Over a month ago, I previewed my first finished short story, Sadist Heels. Here it is in its entirety– I hope you enjoy it!
As an aside, Sadist Heels is also published over on Tablo, which can be found here. In terms of formatting, the Tablo one might be easier on the eyes!
I told the same tired old joke, and was rewarded with howls of laughter around the bar. More drinks came sliding my way, orders barked over the noisy din at the bartenders–
Another one for the lady! I’ll have what she’s having!
I looked around, weary, skimming the crowd over the tops of their heads; a lot of beanies in here, aren’t they hot? It must be something like 97 degrees in this joint.
Besides, where was my date? No missed calls, no texts, and at this point, he seems like a no-show. I silently vowed to never let Mother set me up on a blind date ever again… oh lordie, how pathetic.
I carefully extricated myself from the throng of half-inebriated patrons of the bar, struggling for a moment to slip my feet through the criss-crossing straps of my heels. Good grief, why do I wear these shoes? I call them my Sadist Heels, the only thing protecting me from tetanus at this fine establishment.
chay, would you like a delicious double-chocolate fudge brownie-topped slice of creamy goodness that is my special-recipe homemade new york style cheesecake?
SKIN: make that move buddy and you’re dead to me. DEAD!
MOUTH: sorry brenda, I’m on a solid no-fun diet of pure misery.
My skin breaks out much too easily, so I’ll have to pass. Regrettably.
brenda passes on, offering the plate to others.
allow some time to pass, then while making sure brenda is within earshot, say to a friend:
sucks that I can only taste that delectable piece of magic with my nostrils.
doesn’t matter if you didn’t actually want the cake in the first place.
it doesn’t fit your macros?
it doesn’t belong in your diet plan?
you’re on a gluten-free, no carb no fat (no fun) diet?
NO ONE CARES. (unless you have Celiac’s, then fine; and if you’re vegan, trust me, brenda already knows. we all know. we alllllllllll know.)
and that, ladies and gentlemen, is how to say no without sounding like an annoying gym bro/bunny prick (even if you are); A.K.A. how to be a gracious guest. I also suggest bringing a bottle of moderately-priced wine or flowers.
It’s a tough job.
I glance over at the feet in the next stall over. I’ve already done my business, had the toilet automatic-flush on me twice (Yuck. I’m a slow goer.), and no noise/movement from the poor soul next to me.
My name is Miguel Arroyo Narcisco Rodriguez, and Mucho Burrito is my claim to fame. My family’s at least.
By “claim to fame”, I mean bane of my existence.
I started out as a humble taste-tester. The position is a misnomer; most people think: Taste-tester? Awesome!
Not awesome. Not awesome at all.
Most of my shifts in the early days were spent in a dirty bathroom stall–
Side note: dirty public washrooms are my kryptonite. I could never make it in China I guess, although I guess technically they aren’t so much toilets as they are holes.
Every time I came back from an unexplained absence while on the clock, I would get looks of sympathy from the waitstaff, and glee from the line cooks.
Even Mucho Burrito is a bit of a misnomer, as we’re really a taco stand. Welcome to our classy establishment.
What’s goin’ on, everybody!
I recently wrote a short story about a blind date gone off the tracks. It’s called Sadist Heels, and it reads like a short film.
This post is to gauge interest before I post S.H. in its entirety; and I’d like to send an early release to anyone who is interested and/or would like to offer their feedback/constructive criticism.
Currently, I don’t have a place to workshop my writing, and I would love to turn to my WordPress friends for some potential fine-tuning.
Thank you darlings, and the excerpt is after the jump!
I didn’t think I would ever feel the same way. And yet, here I was. 17 months later, sitting in the bathtub with a plugged-in shaver in my hand. And psst, I waxed yesterday.
How did I get here and how do I make it back out? I guess I could start by putting down the Hitachi. Yeah, that would probably help. Rise, step out on to the bath mat, towel off and then slink into my jeans, one leg after another.
I’ve gone through a million different scenarios in my head. Wrists? Too emo, too messy. Pills? Ok, I’m not a spoiled brat with an infinity pool in Stouffville. Oven? Nobody does that anymore. Plus, ovens are too smart these days.
Elle stuck her head through her door into the bathroom. She took one look at me and said: