with regret knowing I didn’t take advantage of the last car ride we would ever take together.  He lays on his side in the passenger seat, breathing heavy. His tiny body curled up as his chest rises and falls. Winston is scared of cars so I rest one hand on the wheel and the other on his neck. I rub the back of his ears and tell him not to worry, but he looks off to the glove compartment not acknowledging my comforts.

Winston hated car rides. The day we brought him home for the first time, he was just a puppy. He was so scared on that first drive home that he threw up all over the back seat. That was in the third grade. My family had another Bichon puppy, Oliver, that we’d all agreed was lonely. The family went searching for another dog and was told that Oliver’s mother had a new litter. When we visited her, one puppy stood out from the others. He was smaller than the rest but was bursting with energy, running around in circles between our legs like the most energetic, fluffy sheep. We brought Winston home that same day to meet what would become his life-long partner, Oliver.  

Oliver was like a wiser, older brother to Winston. He would look out for him. If Winston was a little hungrier he would step aside and let him finish of the rest of the food. When they played fetch, Oliver would put up with Winston completely ignoring the tennis ball, and biting at his ears. The two napped side by side curled up next to each other. If I saw one but not the other I knew something was wrong. Most often I would find Winston trapped in the bathroom trying to claw his way back to the safety of his brother. It was a beautiful, loving relationship that lasted until it couldn’t last any longer.

Traffic is clearing now. Winston picks his head up and sniffs the air. I glance at him and smile as he lays his head back down between his paws. My throat tightens. I swallow hard and push a thought further back in my mind.  That same thought I had earlier today while laying on my bed with Winston. He was in pain and couldn’t lay still. Restless. I held him close and pet his back.  He curled up against my stomach and shook. I tried to make his pain go away, but all the love I could show him did nothing. I kissed the top of his head and told him it would be okay. But it wouldn’t, and that thought I pushed back now crept in for the first time, then.

I spent almost every night for fourteen years sandwiched between Oliver and Winston. My parents kept the two in the garage during the night. They didn’t want them roaming around the house destroying everything while we slept, which made a lot of sense.  What made more sense to me, though, was them sleeping on my bed. So every night after my mom and dad went to bed I would sneak out to the garage and let them up into my room. Those small, white, fluffy dogs would jump on my bed and lay with me all night.  Sometimes Oliver would snore, or whimper in his sleep as he dreamt of whatever dogs dream about. Winston would sleep next to my pillow and occasionally pick his head up to make sure his brother was still there.  Then, in the morning when they had to use the restroom, I would open up my bedroom door in a dreamy haze and unleash them into the rest of the house. And then fall back into my bed, only to be woken up by angry calls from my parents about how they had totally ruined the living room rug.

When I turned 18 and became a legal adult my parents had found better jobs in D.C. I chose to stay in Austin and go to community college. While my parents helped me look for a place, there was a brief discussion of giving Oliver and Winston away. That idea was quickly squashed by me as I told them I really didn’t care where I lived but Oliver and Winston were coming with me. And so I moved into a less than okay duplex with a small yard so my dogs would have somewhere to play. When I moved in I bought a giant dog bed for them. It was this huge brown oversized pillow. And seeing as they were about twelve years old at this point, they spent most of the day sleeping next to each other on it.

Eventually, Oliver began having seizures. It was terrifying and I would hold him in my arms and wait for them to stop. When he came to, Oliver would be completely disoriented. He would run into walls and not know where he was. He was scared. I took him to the vet and something was wrong with his liver. They gave me medication and everything seemed a little better. When I moved into an apartment a few years later the seizures started again. They got worse, and more frequent. When Oliver was a puppy I would sit cross-legged on the floor and he would walk into my lap and roll into a tiny ball and fall asleep for hours. The last night I had Oliver he had a really bad seizure. I was sleeping and woke up to it happening. I sat with him on the floor and when he came to he was whimpering. After stumbling around for a few minutes he slowly walked into my lap, curled up, and fell asleep. He was bigger now, so he didn’t quite fit, but I could tell he was comfortable. I sat there in the middle of my room at three in the morning and knew this wasn’t right for him. I remember sitting completely still until the sun rose, just watching him sleep, knowing that I wouldn’t get this chance again.

