Short Stories

And what kind? Salted or buttery? Or maybe both?

“What’s truly good sells itself. You don’t need to advertise it.”

It’s been six months since I last opened the innermost door of my big wardrobe. I simply didn’t dare to even touch the ornate wrought-iron handle.

I still remember the moment I first heard the word used about me. It wasn’t even a diagnosis, more like an offhand remark.

The sight of the perfectly arranged cosmetics on the shelf always calmed Peter. It was as if the person who had lined up those jars of cream had measured the distances with a ruler—distances so flawless they were a delight to the eye and a balm to the mind.

Scene from the fairytale, where the princess has been kidnapped by the dragon. The princess is planning an escape, the dragon a wedding.

What I love most is when the dazzling streaks of color just glide across the screen. Like little comets, each ball leaves a shimmering trail behind it.

“Apple juice for the little girls, grape juice for the big boys,” says the bar lady, setting down the smudged glasses in front of us.

I can’t take it anymore. No matter how hard I try, I just can’t. My hand starts moving toward her—more like I’m pushing it—intending to touch her thigh, but I freeze halfway. And she’s wearing a short skirt.

The trouble with Bob is that he’s a cynical, sarcastic bastard. Not to mention sneaky. Just when you think you’re on good terms, when everything’s fine between you, he’ll hit you with something vile.