Nanofitction: Volume I

Stories written backwards really are nonsense. Unpublishable as discarded tales collecting dust. Misunderstood. Why are words tricky? How one shows irony of knowing without knowledge.

Knowledge, without knowing of irony, shows one how tricky words are. Why? Misunderstood, dust collecting tales discarded as unpublishable nonsense, are really backwards written stories.

After dreaming of living as a millionaire playboy, I wake up on a lumpy futon in a crummy apartment, alone.

Half-asleep, I nod off only to reawaken cold and weary in an alley on skid row. I’m still tired, but refuse to sleep, afraid of where I’d wake up next.

People usually covered their ears, or skipped the aviary altogether. Oddly, the squawking didn't phase the little girl or her mother. They smiled, admiring the large, colorful birds.

The zookeeper wondered how anyone could tolerate such obnoxious shrieking, when suddenly, the child lifted her tiny hands and signed, "Pretty feathers."

Others have forgotten, but I’ll always remember the good times – the tire swing, the treehouse.

I rub my hand over initials carved in its bark. They mark the spot of our first kiss, and the wedding that followed years later.

It pains me to remember, but my axe shows indifference.

He was an older version of me. The years have not been kind.

"Don't go out tonight," he warned, before vanishing into thin air.

I guess I could invite my date here instead.

He reappeared and slapped me in the face. "The point is to avoid the girl, you idiot."

The shadow worshipers performed their unholy rituals, but when the lunar eclipse came, nothing happened.

Confused and crestfallen, they looked to the elderly shaman, who was already riffling through the pages of his grimoire.

After rereading the ancient texts, he suggested they try again, next time under a solar eclipse.

Lune, a savage brute, smothers Sola under his tremendous weight. Everything goes black.

Determined to keep her midday throne, Sola overcomes and bites her aggressor, drawing blood. He concedes, retreating in agony.

A black cat dashes across the busy highway. I slam on the brakes.

A siren chirps.

In my broken rear-view mirror, I see the fractured image of a police car. I pull over and the officer approaches my window.

I’m let off with a warning. Must be my lucky day.

I stumble in, drunk, parking myself at a table in the corner. "Scotch," I yell to the blonde. "Neat," I add.

She refuses to take my order, insisting that I keep my voice down. I raise a stink, demanding service.

Long story short, I'm no longer welcome at the library.

"Again with the sacrificial cults?" the editor shouted, tossing her draft in the trash. "We're not a tabloid."

"But people need to know-"

"That you have an axe to grind?" he interrupted. "Bring me a real story, or you're fired!"

And that's when she noticed the blood on his shoe.

It has come to an inevitable and horrific end. By the time I realized what was happening, it was too late. Even though I’ve been previously diagnosed, I ignored the symptoms and completely missed the warning signs. A rough ride from denial to acceptance. There’s nothing more fatal than love.

Her self awareness came with a price. The more she mused over her existence, and what it means to exist, the less sense everything made.

What was I before? And what’s to become of me after?

Fear and sorrow immediately followed the realization that any moment could be her last.