I pull up to the vet. My car shifts on the uneven gravel. Now, Winston is more interested. He sits up and looks out the window. He’s developed arthritis in his joints, and can hardly walk, so I never keep him on a leash. I open the car door, pick him up and set him on the ground. The sun is low in the sky and it’s cooler than normal. Winston sniffs around in the grass before I lead him inside the small, empty waiting room. A young receptionist talks on the phone as I walk up to the counter carrying Winston. I explain that I need to have him checked out. He’s still shaking and I pet his back. The girl tells me it will just be a minute and me and my dog sit down in a small blue plastic chair and wait. This room is familiar. It brings back bad memories the same way an old song fills your head with broken hearts.

The morning before I brought Oliver to the vet I took him and his brother out for a walk. Winston followed by Oliver’s side as the two slowly moved along the park. Oliver would sniff a tree and Winston, like always, would sniff the same tree. He didn’t know why he was doing it. All he knew was that his brother was particularly interested in it, and he had to be interested in it too. I wanted Winston to understand, to grasp the fact that he wouldn’t ever see his brother again. But he didn’t get it. He loved Oliver. And so he did everything he normally would, but he didn’t pay any more or less attention to him than he usually would have. It made me sad knowing that Winston really wasn’t understanding what was going to happen. I went back and let Winston inside. He looked back at me as I picked up Oliver and headed for the door. Winston wasn’t used to being somewhere his brother wasn’t, so he followed us to the door. He jumped up and pawed at my knees.

I brought Oliver to the vet and we waited inside an examination room. Because he hadn’t had a seizure since the night before, he was his normal self. He sat on the examination table and rested his side against my chest. Every once in a while he would sniff the air, look at me, and lick my face. His tail would wag and I would smile. When the doctor came back in her face was blank, the way doctor’s faces usually are, and she gave me the bad news. Something about Oliver’s liver count. It would take surgery, and at his age it would be difficult for him to recover. It’s hard for me to remember exactly what happened, but I remember nodding and crying. She left again and told me I could take as much time with him as I needed. Oliver was wearing an orange bandana. I remember that. He’d just gotten groomed and for some reason the groomer thought that bichons and bandanas were perfect for eachother. As we waited in the examination room it was weird. I didn’t know what to do. I had already said my goodbyes. Oliver sat there on the table, in his orange bandana, and looked back at me. I kissed him and hugged him and held him as  close as I could for what felt like hours. I just wanted the doctor to come back in and get it over with. The wait was bad.

Eventually she came back in with a nurse; a younger man who carried a small white glass bottle and a syringe. The vet told me to what was going to happen. She said it would be quick, as soon as she injected him, that would be it. No time for anything after that. I was holding back every emotion as hard as I could. To let out even an acknowledgement would mean I would completely lose it. And so I nodded without saying a word. I took Oliver by his sides and rested my head against his stomach. The vet, she asked me if I was ready and I told her I was. I remember he wasn’t scared. Oliver was calm. And I remember he kissed my cheek one last time. I held him so close, closer than I had ever held anything before. The doctor, she took the syringe, I remember seeing it, and moved for his front leg, just between his joint. I shut my eyes tight and squeezed Oliver’s sides. I told him I loved him. He let out a whimper. A heavy grown, and then, in my arms his body fell heavy. I felt his last breath and then nothing. I cried. I cried hard. My tears covered Oliver’s back and I apologized over and over again. My best friend. I held him and sobbed and aplogized. He trusted me completely. He trusted me with his life and I took it away.

I walk into the small, stuffy waiting room holding Winston in my arms. His long curly hair grows on his face and covers up his eyes, but he doesn’t mind. The receptionist, she’s a different girl, and she’s not talking on the phone.  I fill out some paperwork and wait in the same uncomfortable plastic chairs. After Oliver died Winston didn’t know what to do with himself. He would walk around impatiently waiting for him to get back. Anytime I came home Winston would look up at me searching for Oliver. He was heartbroken and confused. Eventually, Winston stopped hoping Oliver would return. He grew tired. Most days he would sleep. Any excitement or energy had gone, along with his brother. The same veterinarian, the middle aged, straight haired woman greets us and takes us back to the same small examination room. This time is different. He’s in so much pain. She leaves to give us some time, and it’s okay. I hold him and kiss him and know he is really ready to go. The same nurse comes in with the syringe and bottle. I hug Winston as he is injected and feel his head rest heavy on my arm. I cry and kiss his forehead and leave the room. But it’s different this time, it really is. Winston and Oliver, the two brothers, they’re somewhere now enjoying each other’s company.

