the witch walks out on john

"God dammmit!" Cynthia yelled, as she threw her flattening iron through the bathroom door and into the living room. Her boyfriend John looked up from his beer as it landed at feet.

"You OK?" said John.

"No, I just burnt my fucking hand!" Cynthia looked at her hand. Little blisters were already starting to form. She saw John walk to door frame still holding his beer. She twitched her nose and the door slammed in his face.

"Dammit, babe! Why do you have to be that way?" John yelled from behind the door.

"Just leave me alone for a minute!" she shouted back. "Just fuck off, John."

"Fine, whatever." he muttered.

Cynthia thought about twitching her nose again and turning John's skin inside out, but managed to keep her composure. She could still hear him muttering under his breath from the other room. With her uninjured hand she turned on the sink and ran cold water over the burn. After staring at the medicine cabinet door for a moment, it popped open and a box of bandages flew over to her. She dressed her wound and put the bandages back up without using her powers. The throbbing was beginning to ease off and she was starting to feel a little guilty for snapping at John, he had meant well after all. Suddenly, Cynthia realized it hadn't really been the pain. She no longer loved him and that hurt much more than the burn.

"John, I'm sorry. You can come in now." she called though the door.

He came in quicker than she expected. His face was blank and he wouldn't look directly at her.

"I didn't mean to yell like that. I apologize." said Cynthia

"It's OK. Is your hand all right?" He asked without looking up.

"I'm alright." she said holding up the bandaged hand. "I never really wanted to play the violin anyway."

He smiled a little at that. She had fallen for that smile. For a second she remembered why she had once loved him.

"Would you care to dance?" Cynthia asked him. She held out her hand and John took it. She twitched her nose once more. Suddenly, their tiny apartment was a ballroom. A pianist sat in the corner. He began to play Chopin's "Minute Waltz". Without her powers neither Cynthia nor John would have been very good dancers, but in that moment they were gliding around the room like a couple of old pros. When the music stopped, Cynthia said, "John I don't want to do this anymore."

"You're the one who asked me to dance, Cynthia." John replied, still smiling.

"No. This. Us. I don't love you anymore." Cynthia said quietly. John's smile faded and became a glare of contempt. For a moment they just stood there still holding each other.

"Fuck you, Cynthia." John said quietly.

She thought for a moment that he may hit her, but instead he squeezed her injured hand hard and then spat on the floor. The pain shot through her body and the ballroom began to melt away. Soon enough they were in the tiny apartment again and John wouldn't look at her. Instead of dancers they were just two people.

"I'm leaving you, John." said Cynthia.

"I'm sorry I squeezed your hand." He said, still not looking at her.

"No, you're not." She replied coolly.

John finally looked her in the eye.

"No, I'm not." He said with a wicked smile. That smile made her shutter.

"I hope it hurts for days!" He screamed.

With that, she got up and walked out the door without bothering to pack. The few things that meant anything to her she could send for later. Right now all she wanted was to be any where but this tiny apartment and with this man who already felt like a stranger.

While in the hallway, she heard a mighty crash against the door, followed by a muffled "Fuck you!". Probably the bottle of beer John had been drinking. It was hard for her to imagine him displaying that kind of passion, and ever harder to imagine him wasting a beer. People were starting to poke their noses through cracked doors, trying to discover what the commotion was. She glared at Mrs. Adams from 301, who quickly ducked back into her apartment.

On her way down to the lobby, she began to think about how many times she had walked up and down this flight of stairs and how odd it felt that this would be the last. She passed by Peter Rigginhouse, who smiled at her wanly. Peter was a dumpy little man who had always given Cynthia the creeps. Just to be mean, she wiggled her nose and the bag of groceries that Peter had been carrying became a bag of snakes. Peter dropped the bag in horror. His girlish scream reverberating in the stair well. Cynthia had to bite her lip, almost to the point of bleeding, to keep from laughing out loud. She twitched her nose again and the bag returned to an ordinary sack of groceries. "Everything OK, Mr. Rigginhouse?" She asked the terrified man. It was becoming harder and harder for her to suppress her laughter.

Peter was starring at the bag not knowing what to expect.
"That was a cruel trick, Cynthia..." He stammered. "I have a bad heart you know!"

"Trick, Mr. Rigginhouse?" She was no longer able to contain herself. "I don't know what you could be talking about," She said through the laughter.
Cynthia was now feeling much better. Soon my life with John will be a distant memory, she thought to herself. She continued through the lobby, leaving Mr. Riggenhouse to collect his groceries. Before walking through the doors one last time, she stopped to take once last look around. Plastic potted plants covered in dust and a threadbare couch in the one corner. She would not miss this place.

