Saturday, May 22, 2010

SHORT STORY: a little piece of white fuzz

My friend shares his thoughts on some girl he’s trying to get to know. I listen as he tells me why he believes she’s amazing even though he just met her. I sit there quietly, mentally aware of his words. He describes the color of her hair. The curve of her lips when she smiles. I know her laugh as the conversation goes on. I feel like I’ve stared into her green eyes. He tells me why she smells better then any girl he’s ever met before. I just sit there and hear his opinion. I can hear the excitement in his own voice as he describes her. I look down and see a round piece of white fuzz cling to my shirt. I grab it and flick it into the air. I laugh as my friend tells me how perfect her ass is. Of course he’d have to describe that. Her favorite color is blue. Her favorite type of food is Chinese. Her favorite animal is a hamster. I know all this, even though I’ve never met this girl. He tells me her hair would make goddess cry.
He can no longer sit down so he gets up and paces the room while he talks. He hopes that he can see her tomorrow. He tells me her favorite drink is cream soda. She loves listening to Jack Johnson, second would be John Mayer. I laugh, because this is a typical girl band line up. I look back down on my shirt. “what the hell?” I whisper to myself. The white fuzz is back on my shirt. I thought I got rid of it. I grab it again and throw it off me. he looks at me funny but continues with his new found love. She prefers skirts to pants. Tank tops to shirts. Her favorite season is spring. Valentines day is her favorite holiday.
Once again I take a look at my shirt. “shit!” I yell out. My friend stops talking. I don’t have just one piece of fuzz on my shirt, but several white pieces of fuzz are nesting around my chest. I try to pinch them off but every time I do more see to grow from the ones I remove. I claw at my shirt desperately trying to remove the supernatural fuzz. “whats your problem?” my friend asks me not knowing why I’m frantically scratching at my shirt. “I cant get this damn fuzz off my shirt! It keeps coming back!” I yell back at him. He walks over to me and looks at my shirt. “what the hell are you talking about I don’t see any fuzz!” he yells back at me, “quit being such a fag!” I ignore him and keep ripping at my shirt. Soon holes begin to appear where I keep stretching the fabric trying to remove the ever growing number of white fuzz.
My shirt tears down the middle showing my bear chest. “what the hell?! Theres nothing there!” my friend yells at me. I tear off my shirt and throw it across the room. My breath is quick. Finally no more fuzz. I sit back down on the couch and try to slow down my heart rate. “you have problems,” my friend tells me. I ignore him and just sit there. I look down to see my chest rise and fall. Something catches my eye. Laying on the side of my stomach is a small round piece of fuzz. I grab it and throw it to the side. I stare at my chest as more fuzz appears. I rip at it. More appear. Soon I am cutting into my own chest. “stop!” my friend yells at me running over to me. He tries to hold me down as I tear at my own skin. More fuzz appear with each tear of skin. “dude! Theres nothing there!” he keeps yelling trying to grab my arms. I don’t listen to him, my hands are now covered in my own blood. Still I dig deeper into my own chest. Blood now flows onto my stomach and stains the floor around me. My friend has given up and collapsed on the other side of the room, also covered in my blood. I see a white fuzz ball resting between two bloody rips. I grab my rips and rip them open, revealing my beating heart. I stop tearing as I look into my chest. Where my red heart should be is nothing but white. Covering my heart is billions of small pieces of white fuzz. I laugh, covered in my own blood I only find humor. I dive one hand into my open beating cavity.

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