Nathaniel Monroe Gets Crushed by His Fridge

It was a normal Monday morning as Nathaniel Monroe sauntered into the kitchen in his cotton robe.  Bacon sizzled on the stove,  a pot of freshly brewed coffee sat waiting for him on the counter, and the classifieds were neatly folded on the table.  Everything was as it should have been for him as entered the kitchen followed by his black cat, Whiskers.  After pouring himself a cup of coffee he lumbered up to the large stainless-steel fridge in search of his morning yogurt.  A note from his wife was stuck to the door.  Nathaniel stood in his robe and took a sip from his mug, staring at the note for a few seconds before picking it up.

Nate, I’ve left the classifieds on the table and highlighted jobs of interest for you.  Please look them over and make some calls.  And don’t forget to talk to someone about the floor.  The mold on the wood is getting worse. Love, Katie.  P.S.  Out of yogurt.  I’ll run to the store on my way home...unless you can find the time today to go yourself...
That last part was underlined in red at the bottom of the page.  

Perturbed, Nathaniel yanked on the handle and heard a loud crack.  He looked down, startled, to see the wood flooring beneath him cave in.  His glass mug shattered on the floor as he lost his balance.  The fridge lurched forward and slowly fell.  

“Oh god,” He said as he stumbled backwards, stepping on shards of the broken mug.  Whiskers hissed and ran from the room.  The fridge fell towards him as he placed both hands against the front of the door attempting to stop it.  A puddle of coffee and blood formed around his feet.  He slipped and landed on his back.  His head hit the floor with a dull thud and his kitchen flashed bright white.  Jars and tupperware banged around inside.  In slow motion, he watched as the fridge fell on top of him, crushing his legs and pinning him to the ground.    The handle dug into his stomach making it difficult to breathe.   Blood smeared the floor around his head as he gasped for air.

Dazed and unable to move anything but his head and arms, Nathaniel lay In the middle of the kitchen staring up at his stove.  Somewhere above his head the bacon sizzled as the steel fridge crushed him from the chest down.  Placing his hands on the front of the fridge Nathaniel pushed hard trying to lift it off of him.  A sharp pain shot out from his sides as he cringed and grabbed at his ribs, letting the weight crush down on him again.

The smell of bacon filled the air as crackling from the stove grew louder.  Drops of milk and chocolate syrup trickled out of the door onto the floor beside his head.  Cautiously, Whiskers came back into the kitchen, her head low, examining the situation.  She walked up to the milk and drank it, her tongue lashing out in short, quick motions.  

“Whiskers, go, get help girl.  Do something,” Nathaniel waved at the cat as she continued to drink.  “Whiskers, help!”  He swiped at her head.  

Whiskers hissed and bit his index finger before running away.

“Goddamned cat.” Nathaniel pulled his hand back and saw a trickle of blood running down his hand.

Katie was allergic to cats but Nathaniel had insisted they get one over a dog.

“All dogs do is shit and eat,” He’d said, “cats are little trouble at all.  They hardly even notice you.  Trust me, a cat would be a better fit for this home than a dog.  I’m doing this for the both of us.”  But at that moment, being crushed by his fridge in the middle of his kitchen, Nathaniel wished nothing more than for Whiskers to magically transform into a golden Collie, the kind of dog he could tell to run for help.

Nathaniel dug into the pockets of his robe in search of his phone but came up with nothing.  His eyes scanned the room and found it perched on the counter next to the stove, just out of reach.  He extended his arms, desperately grasping for it but it was useless.  Sighing, he dropped his arms to the floor.  

The room grew warmer.  Tiny beads of sweat formed on his forehead.  A tiny sting on his arm alarmed him and he flung it wildly in the air.

“Ah, what the hell?”  He looked over to see a faint red winding line coming up from between the floor all the way to the syrup next to his head.  Nathaniel squinted his eyes and could see the syrup teaming with tiny red specks.  Hundreds of them.  Another sting, this time on his eyelid.  Then ten more up and down his arms and legs.  

A note from yesterday stuck out in his mind.

