Here's a recent short story I just polished up. I entered it in a contest, but I guess it was too dark, haha, I dunno...I didn't even make the list of a gazillion finalists. I've had shit luck with contests, haha. Who cares. I think it's rad. See what you think, if you're not afraid of the gritty, and the dark...Love, C.A.
Hustle, Hustle
Last year, I held a kitchen knife to Dad's throat, just because. Sure, I went to juvey, and everybody there was throwing up and coming down, but I met Cameron, a thick, wicked cheerleader, and she took a few hits for me. Cameron reminded me that I was lucky. When she was four, her dad left her in the basement for a week. Her mom was at a conference, and the housekeeper never showed. We left kid prison quick, because Dad knew the judges. Anyway, my knife was dull.
Welcome to me, Grey V. I’m sixteen, and I have straight A’s. Welcome to my money house.
Dad’s a dentist. So, we live on the richest five acres in Shawnee Ridge. Out here, slow traffic, pretty curbs, smooth sidewalks, fresh blacktop, the whole deal. The damn bushes look like bunnies. The pool’s a giant lima bean shape with a twisty slide, even though Dad always says, “I need to bulldoze that insurance nightmare.” Once, when Cameron was on Xanax, she slid off the side and cracked her head open. But she got stitched up, and the slide’s still there. Cam’s hair never grew back, and she has a bald “S” there now, a snake. If anyone asks her about it, she shoots out a story about a bully and a switchblade.
Being thin is good. I can slip right out the front door. Here I am now, downtown. On these streets, I hear the whispers -- secrets, like poetry, like small, forgotten screams. I see familiar faces -- women kicking at gravel, ghostly skin shining in the streetlights. Funny. Look at that wasted girl with the buggy eyes. She used to be a track star. If I were horny, I could hit it. Hang on, somebody wants some crackers.
Selling, it’s a black night. No moon to speak of. The cash is quick, and all the bruisers know my baby face. I’ve felt a piece in my cheek, but that brother was jonesing, and it’s rare. I’m with the shadows, see. I’m on their side. Sometimes, street kids use me for a ride, some food, some conversation. Fourteen-year-old Scott didn't make it through last winter. It happens.
If my parents opened my top dresser drawer, they’d see everything they could imagine, but they aren’t the imagining type. Mostly, I deal pills, because nobody here wants needles. All the girls own sterling chokers, and everyone wears jeans from the fashion gods. One time, when Cam and I were bored, we dressed in prom clothes, cruised over to Dad’s office, and stole a nitrous tank. Mom thought we were playing video games, but Cam’s half-blind, and she can’t stand computers. Nobody was home; we hit the tank all night and read Shakespeare. I think Cam died for a minute. After that, she got clean and found God and so, she chewed on me for a while, but then she tossed me out like a stale piece of gum.
Carefully, slowly, I creep down the alleys, squinting and inching like a possum. A yellow-haired delivery boy, I’m one smooth envelope. But then I see Cameron glowing. Wearing school spirit clothes, she’s sitting by the sewer. I’ll leave her alone. See, she might run home to Mommy one day and spew out her memoir.
But she’s still staring, and her eyes are popping. I think she likes me, but I know she wants to drag me uptown. So, I slink down and slither away. But then I go back. Forgettabout the cash flow. I think she still likes me.
C.A. MacConnell
