short story – Kelly Yandell

Pretending At Death

Bette stood, balanced over the water, hanging forward precariously from the rail on the bridge. It was velvet black all around save for a shaft of moonlight that invited her and pulled her down. It seemed to say, “I guide the tides, I can show you where to enter.” The water rippled slightly below, and she imagined the tinkling sound of distant wind chimes coming from the tiny waves below. The moonlight decorating one side of each small undulation mesmerized her. She drew comfort from the friendship of the moon and its cool hand accompanying her to this place and adorning the water below.

She took a final moment to appreciate her strong body. She hadn’t realized that her body was strong and that it had will. She had only ever thought of herself as being blown about by circumstance. Her arms were taut, pulled behind her and holding her out at an angle over the water far below her. Nothing was wrong. Everything was right and she felt a power in the starless sky where the moon and the water were the only beings outside of herself, the only bodies that mattered other than her and they were calling her home.

She felt the grip of her hands one last time. She appreciated them for letting her have this moment, this pause, this last view from above. She relaxed her hands. She let go. She said, “I’m coming,” as though she was joining a lover for dinner but had been running a few, unavoidable, minutes late. The cool air rushed up against her face, or rather she thought, she was rushing through the cool air. And then she wasn’t any longer. Her shell was cracked and beaten on the rocks below, but it didn’t matter anymore.

Falling Back

I rolled up in front of John’s house to pick him up for the funeral. I love a man in starched cowboy duds, I do. I hope everyone comes to my funeral in starched jeans because it shows a certain awareness of the importance of the occasion. He looked great. Dad would have been so pleased. Or maybe Dad would have called him a damn quitter. John gave up drinking a few months ago and really seems to have his shit together this time. It’s nice to see. He was not a pretty drunk and he wore it like a mean vagrant now and again.

Mom owed us a debt of gratitude for even going to her service at all though. She disliked both of us to the core. It gave me chills to even think of her. The condescending glare. Always looking so damned disappointed. Kind of like Stacy, John’s perennial girlfriend, who was standing behind him.

Stacy didn’t even bother to dress up like a two dollar whore. She had on flip flops for the love of all things good and holy. It matters not a tiny speck of dust that there were rhinestones on the straps. And on the thighs of her jeans, on her bag, and you can call that a tunic all damn day long but we all know it’s just a long ass t-shirt. I rolled down the window.

Last Night at The Peekaboo

Last Night at the Peekaboo Club

by Kelly Yandell

The bar stool made Lin’s butt hurt. He was sitting inside the door of the Peekaboo Club. A bouncer. There was one more door to go through before you saw any real action. His job was to make sure nobody came in stumbling drunk, and make sure they paid the cover. Slow nights on the stool always made his butt hurt, but he had long ago tired of seeing the dancing. It was dark and boring in the hall, but better than watching men be idiots. The girls were all better looking with their clothes on. He’d rather buy them a cup of coffee in the morning and hear about their real lives.

He got up to wander around the dark vestibule but there was no place to go. Dante knew nothing about Hell. Be careful what you ask for. He looked through the small window on the door that separated the vestibule from the main bar. The walls pulsed. It seemed like more than noise. It was sonic torture. He was letting the new bouncer work the main floor looking for wandering hands, looking for drunks out of money. Those types had to go. The vestibule was as close to peace as he could find and still draw pay for his last few days working at the club.

For Sale By Owner

A Short Story

Judy straightened her white ironed shirt and pulled a pale blue sweater out of her bureau. She tied the arms around her neck in an attempt to look casual. She wiped the kitchen counter with her hand on her way through to the front door. Threw the empty wine bottle in the recycling bin. I think I was supposed to bake cookies to make it smell like someone might actually want to live in this hell hole. She tried to look like she wouldn’t give away the house to the next vagrant who passed by if they had a ball point pen so that she could sign it away.

Lillian’s sporty white coupe sat in the drive. She had tried to sound aloof on the phone. But this was it. This was the house. Window boxes. White marble countertops. Space for entertaining. An extra room for an office for Derek. The photos had sealed the deal. He’ll have to love it. She could make him love it. But she was desperate to conceal her excitement. Her panic. She knocked.

Judy put on her game face and opened the door. “Please come in,” said Judy. “Make yourself at home. It was Lillian, right?” Dear God, you’re so young. Please be an heiress somehow. Please want it. Please. She forced an open smile.

They shook hands and Lillian’s eyes began to scan the house in poorly hidden wonder. It was everything she wanted.