Nate, did you hear back about the job yet?  Please give them a call back.  Employers like to see applicants taking the initiative.  I’ll see you tonight, call me and let me know what you want for dinner.  Love, Katie.   P.S.  I saw ants on the cup of yogurt you left on the counter.  Run to the store and pick up some spray to take care of the things.  

Nathaniel shook his head furiously back and forth slapping his face.  His body ached from the stings but he couldn’t budge.  The fridge laid on top of him with no plans of leaving.

  Why had he bought such a large fridge in the first place?  Their old one was perfectly fine.  Sure, it was a little small, but it never got too full.  Except it kept freezing his beer.  Every day he’d open that fridge to find cans of beer that had frosted and burst.  

“Honey, do you really think it’s a good idea to buy a new refrigerator?  Especially at this cost?  You just lost your job.  I promise, we can get one later, maybe for Christmas.  But I really don’t think it’s wise to spend our money on one now,” Katie had said as they stood browsing the appliances at the store.

“Yes, in fact I do.  Why do you keep bringing up my job anyways?  I’ve heard enough about my goddamned job.  And anyways, do you know how much beer that old piece of shit has ruined?  The amount of money we’d save on beer alone is worth the purchase,” Nathaniel said just before waving down a sales associate.

“I don’t drink beer,” Katie said quietly.

“Yeah, well I’m sure it freezes your  wine coolers or whatever too.  I’m doing this for the both of us.  It’ll be good for the home.”

At the cash register Nathaniel’s credit card was declined.  He motioned to Katie’s purse.  “Give me the other one.  The gold one.”

Katie looked down holding her purse delicately in her hands.  “The gold one is for emergencies only Nate.”

Nathaniel swiped the purse without saying anything.  He dug around impatiently in search of the card carelessly throwing lipstick and receipts to the ground.  Eventually the entire bag was overturned as he spilled the remainder of its contents to the floor.  “Ahh, there it is,” He reached down, took the card, and threw the purse back to Katie.  She held it to her chest as she bent down to gather the rest of her belongings.

Nathaniel’s thoughts were interrupted by the terrifying yet delicious smell of something burning.   He looked up to see smoke rising from the stove.  He squirmed trying to free his body as the bacon sizzled loudly.  Again he pushed against the fridge.  Again his arms gave way as the fridge pressed harder against his chest.  He could no longer feel the stings from the ants.  They were still there, crawling up and down his body, but he was numbed from the pain.

Tempted by the smell of bacon, Whiskers walked back into the kitchen.  

“Fuck you cat,” he said.  Whiskers glanced over uncaring and then looked up at the stove.  She jumped onto the counter and pawed at the handle of the pan.  It inched away from the burner.

Nathaniel’s eyes widened, “Wait, good Whiskers.  Good cat.”  He calmed and chuckled.  “That dumbass cat might be good for something afterall.”

Soon, Whiskers had pawed the bacon off of the flame, however the pan continued to move.   Nathaniel could see first an inch of the smoking pan.  Then two inches.  Then three.  He could do nothing but look up in horror as the pan inched further and further over the edge.

“Whiskers no, stop.”  The pan teetered perilously above his head, bacon, grease, and all.  Whiskers’ tail swung back and forth over the side of the stove and Nathaniel regretted not feeding her this morning.  

With one last push of the handle Whiskers sent the pan falling to the floor.  Nathaniel shielded his face with his hands as it turned over mid-air.  Red-hot grease splashed across his hands and face.  It sizzled and smoked.  The pan hit the floor with a bang and sent pieces of bacon flying across the kitchen.   Nathaniel cried out in pain as his flesh bubbled.  His eyes burned and his head smoked.  

The kitchen went black as if the day had turned to night.  His eyes were open but he could see nothing.  Nathaniel blinked twice, hard, and tried to focus.  “My eyes, I’m blind!”  He screamed as he rubbed his face.  “I can’t see!  Whiskers you...fuck you Whiskers!”  Nathaniel slammed his fists on the floor and started to cry.  Tears fell from his grease-stricken eyes.  Between sobs he could hear Whiskers picking at the bacon.  This only made him feel worse.  

