COMPLETE Short short: “The Time of Your Life”

What follows was my attempt at writing a story that was under 1,000 words (it’s actually just a little over 600). Why would I write a story that’s so damn brief? Because a writer should always welcome new challenges. I think it helps build a writer’s versatility.

Or maybe I wanted to write something that I could finish in under twenty minutes so I could bolster my sense of accomplishment. Heh.

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     This is getting old, Johnny. Real old. How many fucking times do I have to tell you? I’m not letting you out. Not until you give me back what’s mine, you little bitch. Stop crying already. I brought you some food today. Sorry I forgot to bring you some the last few days or so, but I can see the skin of your fingers must’ve tasted like mozzarella sticks from Applebee’s. Too bad I don’t have any marinara sauce, right?

     Are you ready yet? Think you can give me back what’s mine now so we go our separate ways and forget any of this ever happened? You are my brother, after all.

     Why do you keep telling me you can’t give me what’s mine? You took it and I know you can give it back. Oh, stop flinching. I’m not going to hurt you today. I need you to keep the other half of your tongue so we can talk like distinguished gentlemen.

     Now…where were we? Oh, fucking eat it already. There’s nothing wrong with it; it’s not dog shit or maggots or a salad with dead spiders in it because I ran out of Bacon Bits. Anyway, give it back to me now. If you don’t, then your dick will look like what’s left of the fingers on your left hand come this time tomorrow.

      STOP TELLING ME THAT! YOU HAVE WHAT’S MINE NOW GIVE IT BACK TO ME!

      Why do I constantly have to reiterate it for you? Did you shit out all your intelligence in that bucket, too? Fine; have it your way. You fucked my wife because you’re a coke-sniffing fuck who happens to have a little more ram in the rod than I do. I guess she got a little tired of my inability to keep it hard, what with the goddamn heart problems and all. You took away my wife, my pride, and my self-esteem, you slippery, slithering little piece of gutless fucking shit. I want it all back.

      WHAT? YOU CAN’T GIVE IT ALL BACK? YOU CAN’T GO BACK ON WHAT YOU DID TO ME? I didn’t fucking think so.

     I don’t know just why in the holy hell you’re pissing and moaning. I’m having the time of my life here, ol’ buddy, ol’ pal, ol’ friend o’ mine. I know it must be marginally uncomfortable to have the skin of your ballsack pinned down to the floor with rusty nails, but come on. Nobody likes a goddamn whiner. I-

     “Mr. Wolford? Have you reached a decision?”

     “I…yes. Yes, we’ve reached a decision.”

     “And…?”

     “We’ve decided that we can’t let him live like this. Even if he comes out the coma, he’ll be…disfigured.”

     “Okay, Mr. Wolford. We’re very sorry we couldn’t save him.”

     “Not much you can do for a guy who tries to blow his brains out and lives through it…if you wanna call this living. I don’t know what…or why he woulda-“

     “Mr. Wolford, we have grief counselors waiting for you and your family down the hall.”

     “Right. Right, I’m sorry, I’ll go, and…can I say goodbye first? In private?”

     “Absolutely.”

     “Neil, this is your brother, Johnny. I never wanted you to try and kill yourself over it. If it makes you feel any better…I’ll take good care of her.”

     You have what’s mine, Johnny! Give it back! GIVE IT BAAAAAAACK!

     “She is a damn good lay, though. I can see why you married her.”

     “Ready now, Mr. Wolford?”

     “Yes.”

     Come on, Johnny, I wanna see you try to get off that floor with nails in your fucking balls. I can’t wait-

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© Daryl Brownell