Unusual Stories: Volume I

by Terry Persun

  As Yet Undecided

  by Steven Luna

  “So…suicide.” He said it in the best therapist voice he could muster. But the concern just wasn’t there.

  “Yep. That’s the new direction.”

  “Really? You’re certain about it?”

  “I am…almost…ninety-five percent sure. Ninety-four-point-six.”

  “Oh. Okay. As long as you’re sure.”

  “You aren’t going to try to talk me out of it, are you?”

  “Could I possibly? You’re ninety-four-point-six percent sure. It’s hard to argue with certainty like that.” His head lurched forward and fell into his cupped palm. It was the postural equivalent of a yawn.

  There was an indignant shifting from the young man on the couch as he pulled his shirt cuffs down below his suit sleeves. “You know, sometimes it’s difficult for me to tell the difference between your psychology bullshit and your sarcasm.”

  “I know. The line really blurs these days.”

  “This is how you treat a depressive patient with suicidal tendencies and a penchant for self-destructive behaviors?”

  “Ah. I see you’ve been busily abusing Google again.” He fiddled with his notebook. It held exactly zero notes from this session.

  “Why are you being so casual about this?”

  “Well, let’s review. Two weeks ago you were convinced you had developed a second personality to help you cope with the stress of being ‘you’.”

  “At the time, I thought I had.”

  “Bradley, I can barely find one personality in there, let alone two.”

  “Wow…real nice, doctor. So I made a mistake. So what?”

  “Three weeks before that, you believed your brain had been implanted with a microchip designed by the CIA to download your thoughts into their database.”

  Bradley shrugged. “It’s still possible.”

  “As the plot of Johnny Mnemonic, maybe…but not for you.”

  “Well, now I’m depressed. And suicidal. And depressed.”

  “Tell me, do you have an overwhelming sadness with a cause that can’t be readily identified?”

  He was a frequent whistler, and often soft-shoed as he walked down the street. “Well, no. But I might.”

  “Trust me: you don’t. And what self-destructive behaviors have you been engaging in again? Can you remind me, please?”

  “Oh, doctor, I am…just…I’m thoroughly reckless. Thoroughly.”

  “You ran your dad’s Beemer into a canal last year because you thought you could handle a stick shift, and you bite your nails. I’d hardly call those behaviors ‘self-destructive’. Stupid and ill-advised and unnecessary? Absolutely. Even indicators of deep-seated anxiety and loneliness, maybe. But ‘self-destructive’? No.”

  “The Beemer could have been construed as self-destructive, at least.”

  “But it wasn’t. And remind me again: when was the last time you attempted suicide? Or the first time, for that matter?”

  “Uh…it was, I think…”

  “Right.”

  “Everyone has thoughts about killing themselves, doctor.”

  “No doubt. But only those who have actually tried to do it can be diagnosed as having suicidal tendencies. Maybe you’ve wondered what it would be like, or considered how much attention it would garner. But if you’ve never done anything to hurt yourself in a fatal manner – and you haven’t – then I can’t really categorize you that way.”

  Bradley could tell now: this was just the psychology bullshit. No blurred line. “But I could easily drift toward that. Very easily.”

  “Based on what? I can’t even diagnose you as clinically depressed. You’re a neurotic mess for sure, but no worse than anyone else in your age bracket. You’re all overdosing on plastic and sugar and instant gratification of every impulse you have, and it’s playing havoc with your neurochemistry. Maybe try a little less of those…and maybe get yourself a girlfriend while you’re shaking things up. You’ll be fine.”

  He wondered if now would be a good time to talk about the Plan – yes, the Plan, with a capitalized P. It was that important. “What if I said it was the toaster that told me to do it?”

  “The toaster? As in, the machine in your kitchen that browns bread - that toaster?”

  “Good description. Yes; that toaster. Would that rate me a diagnosis of schizophrenic, or just highly delusional?”

