Litkicks Message Board Archive

Varnish

e nthis is a story challenge i had my friend give me. requirements were:

1. Must involve a fairy
2. Murder
3. Black nail polish
4. The ocean
5. Cream soda

-

"Who said it was queer to wear nailpolish?" I ask my father, menthol cigarette hanging obscenely from my lips, placing the last ink black stroke on my pinkie nail. "I don't think s--"
"None of mah boys'll be wearin that girly shit!" father yells, asthmatic lungs wheezing pathetically. "You need some good ol' Marines trainin, boy. Grow some hair on yer chest!" He slugs down the rest of his beer (which is non-alchoholic, mother switched them out half a year ago, and he has yet to notice).
"I do ha--" I start, until he shot me a half drunk, furiously inquisitive eye, and I clamp my delicate lips shut.
"He's just acting out his adolescent rage, dear," Mother informs him, cream soda half finished in her thin hand. It is the only caloric thing she allows herself, besides carrots and health bars. I see the outline of her shoulder bones through the thin fabric of her dress.

"Where the fuck'r you goin?" my father demands, head swiveled backward in his torn recliner.
"To my room." I point toward the stairs.
"Doin' what?"
"I have to call someone."
"Who're you calli--" I turn and start walking.

"Josh?" I ask, twirling the black telephone cord around my freshly adorned fingers.
"Nathan? Hey!" he answers, voice cool and masculine even over the phone.
"You wanna go do something tonight?" I ask, hand tangled beyond escape.
"Sure. I'll pick you up around, seven?"
"How about now?"

I slip the phone back into the cradle, taking great care not to knock it off the bedstand. I walk the two steps to the mirror, pushing my chin length, light brown hair behind my ears. I rough it up a bit, going for a smouldering, exotic look. Defeated, I smooth it back down.

"NATHANNNN!!!!!!" my father yells, voice splitting through the wood of my closed door. "Coming!" I pull a thin jacket over my shoulders: black cotton, white cuffs. I'm about to second guess the choice when he yells again.

"Now, what this boy here nee--"
"Hey dad, we're gonna be late!" I interrupt, sparing Josh the mortifying conversation with my psuedo-drunken father. "Got to go to Maria's before the movie starts!"
"Who's this Maria? Do I know he--"
"I'll tell you about her when I get home."
"Don't get no one pregnant!"

"I'm so sorry about that," I repeat, halfway down the interstate, driving ninty-five. A very nice camera is resting in my lap, and I'm cradling it in my outstretched palms like a jewel. "No sweat," he says, again, and puts his strong, worn hand over mine. "You should see my dad, god!" We laugh, and slow down a bit. The twilight is an ocean of grey.

"I think this is the place," he mumbles, slipping his hand off of mine and back on to the gearshift, craning his head toward my window. "Is that, it is! Alright!" He screeches the turn, and I grab on to the handle over the door, trying to be someone composed. It's not kosher to fall into the lap of your first date right from the start.

"Smile!" I yell, and flash a photo of Josh, suprised. He yelps, a rather uncharacteristic thing for him, he being six feet tall and a perfect rendition of Zeus himself.

"Are you just going to keep ignoring me?" I yell into Josh's answering machine, pacing my small bedroom back and forth. "How can you be so fucking inconsiderate? Six fucking months as of today, Joshua. SIX MON--"
"Hey, who's this?" a soft, young girl's voice answers.
"This is Nathan, who is th--"
"Josh's busy right now."
"Busy doing what? It's really important, okay, just put hi--"
"Uh, Nathan? Yeah, um, we're reall--" Giggle. "-busy right no--" "SHH!" "--he'll call you later."

Click.

I walk down to the cellar, grab three bottles of (alcoholic) wine, and sneak my way back to my room. "Here's to six months, love," I toast at a photograph, dog eared and pulled out from beneath my matress. Joshua, suprised, with a smile I hadn't grown familiar with yet. I could tell you every wrinkle, every freckle, every inch of his body. I cou--

"Six fucking months."

I kill three bottles of wine, and they murder me just the same.