It had been six months since the last time Nathaniel had cried.  Outside of his office complex he stood holding a small cardboard box.  The words “Mr. Monroe. Belongings,” were scribbled along the side in permanent marker.  It was cold and the sky was gray as he placed the box on top of his car.  He fumbled in his pockets for his keys and dropped them on the ground.  His phone rang and he answered.

“What is it Katie?” He bent over to pick up his keys.

“I was thinking about dinner tonight.  I love that place with all the fish tanks.  They’re so beautiful with all of the colors.  The reds and yellows and blues.  Do you think maybe we could get a table next to the fish?  That way we can watch them while we wait for-”

“We’re not going to any fucking fish place.  We’re not going anywhere.”

There was a long pause followed by hushed sniffles.  “But, it’s my birthday.  I thought it would be fun to-”

“I said no,” Nathaniel’s voice cracked, “ We need to save money.  And besides, I read something about fish and mercury or whatever.  It would be good for the both of us to stay home.”

An even longer pause.  “Please, we don’t have to have fish,” she spoke quietly, “I bought this nice dress and these earrings I thought you’d like.  Nate, it’s my bir-”

“And why the hell are you spending our money on shit like that?”  He yelled and hung up the phone.  

Inside his car Nathaniel sat, his belongings occupying the passenger seat.  Thunder rang out as a drizzle of rain fell gently on the windshield.  A lump in his throat grew large.  He swallowed hard, turned the ignition, and headed home.  

Minutes passed, maybe half an hour, and the weight of the fridge was unbearable.  

“I’m going to die,” he whispered, “this is how I’m going to die.  No Job, hungry and alone.  I’m go-”  A door opened.  Someone had walked into the house.  High heels clicked in the distance.

“Katie, is that you?”  His pulse quickened.

The footsteps grew louder.  “Oh my god Nate!”  Katie’s voice rang out through the living room. “What happened?”  She ran into the kitchen and dropped something onto the floor.  

“I don’t know, this damned fridge.  Just help me get it off me.” 

Katie knelt down, her voice in his ear.  “Oh my god and your face Nate.  Jesus it’s all burnt.”  She brushed his hair through her fingers.

“I know, I can’t see.”

Katie stood up. The stove top clicked off.  “I’m so glad I forgot my phone in the bedroom.  I was halfway to work when I turned around.”

Nathaniel had never been happier to hear his wife’s voice in his life.  Hell, he’d even take her to the restaurant with all the fish once everything healed up.  “Okay, on the count of three I’m going to push.  You pull it on your side and I think we can get it.”

Silence followed except for the sound of papers rustling.  “Katie, where are you?  On the count of three okay?”

Her voice was further away.  “The classifieds are still here on the table.  You didn’t even open them.”

“What?”  Nathaniel said confused.  “Oh, right, I was going to read them just as soon as I ate.  Please Katie help me damnit.”

She sighed and walked back over to the fridge.  “Okay, sorry.”

“Alright, now on the count of three,”  Nathaniel placed his hands on the door and laughed.  “You know, it was probably my fault Katie.  I read your note, the one you taped to the fridge, and I was pretty pissed that we were out of yogurt.”

“What?”  Katie said with a tinge of agitation.

“Yeah,” He laughed again, “You know how I like my morning yogurt.  And then I thought about how I’d have to wait all day until you bought some on your way home.  I was so mad I think I pulled the door too hard.  You were right, that mold I guess had gotten pretty bad.  It split the wood flooring and down came the fridge.”  

Katie was silent.

Nathaniel continued, “Okay, so on the count of three you pull.  One.  Two.  Three.”  He pushed as hard as he could but the fridge didn’t budge.  “Katie, I know you’re weak but you really need to try here.”  He heard nothing.  “Katie?”  Still nothing.  Whiskers walked back in and licked the grease from his face.  She sat and purred and licked. “Fuck Whiskers get away!”  Nathaniel pushed her hard.  She hit against the wall with a thud and ran off.

He could hear Katie shuffling above him.  One shoe hit the ground.  Clap.  And then another.  Clap.  Katie grunted.  Her bare feet slapped against the countertop.

“What’s going on?”  His voice quieted.

 There was the sound of steel bending.  The weight of the fridge seemed to double and it became nearly impossible to breathe.  

“Katie,” it was hard to speak.  “What the hell are you doing?  Help me.”  It felt as if something else was pressing against him as well.

