The Logistics

21 Nov 2022

The Problem
But the problem lay not so much in the problem itself but in the problems that he felt about his depression. It wasn’t just that he was depressed, it was that he was therefore depressing, towards himself and all those around him. Sucking the life out of every happy moment, projecting an arcing aurora of negative energy in a kind of reverse feng-shui as he sulked and skulked about in the corners of rooms

His friends tried to include him as best they could, but this only made him feel more depressed, because they were the ones making the effort to drag this morbid, succourless husk out of his own little world, when it was him who should be making the effort. Why should they have to put up with him, me, he thought, and though they would eventually give up the ghost, leaving him content that they no longer felt him burdening them, he would arrive home to contemplate with disdain the way in which he felt left out, out of touch, disconnected, misunderstood.

Humour used to be a good defensive mechanism, but as soon as he had become aware it of being a defense mechanism he no longer felt comfortable using it. Better to face up to the facts than employ a deflective irony. But with nothing with which to deflect, and a now acute awareness that an honesty about troubles would only be a burden upon the clearly happy and content people around him, he could only remain gravely silent, a furrowed brow christening his chastened pout.

And so he would remain, until.

Word count: 266

Mark McDaid

Submitted by ragabondraconteur
#writing#short story#fiction#1000 words#submission
I still remember the first day I saw her. It was in English. She had positioned herself at the front of the classroom and I took the seat directly behind her. My friend Rebecca walked in a few moments later and noticing that there was no empty seat next to me, looked confused.

Sitting behind Leilani had not been my choice. Natural desire had pushed me that way and it would have burned within me had a decided to sit anywhere else. It might have been the darkness of her skin, compared to the paleness of all of ours that pulled me in. Her lips were stained coral and she smelled like candy. I assumed she did not know perfume and make-up were not allowed. Her hair was a thick sheet of black and it hung over the back of her chair, taunting me. I wanted so badly to stroke it and that longing scared me.

“Excuse me,” she said, turning around. “How much is the Shakespeare collection for this class?”

“I…I don’t know.” Syllabi for all of our classes arrived in the mail in the summer. I gave mine to my mother and she purchased all of the books. I’m sure my mother didn’t even know how much she paid for it. But Leilani made me wish I had cared.

I watched Leilani as she eyed a copy of the collection that was on the desk of the girl beside her. Her eyes were distinct: almond like in shape and color. They had drifted away from me and I needed them back. Wanting to say something to her so badly, I blurted out, “I think it was around $60.”

“Oh, thanks,” she said. She didn’t look at me again. Instead she scribbled something in her notebook: “check library for Shakespeare collection” I read over her shoulder.

As time went on, Leilani became a prime conversation piece for everyone in St. Mary’s. It was senior year and we were all more than ready to graduate and go to college where we would have boys in our classes. Coming to St. Mary’s at this time seemed backwards and though I’m sure she had a reason, I never found it out what it was. They were simple questions: “are you new in town?”, “where did you live before?”, “what made you come here?” But I was too wrapped up in the social politics of St. Mary’s to ask what I wanted to know.

Instead of speaking to her, we stared as she floated from class to class alone, her uniform skirt like a tent over her wide hips. We commented on how poor she had to be considering her Reebok Classics. She didn’t even wear pearls.

There were a number of times I knew for sure Leilani had heard our comments about her oversized ass and ownership of a bus pass. A few times she had looked directly at me, almond eyes brimming with amusement as she continued walking to wherever.


One day, after school, I saw Leilani standing at the old pay phone on the side of the St. Mary’s building. It was a hot spring day and she had the long sleeves of her uniform button-down rolled up. She was engrossed in the conversation she was having on the phone and didn’t seem to notice that anyone else was near.

“…They could come out though. My point is they could come out. I could be like doing something on the floor and they could come out and be like…”

She paused, presumably for whoever was on the other end to speak. I inched closer.

“But where is the bed though, Vincent? Is the bed against the wall?”

