The Sales Pitch
by Aaron Rushton

Stepping out of the shower, he cursed the phone and whoever was on the other end. Clichés become cliché for a reason. Shampoo was beginning to seep into his eyes, and the dog was eagerly lapping up as much of the water dripping from the master’s naked buttocks as possible. The cat was, of course, not as interested in the water as he was the new toys dangling in mid-air. Maybe they jingled.

“Hello? What? Oh, uhh, yeah, that’s me. No, no, not a bad time. I was, uhh, just… working out. Didn’t hear the phone the first few times. Right. No, no, I’ll hold. Sure.”

As Miles Davis softly drifted out of the telephone, the king surveyed his castle. There was an empty 750 of Wild Turkey Rare Breed lying on the couch. An open pizza box with a pile of crusts sat on the coffee table. The DVD menu still looping on the TV made him thankful that he’d had the foresight to arrange his living room with the screen hidden from any windows.

“Yeah, go ahead.

“Sure, I can do that.

“Today?

“That’s… that’s like, 40 minutes from now! I live 30 minutes away from the building, even if there’s no traffic!

“I can’t--! I-- Well, right… OK, but can’t somebody meet me there? Miller? Radford?

“Alright, alright… I’ll be there.”

His boxers and undershirt did the job his towel hadn’t had a chance to do. His pants stuck to his leg with the force that can only be summoned by wet no-press Dockers. The coat and tie managed to conceal the wet spots on his shirt, but the layers of stiff cotton combined with the residual heat from the shower didn’t help his antiperspirant any.

The group had seemed pleased with his presentation, and had given their secretary the go-ahead to fill out the necessary paperwork. It was only afterwards, at the urinal, that he noticed the position of his zipper and finally realized what the American Legion Ladies’ Auxiliary Post 1451 had found so funny about selling gravesite wreaths for Memorial Day.

55 word story

The blood had turned the bandages from sterile white to foul ruby. Tufts of dark golden fur still clung to his uniform, now lying in strips on the table next to the bed. The ranger’s wife, drunk with worry, only said “What an awful time to find out he didn’t have a sense of puma.”

An Open Letter to my Ex-Ex-Ex Girlfriend

It’s been what, two or three years now?
I still remember that thing you do
when you smile
where you bite your lip
and try to avoid my eyes.

I’ve forgotten my old address,
I always lose my keys,
and I forget that my parents
even have birthdays.
But those ten digits
(plus a 1 if I’m calling from home)
won’t leave my mind,
no matter how politely I ask.

We couldn’t last. I know.
We want different things.
I know.
We’re such different people.
We’re so far apart.

Yeah.
You’ve told me.
I know.

But when did knowing ever stop me?

Every time I meet a girl,
I say I’m over you.
And every time I lose a girl,
I don’t miss her…

Somehow
you invaded
every part
of my life.
I can’t eat,
or drink,
or smoke,
or read,
or even think
of a house
on a hill
in the trees
with a dog
without your laugh
invading my mind.

I won’t ask around,
and I’m not going to call.
I just want to know…

Does she love you the way I used to?

The Drift

I keep both eyes fixed on the road
and my hands are latched on the wheel.

I see the stars
I hear the whine
I feel the road
I fear the drift.

Clarksville will be what takes my life
despite my love of greasy food.

The motor hums
radio sings
the windows fog
here comes the drift.

Freezing night air keeps me alive
any warmth is my enemy.

I blink a mile
I dread sharp curves
Was that a cop?
Not drunk, just drift.

Bed is just thirty endless miles
the Bataan Death March was sixty.

Eyes don’t listen
hands don’t obey
feet don’t respond
trapped in the drift.

Highway 48 my paved hell
but hell has grown quite soft on me.

My left eye dies
welds itself shut
clamps itself tight
struck by the drift.

Clock glows 4 in harsh neon blue
zeroes mock my incessant yawn.

A deadly state
I’m not asleep
I’m not awake
I’m in the d r i f t . . .