  “So your toaster – an inanimate appliance in your kitchen - suggested that you to kill yourself, and you decided the idea merited a second thought. Is this what you’re telling me?”

  He nodded. It was a very smug nod. “Yes. Would that affect your diagnosis?”

  “I don’t know. I’d probably need to consult with the coffee maker first.”

  “Coffee makers don’t talk. Ass.”

  “All righty, then.” The doctor stood and dropped the pad on the desk. “ This session is over. Please leave your copay with Ashley at the front desk. You can make another appointment if you’d like, but I’d say you’re wasting both your time and mine. And if you’re still reluctant to bring your parents in as I keep recommending you do, I’ll have to remand you into your own custody.”

  “My parents are…too busy. They can’t make it. This has nothing to do with them, anyway.”

  “Google ‘Freudian Psychotherapy’ sometime. You’ll be pleasantly surprised by how responsible our parents end up being for everything in our lives. Including our suicides.”

  “You’re a shitty psychiatrist.”

  “And you’re a narcissistic, spoiled little brat who needs a good ass kicking. And a social life.”

  “Goodday, doctor. You’re a blight on the fine profession of psychiatry. You should be stripped of your license.” The young man swung the door open and drifted through it without looking back. Which was fine, since the doctor stepped up and slammed it behind him.

  Ashley was waiting behind the front desk, as promised. He turned to her. “For this I pay one hundred ten dollars an hour? I should just stay home and let the toaster abuse me.” He smiled, waiting for polite laughter.

  Ashley volunteered nothing. She smelled sweet though, like ripe apples with a hint of total disinterest. “Next week – same time?” She didn’t bother to look up at him.

  “No. I won’t be coming back. Therapy really isn’t helping me.”

  “Shame. He obviously hasn’t cured you of whatever you have yet.”

  “I’ll be leaving for Paris on Saturday to commit suicide.” He said it so casually now. It didn’t sound odd anymore.

  Ashley hardly looked up from her phone. “Everyone needs a dream, right?”

  He noticed that, since his last appointment, her already-sizable implants had swelled even more. Each was the size of a small child’s head. Her cleavage was now so troubled it looked as if she were smuggling a large naked ass beneath her blouse. “Your breasts look fantastic, Ashley.” He leaned forward and sniffed. “They still have that new boob smell.”

  “Screw you.”

  “Is that a tag I see hanging off the left one? I can get that for you if you have a pair of scissors, or some nail clippers. Here…I’ll just use my teeth.”

  “Good luck with your suicide. Jerk.”

  His eyes registered a fair amount surprise that she had been listening through the door. They also showed small delight that she had been interested enough to eavesdrop. “Finally…words of encouragement from someone.” He tapped his heels, wiggled his bow tie and tipped his head. Ashley flipped him off as he sauntered away.

  It was three flights down to the street through bricks and mortar, and Bradley whistled the whole way. He soft-shoed along the walk, casually checking the time on his pocket watch. Originally it had been something he carried for the sake of hipster fashion pretension as much as it was for utility. But now it was something of a companion for him as well. He popped the cover open, and suddenly the watch was all a-chatter. “He thought you were lying about the toaster.
”

  Bradley shrugged. “I was. The toaster actually tried to talk me out of it.”

  “You should have let him ask me,” said the watch. “I could have vouched for your instability.”

  “I’m not unstable,” he replied. “Just suicidal.”

  “And in what way is that not unstable?”

  “In the way that…” There was no rest of his sentence.

  “You see?” For a pocket watch, he had great conviction.

  “Anyway, my suicide will be more than just the irrational act of an insane seventeen year-old. I’m not like the others who do this, you know.”

  “And how is that?” the watch sniffed.

  “Mine will be poetic. Literary. I have it all planned out. And I’m not doing this on a whim, or out of a dissociation from reality, or because I’m unstable.”

  “Oh, here we go again…” None of this was new to the watch.

