The Pangs
By JEFF BRANDT
Melvin woke up buried in a pile of fingernail clippings. The dust of filings hung thick in the air. He was nearly choking. It wasn’t so bad. He waved his arms and watched the particles dance in curtain-filtered sunlight. He coughed a dry cough. Then he grabbed a handful of clippings and stuffed them in his mouth.
Not bad. Could use some cinnamon, but still.
He didn’t swallow them right away. For a little he just sucked on them as a whole block of clippings. Sucked hard like they would melt. Finally, when he couldn’t resist the temptation any longer, he separated them with his tongue and savored their shapes.
Each nail is different, like snowflakes, he thought. This cliché made him feel ill. Melvin sat upright, picked out one particularly jagged nail from a big toe, and made a small cut in his eyeball. The incision made a rusty sound. He had atoned and went back to feeling content.
He savored the itch of the nails’ sharp edges bending against his esophagus as he took them down. This was Melvin’s daily bread. He had his neighbor, a lanky Austrian, to thank for it.
Thanks, Uwe, he thought aloud. It’s my wish that in your home, you can hear this joyous little prayer of mine. Thanks for the breakfast in bed and for your fingernails and toenails that regenerate quickly. Thanks for having an unusual name. Thanks for being lanky. It makes up for my being a fat naileating pig. If we lie together in bed and divide our union in half then each of us is height-weight proportionate. Amen.
Melvin’s appetite rattled in its cage. The raccoon had awoken. It looked happy. It was time to eat anything. Melvin grabbed another handful of nail clippings and tossed it to his appetite.
- - -
JEFF BRANDT does not eat fingernails. He is a writer of short stories from Illinois currently living in Queens, New York. He graduated from the University of Illinois in 2009 with a Bachelor of Arts in Creative Writing. His writing appeared in the undergraduate publication Montage Arts Journal, and he has also published journalistic work.
By JEFF BRANDT
Melvin woke up buried in a pile of fingernail clippings. The dust of filings hung thick in the air. He was nearly choking. It wasn’t so bad. He waved his arms and watched the particles dance in curtain-filtered sunlight. He coughed a dry cough. Then he grabbed a handful of clippings and stuffed them in his mouth.
Not bad. Could use some cinnamon, but still.
He didn’t swallow them right away. For a little he just sucked on them as a whole block of clippings. Sucked hard like they would melt. Finally, when he couldn’t resist the temptation any longer, he separated them with his tongue and savored their shapes.
Each nail is different, like snowflakes, he thought. This cliché made him feel ill. Melvin sat upright, picked out one particularly jagged nail from a big toe, and made a small cut in his eyeball. The incision made a rusty sound. He had atoned and went back to feeling content.
He savored the itch of the nails’ sharp edges bending against his esophagus as he took them down. This was Melvin’s daily bread. He had his neighbor, a lanky Austrian, to thank for it.
Thanks, Uwe, he thought aloud. It’s my wish that in your home, you can hear this joyous little prayer of mine. Thanks for the breakfast in bed and for your fingernails and toenails that regenerate quickly. Thanks for having an unusual name. Thanks for being lanky. It makes up for my being a fat naileating pig. If we lie together in bed and divide our union in half then each of us is height-weight proportionate. Amen.
Melvin’s appetite rattled in its cage. The raccoon had awoken. It looked happy. It was time to eat anything. Melvin grabbed another handful of nail clippings and tossed it to his appetite.
- - -
JEFF BRANDT does not eat fingernails. He is a writer of short stories from Illinois currently living in Queens, New York. He graduated from the University of Illinois in 2009 with a Bachelor of Arts in Creative Writing. His writing appeared in the undergraduate publication Montage Arts Journal, and he has also published journalistic work.
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