Dan Grossman walked around with cinderblocks strapped to his feet, claiming they were “good for the heart.”
Horatio, across the street, after exhibiting his comic book collection, told me “The X-Men can save you from anything.”
Dad told me the only way to live is honorably, no matter how many lies he told.
One time, my sister barged into the bathroom and snatched a magazine from me. Then she woke dad up and claimed she got my cum on her hands. I imagine he flopped over and yelled, “Don’t do that again, Troy,” and fell back asleep. I can’t remember. But I do remember her laughing.
Some girl nicknamed me TJ. Can’t remember her name. I don’t know why that’s important, but it is.
I felt infected.
My brother pointed arrows at hearts, and nobody cared when he missed. His need for love was a rabid jaw, unable to shut.
All I felt was pity.
Mom spent all her time in denial, bagging groceries at Dillons.
“Paper or plastic?”
“Just hand them to me.”
“I’ll bag ‘em up. Paper or plastic?”
Dad never whispered or whimpered.
My memory of him is like a flamethrower flinging fire at whatever I tried to make beautiful.
When I miss him, I cringe at the beauty of my birth.
Horatio touched my brother in all the wrong ways. That’s when I knew he lied. The X-Men couldn’t save him. “What a fool,” he must’ve thought, pulling up his pants. “They’re just ink on a page.”
Even still, I held out hope.
I wonder about Dan Grossman. He had a heart that was too good for this world, so he flipped the switch off in the garage with the car still running. Turns out Professor X and the gang couldn’t save anybody.
My dad’s problem was he cared far too much about all the wrong things, couldn’t be bothered. Thought it was some shit boys do to each other when they’re young. And for a long time, I thought the same thing.
“Paper or plastic?”
“Paper.”
“Will that be all?”
“Actually, no. I need some pens.”
I was the only one in line, so I ran a few aisles over to get them and walked back.
“I’m sorry. Did you say paper or plastic?”
“Paper.”
“Plastic’s more reliable.”
“Paper, please.”
There’s already enough stuff that won’t go away.
The magazine fell out of her hand while fumbling the paper bag open. She bent down to scrape it off the floor.
She got the items in the bag, her face still pink, and said, “Let’s just pretend like this never happened.”
***
Troy James Weaver is the author of Witchita Stories, Visions, Marigold, Temporal, and Selected Stories. His short stories have been published in The Southwest Review, New York Tyrant, Hobart, Lit Hub, and many others. He lives in Wichita, Kansas with his wife and dogs.
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image: Amelia K. is an award-losing bisexual writer living in Georgia. Her work has been published in Hobart, Dirt, and others. Her website is bio.site/ameliak.
Rejection Letters 