  “If anything, it’s because I’m super-stable. I’m making my own decisions with great forethought about what the repercussions will be. That’s a hallmark of sanity.”

  “Bradley,” said the watch, “you’re on a public street in full view of the citizenry, speaking to a piece of functional jewelry as though it’s your best friend – likely because it is your best friend. And it’s keeping up its end of the conversation pretty well. Does that cry out ‘Everyone, look at how sane I am!’ to you?”

  “You’re a watch. What would you know?”

  The watch sighed. “Ask the wallet then.”

  The wallet shifted in Bradley’s breast pocket. “Ask me what? I can barely hear you in here.”

  The watch wanted to be certain the wallet could hear, so he spoke a bit louder. “I think Bradley’s behavior – most notably the idea that he speaks to his personal effects, and that we speak to him in return - qualifies him as unstable. He doesn’t think so…but he’s under the impression that wanting to commit suicide is poetic.”

  The wallet was pensive. “Despite what classic literature and modern film would have you believe, there really isn’t anything poetic about one killing oneself, you know.”

  “You see?” Bradley could hear the sneer in the watch’s tone.

  “But talking to one’s wallet and watch? If that wouldn’t result in a diagnosis of ‘utterly and irrefutably insane’, I don’t know what would.”

  “I told the therapist that I’d talked to the toaster and he just blew it off.”

  “As well he should. The toaster is an imbecile.” The wallet spoke like this frequently; the precise diction of his British accent made him sound superior and over-educated. Bradley cringed at it sometimes.

  “Listen, folks,” he interrupted. “The status of my mental condition isn’t up for debate here.” He had to raise his voice to be heard over their back-and-forth.

  “Oh, but I really think it is,” said the wallet. “I can’t help but wonder how the keys would weigh in on this.”

  They jingled on their fob next to the watch. “Weigh in on what?”

  The wallet was incensed. “Have you been sleeping this whole time?”

  “Yes.” They were so young, so guileless, these keys.

  The watch offered a fill-in. “Bradley’s planning a trip to Paris so he can commit suicide because he believes it will be a poetic, literary act. Wallet and I are convinced that, no, this would actually be the impulsive act of an unstable person.”

  “It’s not impulsive,” Bradley reminded them. “I have a written plan.”

  The watch huffed. “As you can see, Bradley doesn’t agree with our assessment. We’re wondering how you view the situation, given the facts and the state of our young friend’s mentality.” The watch was quite a fantastic mediator, which made total sense.

  His previous owner had been a lawyer.

  “You guys,” Bradley interjected. “We don’t really need to have this discussion. I’m pretty much set on suicide in France…ninety-four point six percent sure.”

  The wallet guffawed. “Well, then. As long as you’re sure.”

  “That’s what the therapist said…”

  The keys rang happily. “Ooooh…we’ve never been to France! When will we go? Hopefully springtime.”

  The wallet sniffed. “I highly doubt he’d take his keys with him across the Pond.”

  “What pond?” The keys asked.

  They weren’t the most worldly of his belongings.

  Bradley Umpton hushed them all. “Listen, everyone: I’m not looking for advice, or opinions, or a critique of my plan. I certainly am not expecting to be talked out of my decision. And God knows I don’t need another label. I have enough of those for myself as it is. So, unstable or delusional or whatever the right adjective for my actions would be, I’m going to Paris, and I’m initiating my own death. Shuffling off the mortal coil at the force of my own hand. And possibly a sidewalk.”

  The watch grimaced. “A bit grisly, don’t you think?”

  Bradley was firm. “My death; my choice.”

  The wallet and the watch fell oddly silent. It wasn’t like them to not weigh in, even when told their input wouldn’t be welcomed. But both knew there would be opportunities in the coming days to talk sense into the young man whose confidantes they had both become.

  The keys, on the other hand, jingled excitedly. They couldn’t help but wonder what they’d look like in a red beret, sitting in a café while reading Proust.

