Novella
By Chris Deal
I'm at the bar when it starts, which isn't the strange part because at that time of the day I'm always at the bar. I work first shift and when I get out it's not yet time to sleep and so I go to the bar because it's never busy at that time of day and I can always count on enjoying my drinks in relative quiet. The bar, Frayer's, is almost always empty because Joe Frayer, the owner of the establishment, doesn't care about making money. He opened it to give his son, Billy, something to do that wasn't meth. Billy works when he's clean and doesn't when he's not. There's another tender, Laura, who works the bar most days because that's usually when Billy isn't clean, most days. I like Laura more and when I walk in, sometimes I pray that Billy is using again.
I'm sitting there at the bar, and it's only Laura and me. The kitchen guys are out back smoking pot because there's no reason for them to be in the kitchen this time of day, and most days there is no reason for them to be there at all. We're watching the big television above the bar, me with a stout and her with a diet soda. She likes her diet soda with lime but the kitchen guys didn't get any so she's without. You can't smoke inside but I'm too tired to go outside.
We're watching a novella because it's the only thing of interest on, exciting lives narrated in Spanish, love triangles playing out the same way every time, a pretty person fighting with someone not as pretty over a very pretty person of the opposite sex. Right as the not so pretty person is about to lose out, the novella is abandoned for an emergency news broadcast also in Spanish. The newsreader is excited, his words blending together into a hundred-syllable jumble over images of chaos and bloodshed, people getting shot as they make their way slowly towards the camera. The people look wrong. Heads awkwardly hanging on necks, blood pouring over clothes from bullet holes and exposed bowels.
Laura asks where that's happening and I don't have an answer. She changes to an English broadcast and it's the same thing, the exact same images of people who look just wrong, but this time there are more. Those people who are off are slowly swarming others, knocking them to the ground, biting and pulling back mouthfuls of viscera. Laura curses and I do the same. The English newsreader says this is going down all over the city, the state. Maybe even the country. Laura goes to the door and looks down the street and then locks it. I help her pull a table in front of the door then we sit back down, this time her with a bottle of tequila. I ask if I can smoke and she takes a pull from the bottle.
- - -
Chris Deal writes from Huntersville, North Carolina. His debut collection of short fiction, Cienfuegos, was published by Brown Paper Publishing in early 2010.
By Chris Deal
I'm at the bar when it starts, which isn't the strange part because at that time of the day I'm always at the bar. I work first shift and when I get out it's not yet time to sleep and so I go to the bar because it's never busy at that time of day and I can always count on enjoying my drinks in relative quiet. The bar, Frayer's, is almost always empty because Joe Frayer, the owner of the establishment, doesn't care about making money. He opened it to give his son, Billy, something to do that wasn't meth. Billy works when he's clean and doesn't when he's not. There's another tender, Laura, who works the bar most days because that's usually when Billy isn't clean, most days. I like Laura more and when I walk in, sometimes I pray that Billy is using again.
I'm sitting there at the bar, and it's only Laura and me. The kitchen guys are out back smoking pot because there's no reason for them to be in the kitchen this time of day, and most days there is no reason for them to be there at all. We're watching the big television above the bar, me with a stout and her with a diet soda. She likes her diet soda with lime but the kitchen guys didn't get any so she's without. You can't smoke inside but I'm too tired to go outside.
We're watching a novella because it's the only thing of interest on, exciting lives narrated in Spanish, love triangles playing out the same way every time, a pretty person fighting with someone not as pretty over a very pretty person of the opposite sex. Right as the not so pretty person is about to lose out, the novella is abandoned for an emergency news broadcast also in Spanish. The newsreader is excited, his words blending together into a hundred-syllable jumble over images of chaos and bloodshed, people getting shot as they make their way slowly towards the camera. The people look wrong. Heads awkwardly hanging on necks, blood pouring over clothes from bullet holes and exposed bowels.
Laura asks where that's happening and I don't have an answer. She changes to an English broadcast and it's the same thing, the exact same images of people who look just wrong, but this time there are more. Those people who are off are slowly swarming others, knocking them to the ground, biting and pulling back mouthfuls of viscera. Laura curses and I do the same. The English newsreader says this is going down all over the city, the state. Maybe even the country. Laura goes to the door and looks down the street and then locks it. I help her pull a table in front of the door then we sit back down, this time her with a bottle of tequila. I ask if I can smoke and she takes a pull from the bottle.
- - -
Chris Deal writes from Huntersville, North Carolina. His debut collection of short fiction, Cienfuegos, was published by Brown Paper Publishing in early 2010.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
AHHHHH! This is such a tease. A girl, a guy, alcohol and a locked door. Things are happening in my head. Oh, yeah, and neck draggers. Can't forget that. Possibly stoned-cook neck draggers? I'm ready!
A nice little snapshot. You've got enough seeds gestating here for a full blown novel if you wanted. A zombie novel. I've been thinking about zombies a lot lately.
I just came to your site via StumbleUpon from Page99Test.com - which allows you to rate published and unpublished writing and decide whether or not you'd turn the page, based on the small sample (allegedly page 99) they'd provided. I said NO to the first 4 pieces I read. Then I read your first sentence and knew I would turn the page if it were page 99. Nicely done!