A Collection of Short Stories

The Herpetologist

The light-green chameleon slithered lazily along the rocky floor of his heated aquarium, the prized possession of an aging herpetologist. The man in question was nearing his sixties with a shock of white hair that framed his leathered head like down feather and concealed a scar that ran from his neck to the top of his ear. The master bedroom of his saltbox house had been converted into an office a decade before, containing aquariums from wall to wall filled with an assortment of amphibians and reptiles. Among these creatures, he controlled the habitats of a tomato frog (colored as the name suggests), a spotted box turtle with a nasty habit of biting, a checkered garter snake, who often stared menacingly at his natural enemy, a bloated bullfrog in a tank adjacent to his, and a somewhat haughty scarlet kingsnake who was truly the brightest and most captivating organism in the room. The collection of beasts had once been four times larger; keeping 20 dangerous, temperamental subjects had been a breeze with the help of his late wife, Vivienne. Now, even the remaining five were a handful for the inquisitive mind of the scientist.

In a silver frame high on the wall where their bed had once been, he kept a shrine to Vivienne in the form of a black and white photograph. Preserved forever at the young age of 22, his late wife caressed her bulging stomach in a spotted sundress on a beach in Jupiter, Florida where they vacationed with cousins, Paula Gibson, and her son, Spector, who lived in the local Farms. His daughter was born three months after the photograph was developed in a hospital in their small New England town with ten healthy fingers and ten healthy toes. Vivienne named her Sydney, after the herpetologist, with the middle name Carpathia after the fictitious country in Roman Holiday which was their favorite movie. Sydney Carpathia Twinnings led an exciting life, skipping from one country to the next either by plane, train, or ship and often wrote to the herpetologist from one of her expeditions in South America. Traditionally, the antiquated pen pals purchased the most outrageous post cards they could find and mailed them by post; they were often criticized for this choice of communication by the young, but no shorthand, smiley faces, or gifs would preserve so well in a shoe box. Online, conversations could be deleted, statements could be edited, and words do not look so genuine in text as opposed to being written by hand.

The anticipated postcard arrived on a Friday; as the herpetologist shifted through his mail, mostly bills and credit card offers, he was suddenly greeted by a gray Mus musculus- also known as a mouse- wearing a tulip for a hat. Laughter sprung from his chest so suddenly he was seized by a coughing fit which stopped only when he brewed himself a cup of mint tea, little pots of which grew on his windowsill. The petal-rimmed cup shook in his hands as he read over the three and half by five inch long card decorated by his daughter's familiar red-inked script.

Good morning, Old Man,

I hope this letter finds you well. Offspring says she misses you. She has adopted a lovely parrot and named him Pops. Sometimes he sings for us. Truth be told I'm ready to strangle the awful creature. Will resist urge for fear of traumatizing Offspring. Somehow she has the idea her next pet will be a snake. Have you conspired with Offspring?Oh, well. Maybe the snake will eat the parrot?

My calendar is marked. See you New Years.

Much love,

SC Lins-Twinning

By the time he was finished reading over the letter for the third time, the herpetologist was out of tea, his back ached, and his chest was still tight from before. He stood to make another brew when he felt a sharp and sudden pain. It was like an invisible fist had closed on his chest, causing him to feel untethered like a child's balloon which has been let go. His eyes were rheumy as he leaned forward, then backwards in an attempt to regain his balance. His downy head struck the two-person kitchen table in the same place he had the scar behind his ear, sending a wave of colors over his distorted vision. He blinked back blues, greens, and reds as the palpitations increased and he attempted to regain his thoughts. Ah, he thought, this must be a heart attack. As the herpetologist went in and out of consciousness, he sadly wondered who would take care of the amphibians and reptiles up the stairs, in the third room on the left. While most of his friends one floor over were quiet, the bullfrog called out to him in a loud and clear voice as if to say "not yet, friend."

There was no way for the herpetologist to determine his likely hood for survival, but if willpower had anything to do with it, he had plenty to spare. He did not intend to part earth so early. After all, he had New Year's to look forward to. So the herpetologist focused on controlling his breaths, listening patiently to the gentle chorus of frogs, followed by the orderly tick of the clock, and the droning hum of the refrigerator. The light outside washed on and off his middle like a tide as the clouds wandered down the street outside. The neighbor's bull terrier rattled off insults to the red-bellied woodpecker who liked to visit the saltbox house and pick at the worn wooden panels outside for snacks. Water dripped from the tap of the sink where the herpetologist failed to properly close the knob. The heat from the noon sun warped the wooden panels of the house, causing a ghostly squeal reminiscent of days past when young Sydney crept into her parents room at night to quell her frightened imagination. His own breathing sounded like whispers on his ears. He waited.