  Steven’s latest novel is: “Joe Vampire: The Afterlife”

  Find more information about Steven at: https://www.joevampire.blogspot.com

  Elise Stephens

  A mysterious box that makes strange, otherworldly sounds only you can hear is enough to drive anyone crazy, but Patricia already has her share of anxiety. I’ve always pitied the heroine of the Greek myth Pandora story, unable to understand why it was fair to blame her for failing under the burden of such impossible responsibility: “Here’s a powerful container. Just one thing, never ever open it.” Some mistakes are inevitable. Old myths, when retold in modern day, can develop a wonderful and sometimes creepy message that echoes for a long time inside our minds.  

  Pandora

  By Elise Stephens

  The box arrives as a wedding present. It’s one of the cardless gifts and no one has said anything in their emails or conversations about the mysterious wooden chest. The glossy green lid encrusted with black and silver paisley appliqués reminds me of Indian mehndi tattoos. I notice it, distinct from the other presents, the morning after we return from our Maui honeymoon.

  The house vibrates with the cacophony of moving in. Evan unboxes and arranges various kitchen appliances while I sort checks and gift cards and begin the thank you notes. I’m about to lick and seal the first envelope when I stop.

  “Yes, honey?” I say.

  Evan pokes out of the kitchen, his arms full of cardboard he’s crushing for the recycle. He raises his eyebrows.

  “Did you want something?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You called my name.”

  “I was calling the new toaster some names, but none of them sounded like yours.”

  “Oh.” I doodle a daisy on the envelope in front of me. “Never mind.”

  This is the first time it speaks. It doesn’t say anything else for a whole year and a half. Nothing directly, at least.

  ***

  Over the first twelve months, I rearrange furniture and re-hang art a thousand times until the house feels like home. Evan chuckles when I position the box from our unnamed beneficiary on center stage: the mantle over the fireplace. It doesn’t seem right to set it anywhere else.

  Sometimes, at random intervals during the day, I get the urge to check if the box is still there, as if it had the ability to sprout webbed feet and scamper under our bed. It’s always right where I left it, its little gold keyhole glistening like an Olympic medal. No key accompanied this gift. I try to open it multiple times, but something always dist
racts me right when I approach with a screwdriver.

  Sometimes, when I pass it, I feel eyes pressing into my spine.

  ***

  On our one year anniversary, Evan says he wants me to stop working at Diva Espresso. He thinks it’s time to try to get pregnant. Given his ability to support us financially, and how stress can interfere with conception, combined with my own track record for handling big changes poorly, it makes sense for me to embrace the stay-at-home life. We’ve talked a lot about kids and I am genuinely excited. I’ve felt harassed by my barista job, especially by my manager, Clarisse, who keeps finding things I’m doing wrong. Since when does wiping the counter with a sponge instead of a washcloth constitute a felony?

  Evan tells me his idea in bed after he’s treated me to an incredible seafood dinner at Ponti’s with arugula salad, Dover sole, and crème brulee. I feel full, content, and ready. He kisses me, his hair falling across his eyes and whispers, “Let’s make a baby.”

  My salvation from the daily grind has come, gilded by the rising sun of motherhood.

  ***

  I convince Evan to let me take the upright Yamaha piano out of storage. Grandpa John bought it for me when I declared my music major and I’d played on it every day through all four years of college. Then I met Evan and my practice flew out the window as I practiced all sorts of things I’d never tried before.

  The piano distracts me through four months of negative pregnancy tests. I buy a book on fertility and learn that a woman is technically fertile only one day each month. However, a man’s sperm can live up to four days inside the proper environment, so a couple trying to conceive has a few days to give it a shot.

  Suffice it to say that Evan and I are very diligent. We time our sleep, our evening activities with friends, and our meals around this all-important art of baby-making.

  Two more months pass and my belly still lies empty and flat. On the day of my sixth unwanted period, I’m sitting on the toilet seat crying at the sight of my own blood.