Short Stories And Stuff

As the Saying Goes

A pitcher of night was overturned into the room till the walls creaked from the internal pressure and let things leak through their joints. Small white windows battle this darkness and fail. There is no door, ceiling, or ground. No up or down.

The room is the cold void of space, smelling of nothing at all.

The man on the couch is the Captain and he is sailing pale-faced through all that glorious space. He is anchorless, and there is a mask on his mouth he sucks stale air through like a sick man would suck a repulsive medicine from a straw.

There isn't much air left for him to find.

"I'm throwing a party," his hushed voice says.

"When?" This voice is tiny, metallic, like a radio emission from a faraway planet.

"Now."

"Right now?"

"Right now."

"But the fridge is empty! The cabinets are empty! The pantry is gathering dust! What will the guests eat? What will they drink?"

"They don't need to eat or drink." The Captain is gliding on the rim of his smile.

"That's absurd! Guests always need to eat and drink. You'll need music, too, to set the atmosphere. Something else to keep them entertained—board games, maybe. And we have none of that, none of that! The guests will clamor and complain! They'll riot through the house! Oh, but we don't have a house! How in the world will we throw a party without a house?"

"We won't have too many guests."

"How many, then? How many, exactly? More than three?"

"There will be as many guests as the apartment can fit."

"That's no good, that's no good at all! No one can fit with all these things in the way! You ought to put away those boxes, and those frames, and those old chairs! Move some things out of the way or people will trip on them. Don't you think we ought to fix the lights? They keep flickering and dying—no one can see in the dark! We need to get to work!"

"This party can only be thrown in the dark," the Captain says.

"But that's ridiculous! Where are your glow-in-the-dark bracelets, and your fluorescent spray bottles? I need time to run, to run out and get all these things!"

"If you must know, the guests are on their way."

"On their way? How awful, how awful! Where? Where? Oh, what'll we do? What'll we do? What'll we do? Who are the guests? Are they important? Diplomats or actors? Presidents or prime ministers?"

"Yes. Diplomats and actors. Famous writers and philosophers. Presidents and prime ministers. Even kings..."

The Captain is swaying, getting sucked in, turn by turn, by the gravity inside each word.

"Cancel on them! Oh, but they'll hate you! Believe me when I say they'll hate you! But what else can you do?"

"I can't cancel," the Captain says. "They've waited long enough."

His wrinkle-gloved hands are on the rim of his plastic mask, lifting it. He takes a deep lungful of the cold airless air of space, and his lungs contract, retract, give out. His heart slowly bursts within his chest.

The party planner's tiny voice rushes on anyway. "Oh, but they'll hate you! I don't think you understand just how much they'll hate you! They'll never show up if you throw a party again! Never! I don't know what to do!"  

Originally, the Captain was featured in another, much more upbeat story. Got the itch to explore this new angle from three lines of dialogue (without context) I'd written on my iPod.