In the parking lot stood the beat up old Buick she and John shared. The car was in his name. She had been paying the rent for last six months and had made no attempt to pay her back. "This is collateral, John." Cynthia said out loud to herself. She wrapped her coat tightly around her arm and busted the glass out of the window with her elbow. Being careful not to cut herself, she reached through the broken glass, unlocked the door, and climbed in. Somethings were just more satisfying the hard way, she mused. She wiggled her nose and the engine roared to life. Without looking in the rear view mirror, she threw the car in reverse and backed out into the street, leaving the shattered glass glittering on the asphalt.

the roach

i wrote a little short story. here it is.

John Carver could hear his landlord, Tex Gregory, scratching at the door. The landlord was a cockroach and that is the truth in the most literal sense. Six legs, little translucent wings, and antenna that stuck through tiny holes on his even tinier pork pie hat. Pretty soon the scratching was joined by the Tex’s quiet but menacing bark.

"Carver! you in there Carver!? You’re goddamn rent is a month behind! I’m throwing your deadbeat ass out on the street if you ain’t got my money!"

Carver, who was hiding under a dirty gray sheet, was doing his best to try and ignore the situation. The cockroach started in again.

"Carver, I saw your little shit box car parked in the drive! Get out here!"

John thought about what it would be like to crush that bully under his shoe but Tex had told him once that the world only existed in his mind and when it was his time to die the rest of the world would follow him in to the dark. This of course was a foolish notion and carver would have usually ignored such a boast but something in his landlord's insect eyes made him believe it enough to not chance it. After all the man was a talking cockroach.

"This your last chance deadbeat! Open up! Damn it! Open up!"

"Yeah, yeah! OK..." Carver shouted back.

John himself was surprised at the words coming out of his own mouth. He got up and pulled on a ratty old robe he had left hanging from the closet door. He took a quick look into the dresser mirror to try appraise the situation that was his face. John hadn’t shaved for three days and his eyes were red from drinking and staying up much to late. There was also an enormous bruise on the right side of his face. Cynthia’s new boyfriend had given him that little gift the night before when he had show up at her new place drunk and expectant. the new man introduced himself as Tom, had given him a light pummeling and then mentioned something about "kicking his lungs out through his ass" if ever showed up there again. Carver was inclined to believe him. He had seemed like a nice fellow considering the situation though and didn't hold him much ill will. Tex wrapped on the door again.

"Are you coming out her or not asshole?!"

Carver stumbled to the door and opened it. For a moment he thought there was no one there and then he remembered to look down.

"About goddamn time." said the diminutive landlord. "You got my money or not?"

"Not exactly..." Carver mumbled.

"Why the the fuck not?" growled Tex.

"Cynthia left me."

"She left you a month ago and what’s that got to do with me?"

"She was helping out with the rent she..."

"What kind of man lets a woman pay his rent, Carver?" interrupted the cockroach.

John wanted to look down at his feet in shame but Tex was down there so he looked up at the door frame instead. He wasn’t bothered by a woman paying his rent but he hated being reminded that he had basically been living out of Cynthia's pocket for the last year.

Life it seems had creeped up on him and had began to tear away at him. His job delivering newspapers had been first to go. At the time he had shrugged it off. He didn’t enjoy the hours and most of his co-workers were teenagers. Next to go had been the tip of his finger which he had sliced off some how on the edge of an opened tin can of tomato soup. He felt he could taste iron in his mouth for days after deciding to eat the soup anyway. Last had been Cynthia who one day unceremoniously had packed her things and driven away in his old banged up Buick. Carver had guessed the theft of the car had been some sort of ransom for the unpaid debt he still owed her. Last night he had gone back after his beating and stolen the car back. This was his first victory in a long while but now there was this literal bug of a man standing before him, trying to take his home too.

"I’ll get you the money Tex..." Carver said.

"Oh, bull shit!" exploded the cockroach. "You’ve used up all your excuses. You have till midnight to get your shit out before i call the sheriff."

"You can't do this!" carver pleaded. "I can have it by tonight."

John tried to think of something, anything to make the situation more bearable. He tried to think of what Cynthia would do but could only picture the stern face of her new beau. He also tried to think of a way to make good on his promise to get the money. He didn't think he would make much of a stick up man and an honest days work wouldn't make him the kinda of money he needed.

"I can do anything I want! I don't want your money! I want you out! I may be a roach but you sir are a worm!" roared Tex.

This was too much for Carver. He began to think about what rude little insect had once told him about the world ending with him. He looked at the tiny bug wearing the pork pie hat, lifted up his leg and smashed Tex Gregory with his barefoot. The world went out like a light.