The Purple Puddle

Illustrations by Jason Whetzell

I fell three feet and into a puddle of grape-flavored Juicy Juice. Not too much juice, it was probably just from one carton. But this was no ordinary puddle; there was something different about it. I knew that because it told me.

“Hey you! I’m no ordinary puddle!” it said.

“Don’t shout at me! What kind of lady do you think I am?” I sputtered as I rolled over. I just don’t have time for this crap. Last week, for instance, a nasty old ice cube from my soda bit me on the lip.

“You? A lady?” the purple puddle said with a raspy voice. “No kind of lady I know of falls backwards out of windows. Your skirt was over your head.”

Asshole. I scrambled to my feet and walked away. When I turned over my right shoulder to give it the evil eye, I realized it was moving towards me. This crazy ass puddle was following me! What a nerve! I strained my eyes to be sure. It couldn’t be a mirage; I was in the middle of a city. This puddle just snaked its way across the pavement, retracing my footsteps. I started to walk a bit faster. Fast walking turned into speed walking which quickly turned into running. This morning’s banana bread from Mme Bisous was slowing me down, giving me a runner’s stitch.

Do I look behind or don’t I? I raised my hands because that’s what Mr. Cordon from gym class said to do when you get cramps. But shit, he didn’t have a puddle chasing him. I could feel it behind me. Its edges started to wet the backs of my ankles. But then I remembered, like a flash, the story on the news about a man who survived a shark attack by facing and hitting it with his paddle. So, I turned around in one quick, sharp movement and faced the puddle straight on with my hands clenched tight. It stopped dead in its tracks. I was shocked. It actually worked. We stood there, frozen, staring at each other.

“I can’t believe you turned around,” it said, glistening and shimmering in the sunlight.

“The way I see it, you and I have two options,” I shouted. “Number one- we fight, or two- you get the holy hell out of here!” I shouted even louder than the first time, although it came out quite wobbly. I was feeling proud and strong and lion-hearted. But right then, right when I was on top of the world, I saw myself in its shimmering and glistening. It distracted me terribly. It was at this moment of complete distraction that the puddle of purple Juicy Juice slipped away with my reflection still on it. I never considered that a puddle would rob me of my own reflection. Deflated and reflectionless, I walked back home. Now I avoid puddles entirely, shadows too, because you can never be too sure. There’s just too much risk.

http://forthmagazine.com/literature/fiction/2009/11/the-purple-puddle-short-fiction-by-sophie-kipner/

Short Fiction by SK

Her nervous toes danced under the table. She thought- on this dismal day in South West London- the time had come to confess her state of tangled affairs. She could, given the spotlight for long enough, call attention to quite a few issues plaguing the Longley family dynamic. But instead, she thought it best to focus solely on the whole-bodied emotional affair she had been having with her parents’ neighbors’ 33 year-old son, Kingsley Stone, whom she had met three years prior at an equally dismal Christmas dinner. The families had come together in their typically matte fashion, and her husband Bill had his shirt ironed crisp and wore a smile only she could forget…

“Everything” (Ep. 3): This month features short works by: Dan Harmon, Rob Schrab, David Hartman, Jason Whetzell and Danny Jelinek. Hosted by yours truly.

He stood in front of me, above me. Sharing and speaking-in meter- words better meant for reading. A hyper-literate man who played with phonetics like a flute in front of me, above me. Lexicon, jargon and stocky rhetoric all sitting in a tightly packed row. A form of literary musical chairs only that no one word got bumped.

This noted black poet from central LA spoke to me. He spoke to the room but he spoke to me. He spoke of sailors and loxodromes and micro-algae. Hyperboles and metaphors danced on top of his tongue as he transitioned from one poem to another. One word in a maelstrom of sounds would grab me. Remind me of elsewhere. Nowhere. Distract me. Remind me why I was there. Right there, right then. I’ve never heard incarnadine used like that.

He wrote a line to me in his book, his book that I bought so it was now mine. My copy of his words, those words that were so carefully, poetically thread together. I could have crawled into his word castle and curled into a ball, so long as I could hear him describe what each section meant. Hearing him made all the difference.

“Everything” Ep. 2! Featuring short works by: Drew Hancock, Sevan Najarian, Mike Manasewitsch, Danny Jelinek, Jason Whetzell. Hosted by: Sophie Kipner. Created by: Jason Whetzell and Danny Jelinek

The pop-up ad on his screen read, “Get Certified to be an Astronaut from Home!” and in smaller type, “Don’t Waste Any More Time, be an Astronaut Today!” He stared at the computer, chin loose, mouth slightly open, speechless. Could it be true? He looked out at his amateur astronomer’s set up on his apartment patio, crammed between a potted plant from Costco and his cat Mark’s litter box. People made him nervous; hence his affinity to outer space. It had been three months, five days, seven hours and 26 minutes since he was made redundant from his job at the local power plant. Maybe this was a sign, he thought. The universe (and NASA) must be sending him signs. His hand clicked the mouse and one yes led to another yes, I agree to the terms of this contract and yes, I understand it is a non-refundable program until he hit his last yes and landed on “Congratulations! You’re On Your Way to Becoming A Certified Astronaut.” $500 poorer, training began.

Step One: Science.

Virtual training to be an astronaut is a lot harder than most people would think. There is no teacher encouragement, no student-to-student camaraderie, nothing. You were on your own. But, that’s why it was the best training, because out there, you’re on your own anyway. Step one entailed the basics of astronomy, physics, astronaut etiquette, etc. He was really surprised how fast he moved through this section, considering his weak grasp of science in general, but thought that it was just another sign that he was doing the right thing.

Step Two: Practice.

Without trepidation, he followed the instructions outlined on the page and positioned his wheeled desk chair in the middle of the room, moving his stuff out of the way and locking Mark in the bathroom until it was safe for him to come out. He sat down, braced himself with his arms, and used his legs to spin himself as fast as he could around and around again, trying to simulate what he might expect as a certified astronaut. The website said that practicing spinning was the No. 1 most effective way to train your body to the life an astronaut would lead. You must practice daily, it said. No answering phones while spinning. No listening to music.

So, he spun, and spun. And spun until he couldn’t spin any more. He finally felt he had found what he should have been doing his whole life, and spun until he threw up, confident that one day soon, he’d be out of here.

The next part would prove to be the most difficult, although nothing he couldn’t handle with a bit of recommended practice. He knew that he needed to master eating while spinning in outer space, so he warmed a bowl of soup in the microwave and poured it into an air-tight thermos. With a straw out the top, thermos in hand, he sat in his chair. One. Two. Three. He couldn’t do it. It was too scary. The soup was too hot. But he had come so far. Again: One. Two and Three; he was off. Spinning ferociously and trying to find the straw with this mouth, vision blurring, sucking and spinning and breathing and spinning and sucking.

Step Three: Mastering The Art of Bodily Fluids Elimination in Outer Space.

Feeling quite nauseous, he plodded on. He went to his kitchen, pulled out the second draw and grabbed a Ziploc bag, a rubber band and a napkin, just in case. He slipped on a pair of spandex pants his sister had left there from a few years back (perfect!) and tied the Ziploc bag around his willy with the rubber band. The website suggested to wear protective head gear due to the jeopardous nature of the exercise. He placed a bike helmet on his head. Inhaled a big, dauntless breath. One. Two. Three.

A man does need his hot sauce