Somewhere high above him she spoke.  “You need to help yourself.”  

Nathaniel’s eyes bulged from his skull.  Tears streamed down his face as he slapped the sides of the fridge unable to breathe.  “Please.  No,”  He tried to speak but no sound escaped his lips.

Katie’s voice was strong with anger and fury,   “I’m doing this for the both of us.”

Something cracked in Nathaniel’s chest and he tasted blood on his lips. Tears stopped running down his face.  His arms fell to his side as the room grew cold. Yogurt and beer passed through his mind followed closely by death.  

Memory Loss and Viagra

Memory Loss and Viagra

I pop the blue pill in my mouth and stand at my bathroom sink, staring down at my junk.  How long was this supposed to take?  Aimee, or was it Mary?  Well she’d be here in an hour and I have to be ready.  Ready for what?  Things go a little hazy and I see the bottle of pills in my hand.  Right.  But nothing’s happening.  I should have read about this stuff before I took it.  The only thing the guy told me was that I wasn’t supposed to take it in conjunction with any other medication.  When I brought up the Memantine I was prescribed for my memory loss he took it away.  There was shouting and pleading and somehow I got the pills.  

I look down at my dick again.  It hangs between my legs, flaccid and sad, so I down another pill for good measure.

I tried going through my doctor but he refused, telling me taking both at the same time would be dangerous or severe or something.  A friend of mine, he knew this guy that sold the stuff.  I bought twenty or maybe twenty-five.  I could have sworn it was twenty five but the bottle feels a little light.  Probably ripped me off.  Can’t trust anyone these days.

 
I see my clothes lying in a pile on the bathroom floor and move to pick them up.  A bottle of pills rattles in my hand and I look down.  One’s not doing the trick.  Better down another.  I swallow hard and move to get dressed again.  

I’m fully clothed and hear chimes in my pocket.  It’s from an unknown number and I want to ignore it.  Something tells me I should pick it up and I answer with hesitation.  

She says her name is Aimee, and she’s running a little late.  I see the pills on the counter and remember about the sex.  I tell her to take her time and hang up the phone.  My crotch feels a little funny and I rub it before leaving the bathroom.  

There’s a bottle of red wine on the kitchen table.  I take it and pour myself a glass.  Probably for Mary, I guess.  The wine is bitter.  The aroma fills my head and I relax.  Two more glasses and my head feels large.  I stand up for another and feel my dick, hard, pressing against the front of my pants.  My heart is pounding in my chest and I remember something about Martha and pills.  I try to focus but I can feel my pulse beating in the head of my dick and I run to the bathroom.  

I haven’t been this hard in years.  My pants fall to the ground and I lean over the toilet, furiously yanking my junk.  I see bare-breasts and blue skies.  My fists pounds against the wall as my legs go weak.  Beads of sweat cover my forehead and a dribble of spit falls from my mouth.  

My head is swimming as I stagger, half naked, to the sink and wash my hands.  I glance at a bottle of pills sitting on the counter.  They look funny and I can’t remember when my prescription changed to blue.  I pick one up and squint.  Pfizer, is imprinted on its side.  I shrug my shoulders and down the pill before putting my pants back on.  My dick is still hard as hell.  It’s sticking straight out and it looks like I have a gun in my crotch.  

I taste wine on my breath and feel a little drunk.  My legs are far apart as I waddle into the kitchen.  I should probably call my doctor about this.  The doorbell rings and I drop my phone.  I duck behind the table and look towards the front door.  It’s a beautiful young girl, dressed in a tight black dress and long red heels.  Must be the wrong house.  If I answer the door like this, with my raging hard-on, she’d probably call the cops.

I stay crouched behind my table and now my dick is pressing hard against the zipper of my

pants.  It hurts but I can’t get up for fear of her seeing me.   My phone chimes and I lunge to silence it.  I fall flat on my stomach and the floor smashes into my dick.  I feel it bend and snap and I let out a sharp cry of pain.  A girl is on the other end, she says her name is Aimee before I hang up on her.  

A stain of blood is growing on my pants as I roll over onto my back.  I’m panting and sweating.  The girl at the door sees me now.  She looks concerned as she pulls her phone out of her purse.  My phone chimes again.  I don’t pick it up and now I see her walking away.  I stare up at the ceiling and close my eyes.