Two Fictions
by Trent Walters

Drying Out

She was peeling carrot sticks over the sink. He peeked over the newspaper and his gin and tonic. He heard the shucking, the sloughing of old skin, the scrape of metal against vegetable. He stepped behind her, slipped his big hands beneath her blouse, and rubbed her cool flesh--her cold drawing in his heat. He rubbed and she began to sweat: first in beads, then in droplets, then in rivulets, streaming down her back. Her clothes were soaked. She shucked. He held his hands on her once large hips. She shrank beneath his grip, she melted-- something he hadn’t noticed until she was nothing but clothes, sopping wet on the linoleum.

 

Heimlich Maneuvers in the Dark

Heimlich:

Second graders [snaps fingers]. Second graders. Ears. Ears. Listen to your teacher! I am talking. [claps hands] Places, everyone. Take your places. Single file, Letters, make a single file. Bobby, you're Letter B, do you know what single file means? it means you don't talk to Letter G. (to himself) Oh, the trials of the playwright. Parents, get your children in line! This is a play, not a cow pasture! Stop mooing. You are all letters. Letters. Remember the alphabet. A. B. C. D.... (sighs, to himself) How we must suffer for our art. I should have stayed in graduate school. Ziggy, stop fighting with Nick. You are not letter N. You can not be letter N. Nick is letter N. You are Z. Get to the end of the line. Hey! Who turned out the lights? Turn them back on this very minute! Do you hear me? I know it's dark. That's what happens you turn off the... Children? Children, stop mooing! You are all letters. Not cows. Letters! Why can't you behave like adults? (slumps to floor, holding stomach) Oh, I'm a complete failure. We'll never make Broadway.