She paused again. I was quite close now. She was shorter than me and so I could see straight down her shirt. It was hard not to imagine unbuttoning the rest of it and feeling her curves in my hands. When I managed to tear my eyes away from her chest, I noticed her right forearm. Tattooed in pink was a hibiscus flower. I recognized it from my vacation the previous summer in Hawaii. Under the flower, in neat but fluid cursive, was the name Vincent, which I read upside down.

“Oh, so your father can’t see the bed? Is the bed high?”

She brushed a hand over the black hair before flipping it. She wrinkled her round nose in good humor at whatever “Vincent” had said. I hated this Vincent.
Before I knew it had happened, her conversation was over and she was looking at me. She did not seem surprised. She smiled before running her tongue over her lips and then slowly over her teeth. She bit her bottom lip all the while staring into me with her sharp, almond eyes and I thought “this is it”. This is right, me and her, and she thinks so too and…

And then she laughed at me. She shook her head, picked her bag up and before I could beat her to it, Leilani walked away, hips swinging, black hair soaring behind her.

Kesia Alexandra

Word Count: 857

Submitted by kesiawrites
#writing#short story#fiction#1000 words#submission
Murder she wrote on a recycled hotel bible.
She was another self destructive messy little girl.
Her heart got stuck on someone else’s bad luck.
He was a lying lawyer with a sleeve full of mystery.
He shared his love with a fist full of green pills.
The more she swallowed, the more she wallowed.
She was strong, yet naive, and he made her believe.
Everything kept going so wrong and it wasn't the way she planned.
One more perc, one more line, one more sip.
That was it, she was an addict.

He used her body and drained it dry.
He bruised her arms but she just wanted to fly.
Or die. Whichever would come faster.
Then he left her alone in this new world.
She found every drug she wanted through networking,
because being sober wasn't working.
Her fragile little body was the center of attention,
but she failed to mention the help that she needed.
Everyone was pleading but she wasn't ready to stop.
Her mouth whispered denial but her green eyes were screaming out.
She was consumed in fear and doubt.
She wanted to be left alone but cried when everyone was gone.
A line straight to the brain so she could forget the pain.
An addicts an addict, it’s always the same.

Marissa Way
word count: 217

Submitted by mwayheyhey-blog
#writing#short story#fiction#1000 words#submission
I became a magicians dream. I could disappear. Gone. I found comfort feeling invisible to the outside world. Maybe somewhere, someone wondered where I was. Or maybe someone was looking for me. Or wanted to save me. I couldn't save myself, that's for sure. I didn't know who I was anymore, nor did I notice that I was slowly killing my soul and breaking my father's heart. There was always someone that could aid my escape. With a snap of my fingers or a text message, I was so far gone that no one could get me. I was unstoppable. Out of control; out of my body. I was a new person killing all that remained of my spirit.

Losing consciousness was such a relief. Regaining it was not nearly as fun. My heavy head is being shaken by hands. They definitely aren't mine. My mouth feels open. The first thing my exhausted eyes find is his worried face. His brown eyes look like they are going to pop off and roll onto the bathroom floor next to my sprawled-out body. He's yelling at me. He's not angry, but all he keeps repeating is my pitiful name, I don't want any of this. I shut my heavy eye-lids. I want anything but this. I want a new escape. I want a do-over. I want this game to end. I don't care if I win anymore. Being conscious is too much work.

My fragile body lay slumped against the yellow wall. His hands are pushing harder on my cheeks. Is he trying to save me? I don't want to die like this, but I guess this literally isn't in my hands anymore. My cold fingers are suctioned to the linoleum. This floor is going to be the last thing I hold. I wish this wasn't it.

"Open your fucking eyes, Marissa. Look at me." His voice was so persuading. I'm still alive. I look at my savior in a red hoodie. "Keep breathing," he said, "in through your nose and out through your mouth."

"You need to do this. Listen to me, damnit."

I manage to lift my skull and lean it back on the yellow wall. My mouth is mumbling. My tongue feels too big. It's blocking my voice. I want to tell him sorry; really really sorry. But those words can't seem to fit around this massive thing in my mouth. I need to keep my eyes open and breathe. This is too much. I can't. My upcoming demise is all I can focus on. Why try so hard to stay alive if I am just going to die?

