Happy Happy
(a piece of flash fiction)
Geez, that is soooo depressing. Can’t you write something with a happy ending? Of course, she didn’t say that; the context was apparent between the lines of the email she fired off after reading yet another tale of woe. Hmmmm…a happy ending? A happy story? Do I even know how to do that? Is that even plausible?
Kenton sat and stared at the tiny computer screen. Taunt me some more and I’ll smash you, c’mon, try me. No response; inanimate objects usually are steadfast in that way. They are just like women who are too polite to decline an invitation (they just hope like hell you go away).
Tap, tap, tap. There has to be a specific pattern to typing these keys that will produce a happy story, right? Still no answer. OK, think for a few minutes, something will come; something, something, all right– anything.
He glanced over at his bookcase out of habit. Tucked between two books was the letter that started this fiasco. He could see a little white between the spines, a not-so-subtle message that the letter didn’t grow wings and fly away. Go get it. Read it. There might be something new in there, something you missed the first 5,000 times you looked at it. He ignored the annoying voice in his head and continued to look at his keyboard. Finally, the voice overcame him. He got up and retrieved the letter.
Call me, OK? OK, for sure. No problem, I will be in touch soon. All right, sounds good. Kenton kept hearing the words, but they were no longer in her voice. It had been so long that he couldn’t remember what she sounded like. It’s funny how her parting words did not match the letter she sent five minutes after their last conversation.
He threw the letter in the small garbage can beside his desk and examined the length of his fingernails. Perhaps these need to be clipped; they are not making perfect contact with the keys, that might be the problem. That is not the problem, you idiot! You are the problem.
There were prospects for a happy story; he could write about the delivery person who dropped off his beer order. That was a pleasant exchange, one photo ID for all the beer he could drink in a week. But, who knows, that guy might be a serial killer in his spare time. He probably uses a dull ax as his weapon of choice. Yes, I am sure of it; he had that look in his eye. Murdering piece of crap!
Just as he was about to look at bunny rabbit pictures for inspiration, he received an email.
Kenton,
I can’t edit any of your pieces anymore. You are too depressing for me. I’ll hand you off to an intern; I think Karen might be good for you. I never was a fan of Kafka and that depressing nonsense he wrote. You are way too much like him for my taste. Sorry.
P.S. Have you considered therapy?
He sat and thought for an hour before he replied with three bunny rabbit pictures and a link to a kitty cat video. After he checked to make sure the email was sent, he put on the 1996 movie version of Shirley Jackson’s The Lottery and spent the rest of the evening cleaning his guns.
