Read Online Flash Fiction: 72 Very Short Stories by James Thomas and Denise Thomas and Tom Hazuka - Free Book Online Page B
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and sleeping around since he left California and tells her he is tired of his vacation and wants to come home. She feels the cells slipping, and her rump widens alarmingly.
“What the hell,” she says.
F EEDING T HE H UNGRY
Y ou’re bound to think I’m a liar: but I’ve never felt hungry. I don’t know what hunger means. As far back as I can remember I’ve never known what it was like. I eat, of course, but without appetite. I feel absolutely nothing, not even distaste. I just eat.
People often ask me, “How do you manage to eat, then?” I have to admit that I don’t know. What happens usually is that I’m sitting at a table and there’s a plateful of food in front of me. Since I’m rather absentminded I very soon forget about it. When I think about it again, the plate is empty. That’s what happens.
Does this mean that I eat under hypnosis, in some kind of dissociated state? Certainly not. I said that this is what usually happens. But not always. Sometimes I remember the plate of food in front of me. But that doesn’t stop me from emptying it all the same.
Naturally I’ve tried fasting. But that didn’t work. I got thinner and thinner. I gave up just in time. A little longer and I would have died of hunger without knowing it. This experience frightened me so much that I now eat all the time. That way I don’t worry. I’m tall and strong, and I have to keep the machine going. For other people, hunger provides a warning; since I am deprived of it I have to be doubly careful. As I said earlier, I’m absentminded. To forget would be fatal. I prefer to eat all the time: it’s safer. I realize too that when I don’t eat I become nervous and irritable, and don’t know what to do about it. Instead, I smoke too much and drink too much, which is bad.
In the street I am frequently accosted by gaunt men dressed in rags. They gaze at me with fever-bright eyes and stammer out, “We’re hungry!” I look at them with hatred. They eat only a crust of dry bread once a month, if that, but they enjoy it. “Hungry, are you!” I say to them nastily. “You’re lucky.”
Sobs rattle in their throats. Shudders rack them. Eventually they move off with slow, hesitant steps. As for me, I go into the first restaurant I see. Will the miracle occur? My heart beats fast as I swallow the first mouthful. A terrible despair overwhelms me. Nothing. Nothing at all. No appetite. I take my revenge by eating furiously, like someone drowning their sorrow in drink.
I leave the restaurant weighed down with food and hatred. For I’m becoming bitter. I’m beginning to detest other people, people who are hungry. I hate them. So they’re hungry, are they? I hope they die of hunger! I shan’t be sorry for them! After all, thinking about people who are hungry while I’m eating is the only pleasure left to me.
Translated by Margaret Crosland and David LeVay
D ISH N IGHT
E very Wednesday night was Dish Night at the Wells Theatre. And it worked because she was there, week in and week out. She sat through the movie to get her white bone china. A saucer. A cup. The ushers stood on chairs by the doors and reached into the big wooden crates. There was straw all over the floor of the lobby and balls of newspaper from strange cities. I knew she was the girl for me. I’d walk her home. She’d hug the dish to her chest. The street lights would be on and the moon behind the trees. She’d talk about collecting enough pieces for our family of eight. “Oh, it’s everyday and I know it,” she’d say, holding it at arm’s length. “They’re so modern and simple and something we’ll have a long time after we forget the movies.”
I forget just what happened then. We heard about Pearl Harbor at a Sunday matinée. They stopped the movie, and a man came out on stage. The blue stage lights flooded the gold curtain. It was dark in there, but outside it was bright and cold. They didn’t finish the show. Business would pick up then, and
“What the hell,” she says.
F EEDING T HE H UNGRY
Y ou’re bound to think I’m a liar: but I’ve never felt hungry. I don’t know what hunger means. As far back as I can remember I’ve never known what it was like. I eat, of course, but without appetite. I feel absolutely nothing, not even distaste. I just eat.
People often ask me, “How do you manage to eat, then?” I have to admit that I don’t know. What happens usually is that I’m sitting at a table and there’s a plateful of food in front of me. Since I’m rather absentminded I very soon forget about it. When I think about it again, the plate is empty. That’s what happens.
Does this mean that I eat under hypnosis, in some kind of dissociated state? Certainly not. I said that this is what usually happens. But not always. Sometimes I remember the plate of food in front of me. But that doesn’t stop me from emptying it all the same.
Naturally I’ve tried fasting. But that didn’t work. I got thinner and thinner. I gave up just in time. A little longer and I would have died of hunger without knowing it. This experience frightened me so much that I now eat all the time. That way I don’t worry. I’m tall and strong, and I have to keep the machine going. For other people, hunger provides a warning; since I am deprived of it I have to be doubly careful. As I said earlier, I’m absentminded. To forget would be fatal. I prefer to eat all the time: it’s safer. I realize too that when I don’t eat I become nervous and irritable, and don’t know what to do about it. Instead, I smoke too much and drink too much, which is bad.
In the street I am frequently accosted by gaunt men dressed in rags. They gaze at me with fever-bright eyes and stammer out, “We’re hungry!” I look at them with hatred. They eat only a crust of dry bread once a month, if that, but they enjoy it. “Hungry, are you!” I say to them nastily. “You’re lucky.”
Sobs rattle in their throats. Shudders rack them. Eventually they move off with slow, hesitant steps. As for me, I go into the first restaurant I see. Will the miracle occur? My heart beats fast as I swallow the first mouthful. A terrible despair overwhelms me. Nothing. Nothing at all. No appetite. I take my revenge by eating furiously, like someone drowning their sorrow in drink.
I leave the restaurant weighed down with food and hatred. For I’m becoming bitter. I’m beginning to detest other people, people who are hungry. I hate them. So they’re hungry, are they? I hope they die of hunger! I shan’t be sorry for them! After all, thinking about people who are hungry while I’m eating is the only pleasure left to me.
Translated by Margaret Crosland and David LeVay
D ISH N IGHT
E very Wednesday night was Dish Night at the Wells Theatre. And it worked because she was there, week in and week out. She sat through the movie to get her white bone china. A saucer. A cup. The ushers stood on chairs by the doors and reached into the big wooden crates. There was straw all over the floor of the lobby and balls of newspaper from strange cities. I knew she was the girl for me. I’d walk her home. She’d hug the dish to her chest. The street lights would be on and the moon behind the trees. She’d talk about collecting enough pieces for our family of eight. “Oh, it’s everyday and I know it,” she’d say, holding it at arm’s length. “They’re so modern and simple and something we’ll have a long time after we forget the movies.”
I forget just what happened then. We heard about Pearl Harbor at a Sunday matinée. They stopped the movie, and a man came out on stage. The blue stage lights flooded the gold curtain. It was dark in there, but outside it was bright and cold. They didn’t finish the show. Business would pick up then, and
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