I'm drowning. The water is so cold on my chest. Now it's covering my face. I wake up again. I'm still here on the bathroom floor in Weymouth, Massachusetts. It's the same place we did bumps of coke at so many times before. We used his Visa Check card and then chain-smoke Newport's. I would sit on the sink high as fuck, but now it's so different. I wanted to be alive then, but now death seems like paradise.

He uses the same towel we always tucked under the door to wipe off my dripping face. I'm angry now. My makeup must be smeared and my hair is soaked. I'm so ugly. I don't want to die ugly.

My thumbs are gone. They aren't moving. No matter how hard I try. My body isn't mine. Somebody else has the remote control. I can't move my limbs or remember how to breathe. This must be how it feels to be paralyzed. "I can't," I whimper.

I watch him throw little plastic baggies in the toilet. The home telephone is in his left hand and he's holding it up high. "If you pass out again, I'm getting an ambulance. Fucking breathe, Marissa."

Can't he just let me be? Can't he let me die in peace? The toilet flushes as my eyes shut.


Marissa Way
word count: 661

Submitted by mwayheyhey-blog
#writing#short story#fiction#1000 words#submission
Talk Of The Town
There’s a town on Florida’s west coast that you’ve never heard of. The people that grow up there never escape. The ones that arrive there, do so to die. You might mistake it for a nursing home gone wrong, heaven’s waiting room if you will.

So it shouldn’t be a surprise that after Jason managed to escape this place four years ago, he hadn’t returned. When he meets someone new in Chicago and they ask the obligatory “where're you from,” he gives them the name of the closest city. If it wasn’t for the death of his grandmother, he never would have come back.

Admittedly his life in the city wasn’t perfect. His job as a secretary to an unscrupulous attorney was unfulfilling at best. He had hoped it would be a temporary job to pay the bills until an improv troupe discovered him; but he hadn’t been on stage in over a year, his confidence was shaken. Still on those nights when he laid in bed, fretting over a failed audition, one fact managed to soothe his bruised ego, “At least I’m not back home right now.”

He just arrived at his grandmother’s beach house, newly bequeathed unto him, when a familiar tone rang. He had been back in town for six hours (long enough to grab coffee, attend the wake, and buy a sack of weed from his old biology teacher), yet his grindr had already exploded with messages from guys in high school who never looked his way. He wasn’t much to look at growing up; but walking everywhere, existing off salads and rice cakes, and ransacking the thrift stores of Chicago had resulted in an extensive image upgrade. Jason smiled. Being home stirred up a lot of emotions, but he couldn’t deny that he was enjoying his newfound big fish status.

He examined the weed he just purchased off Mr. Young. He scoffed, “figures.” Being spoiled by the sticky green buds of primo city shit, this small town dirt weed was a major let down. But it was all he could find, not knowing anyone else in town who dealt, so he would have to make do.

His phone buzzed again and he reached for it. He had been expecting this text. He eagerly read the message from his old friend, Alan. Leaving now, be there in 10
I’ll start rolling the reunion blunt, Jason quipped.

Hold off on that, Alan replied, I have something to show you.
In the four years since he left, the town had added a shopping center containing a TJ Maxx, JC Penny, and two different froyo chains. It was a big deal on the town’s Facebook page. What could Alan have to show him?

When they met in school, Jason and Alan fought over the same girl’s affection. It was months later, when they discovered they shared a mutual admiration of dick, that they would put their feud behind them. Jason was reflecting on their humble beginnings when a car horn blared. Eagerly, he grabbed his things and ran outside.

* * *

Alan brought Jason to their town’s community theatre, Stage East. They had only seen two plays there, both times they left during intermission. The rum filled Coke bottles they snuck in couldn’t make the off-key cast of Finnian’s Rainbow or the unforgivable butchering of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf palatable. Apparently the rest of the town shared their sentiment, as the building was abandoned.

Jason laughed, “They shut this place down?”

“There was a fundraiser to save it. My money, however, went towards claiming the space for myself.”

Jason was flabbergasted. “You didn’t!”

“I did, It was a steal! I couldn’t pass it up!” Alan was dead serious; but he couldn’t look Jason in the eye. He was holding something back.

