Short Stories (Multifandom)

Drunched In Crumbs Pt. 1

Nobody could amount to Sylvia Plath; named after a famous novelist, she had her hair dyed twice every three months then would go out and buy herself a nice golden bracelet or a new set of hairpieces, she would return home and make her way down the street to the boy with the odd birthmark and dark skin. Julest Mackie was an alienated non-being on the block of fifteen houses with a black mother and white father; his little sister had gotten run over by the veteran on 56st street, three blocks over, nobody said a thing except Julest and his off-putting strange parents. The tiny twig had it coming.

Sylvia mourned with Julest and his parents, having made them dinner each night for seven months in a row, attended Baptist church every Sunday then the cycle continued until. Until Julest was shot in the neck one evening after riding his bike into a yard that occupied a group of white folks having a smoke. Apparently a car had backed out of a driveway unexpectedly which caused Julest to panic and steer himself through a picket fence and into the laps of racist activists. Poor Julest Mackie and his black mother and white father, his dead little sister of only six years and poor Sylvia Plath. Poor honeydew plant and the rosebush next to it.

The Mackie's moved back to Chicago, leaving Memphis and Sylvia by themselves until one day, a miracle happened. The Joseph's moved in and right next door to them, the Adams' occupied shortly after.

Ryan Adams, my best friend, is a cocky sonofabitch. He chain-smoked two packs of cigarettes a day and drank half of a whiskey bottle until the dinner bell. He played an obnoxious bass guitar with a broken string and hit a makeshift punching bag with his right hand over and over until he heard a nasty crack. He was too drunk to feel the pain, but his mother rushed him to the sink and placed his hand into a bowl of ice, hospitals were out of the question. Ryan's hand healed in a little over two weeks then he was back to punching the shit out of his old mans sack of rice hanging from the garage ceiling. "Piece of shit," Ryan sucked in smoke.

A month passes and across the street, the Hammond's move in. A father and son sharing the same name wasn't out of the ordinary; Albert Hammond and Albert Hammond, Jr along with Claudia Hammond, the wife and mother. When he's high, Albert Hammond, Jr tells the story of his nonexistent twin, Francis. Now with the nickname of Alby, six months before he was born his mother was rushed to the hospital shortly before miscarrying Francis and now nineteen years later, Alby's aunt tells him he was born with a fragment of his twin and when he asks what the fragment was, his aunt replies with "a fingernail," she pulls out a Polaroid from her handbag of a small translucent nail. "Damn," is all we have to say. Ryan smokes to that and I take a swig from my Coke bottle.

Tyler Joseph, me, a Christian and nobleman with a Pogo stick and a knack for caffeine. I scribble in notebooks and have about thirty of them in a pile underneath my bed, a new one starting in the corner by my closet.

"Ah shit," Ryan shakes his head and pulls out a new cigarette from his last pack. "Here she comes," Alby and I turn our head from our plastic lawn chairs towards down the street. Sylvia walks with a strut, her brown and blonde hair swaying in a ponytail right behind her. "I swear I can hear her bangles from here," Alby says. "Anyways, as I was saying-"

"A fingernail, ya' we know."

"Well shit, pardon me," Alby pushes his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose.

"Hey there boys,"

"Sylvia." Alby says.

"Plath." I say.

"Hey sugar," Ryan pats his knee, inviting Sylvia to sit. The relationship to those two remains unknown. On one hand, Ryan disgusts himself whenever he imagines kissing and/or fucking Sylvia, after finding out about Julest. "Just a few more years," I say. Black people won't minorities anymore and we'll all live happily ever after. Blah, blah, blah. On the other hand, Ryan goes slack and he swears his knees buckle at the sight of Sylvia. She's a toxic piece of mess but she makes Ryan happy. "I've got the place to myself, folks are out," it's one of those nights where, I guess, Ryan doesn't care where she's been.

"Groovy," Sylvia bites her glossed bottom lip then turns to me. "Joseph, there's a girl who's moved into Julest's old place. I hate her, she might be perfect for you." She hates her for one of two reasons: the girl is living in her old lovers old home and she hates me. Me and Sylvia Plath get along but not that well. "She calls herself Jenna and her cousin lives with her, I hate them both."

"What's the cousins name?" Alby asks.

"Debby," she says with flick of her ponytail and a tinge to her tone. "Better go before the head in for the night, they need help unpacking by the looks of it." She's leaning back by holding onto Ryan's shoulders, spotting the two new girls.

"Good, gives us and excuse to go back to mine," Ryan picks her up and she squeals and they're gone.

"Well?" Alby yet again pushes his sunglasses up his nose. It's dark but I don't say anything.

"Let's see for ourselves," I walk ahead of him.

A radio is set out on the porch playing a hit from David Bowie. Jenna and Debby, unknown faces, are walking to and from a pickup truck. I ask them if they need help and a girl with stark blonde hair comes forward with pigtails, twirling them and all, accepting my offer. Alby ditches as he comes to the conclusion that Debby is the brunette. "I hate brunettes," he mutters to me then walks himself back home, faking a stomachache in front of the two girls. More for me then.

"You live here long? We're from Ohio. Mama wanted to be close to Nashville, she loves country music and Elvis." They both have southern accents. Funny how this is the second most southern state, second from Texas, and I nor do Ryan or Alby have southern accents. Maybe Ryan does but that's all for his cocky show.

"Yes ma'am," disgusting Tyler, what are you doing? Being a gentleman, of course. "I have a guitar back at my place," lies, Ryan does but I can borrow the damn thing while he digs himself deep into Sylvia Plath.

"Oh really? I have one too!" Debby cheers. Calm down chubby, should I bake you a cake? No wonder Alby left, make her being brunette was an excuse for the little fluff Debby had on her. She's not fat, nor is fit. She's in between and I know just the person for her but he's in bed with Sylvia Plath.

"Well, I hate to be the barer of bad news but I need to go," I say. All lies. Liar.

"Do you?" Jenna had pushed Debby away before she stepped closer towards me. Her parents were inside. Boxes gone from the truck, radio off. I know what she wants and honey, I'll give it to you.