Jason knew what was coming next. “You can’t expect me to help you with this. Alan, it’s a lost cause. It just shut down!”

Alan’s reply was preloaded, “If we did it right, people would come. I know you hate your job, it’s the running theme of your blog.”

“I just have to stick it out a little longer,” Jason said defensively.

Alan struck a nerve, he knew it. “It’s been four years. Do you want to spend the rest of your life as a cog in another man’s machine? This is something we can build together.”

Jason couldn’t believe he was considering this. “I spent my whole life dreaming of getting out of here. How can I come back,” he asked.

Alan walked to the car, calling behind him, “Come on, you don’t have to decide now. And you still owe me that reunion blunt....”


That night, on the back porch of his beach house, Jason sat, naked, looking out at the ocean. He could see a storm rolling in. Was this an omen? He didn’t care. He looked to the ground beside him, an envelope, pen, and paper laid there. He knew what he had to do. When he finished, he tucked the letter into the envelope and sealed it. It would reach its recipient by Monday.

Alan’s head perked up beside him. “What did you write?”

Jason would remember these words for the rest of his life, “After four years of thankless dedication to your business, I’ve decided to move on...” His voice trailed off. Alan had stopped listening, his mouth slowly bobbing up and down Jason’s semi-erect shaft. He leaned back, grinning. “Alright, let’s give them something good to talk about on the Facebook page.”

Word Count: 930

Written By Charles Anthony

Submitted by iamsuchagoodfriend-deactivated2
#writing#short story#fiction#1000 words#submission
Every morning, I follow roughly the same routine. My eyes open a minute or two before the alarm goes off somewhere between 5:00am and 6:00am depending on how lazy I felt the night before. My hand reaches down from the bed onto the floor where my cell is connected to the charger plugged into the nearest socket. I turn the alarm off before it rings and get out of bed.

Sometimes I stand starry eyed for a moment or two while my mind and body struggle with each other- heart is usually asleep at this point so it stays out of the fight. My mind wins, as it mostly does, and I trudge to the washroom. I use the toilet, brush my teeth and take a quick shower. On alternate days, I shampoo my hair. Once done, I turn the shower off and stand in the tub drying myself with the towel. I comb my hair before leaving the washroom.

Once back in the room, I put on my undergarments and then my pants. I always wear a white tee underneath my dress shirt. Tucking the shirt inside my pants, I put on my belt and then my socks. I button my cuffs before putting on my trench. I put my iPad back into my leather bag, place my wallet into the back pocket, keys in my hand and turn the cell-phone wifi off. Once downstairs, I slip on my shoes, grab a glass of milk and head out.

Yet another day to be grateful for.

In between the above acts, even though my mind buzzes with the chores and tasks and mental deadlines, I cannot help but thank God for all that he has done for me and even though I pride myself on using words well, I have failed repeatedly in being able to pen my thankfulness to God. Perhaps somethings are meant to be pondered and not necessarily writ on paper.

Submitted by nabeeljafri-deactivated20130511
#writing#short story#fiction#1000 words#submission
The Logistics
As many reasons as there are to kill yourself, there are just as many reasons to fake your own death. The reason is the easiest part. Pick one. Losing your job, losing your lover, losing the cap to the toothpaste; they’re all extremely valid reasons to disappear. The why isn't the hard part, the hard part is the where, when, and how. Truly, planning how to kill yourself is certainly more difficult than actually killing yourself. Whether you’re preparing for a wedding or a suicide; the logistics will always be the death of you.

For Celeste the where had already been decided. The pristine and fully- furnished beach house she purchased on impulse with her first series check had been vacant for years and was just begging for a little drama. An hour drive in her cherry-red convertible brought Celeste to the main entrance where she casually entered the gate code and coasted to the semi-circle driveway. The exterior had been repainted twice since she had bought the property. The semi-gloss coating went from powder-blue, to sun-kissed beige, and back to powder-blue, all at Celeste’s request, even though she had never physically been there. Often Celeste wondered how she had ever managed to make her life so complicated, and furthermore, why anyone act

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