Short Stories From The Deep

A Walk Home

It’s about a quarta’ to six and you’ve finally made it out of that place you so love to call Hell that ordinary everyday people call work. Your nerves are running to the moon and back as your co-worker, Henry David left without as so much as a dime’s notice. You walk up to the bus stop you usually use to get around this big city and start tapping your foot as time drags on as slow as a slug in a barrel racing around in circles. Eventually, you think to glance over to the schedule they have posted on a wall to your left.
“Those damn Twinkies, they stopped running half an hour ago. I guess I’m just gonna have to walk myself home.” You proceed down the cold crowded streets, cramped like a bug in a jug trying to hug a great big pug. As you walk, you notice the sounds of cars honking and police sirens blaring as loud as a neighborhood filled to the brim with tiny yapping chiwawas. This brought back the dreadful memory of your father shooting and killing the man your mother had been cheating on him with.
You push these wretched thoughts out of your head and turn to the right to push the crosswalk button. Again you start tapping your foot to no rhythm in particular. After about thirty seconds, the white walking man symbol appears on the screen and you begin to walk. Suddenly a red car, going as fast as a strike of great bright lightning, speeds right through the crosswalk, barely missing you.
“AYE WHAT THE BLOODY HELL WAS THAT!” The white man starts to blink in and out of existence like a dying flame in a pile of burnt ashes. So you jolt like the Flash to the other side of the road. You start to continue towards your destination when you begin to feel tiny droplets fall from the sky. The rain slowly builds up into a small storm. So you, trapped like a milking cow in a giant bottle of Hennessy brandy, decide to up your small pace to a jog. You round the next and final corner.
“Finally!” You say with the greatest relief you have ever felt in your life. You open the dull red mahogany door to the one bedroom apartment you share with your wife. As you walk in you hear a thump, as subtle as a cat prancing on a small grey mouse, in the bedroom.
“Sheila, is that you? Are you alright?” After a few agonizing seconds, you hear your wife respond nervously
“Y..y..yes it’s me, haha. How are you doing?” She walks out of the bedroom scantily clad. She was a Dame worth dying for, her hair beautifully long and blond, her pale skin complimenting her bright blue eyes,
“Oh, are you trying to surprise me?”
“Umm...y..y..y..yes, yes I am. Are you entertained?”
“Oh very, but give me a second to get ready, It’s been a long day.”
“Oh okay, take all the time you need.” You go to the bathroom at the end of your bedroom. Right before you open the door, you feel as if your every move is being watched as tightly as a winning lottery ticket. You shiver then walk into the bathroom. Right outside, you hear your closet being opened then a few seconds later the front door slams as loud as a firework on the fourth of July.
“What was that?” You say as you exit the bathroom.
“O..oh th.th..that was nothing dear, haha.” You forgot to hang your coat up on the coat rack at the front of the door, so you walk over there and hang it up. On the rack though, there is a strange green foreign jacket. You grab the coat and confront your wife.
“What is this?” You being to suspect that maybe she is cheating on you, I mean everything points to it.
“I..I.IIt’s my n..new jacket, Yeah. I bought it from Maurices.”
“Oh ok...It’s ugly.”
    “WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY!” Now you angered the beast
    “I SAID YOUR JACKETS UGLY WOMAN. NOW DON’T TEST ME!” Your wife grabs the jacket out of your hand and wraps it around her fist.
    “THIS ISN’T MINE, IT’S HENRY DAVID’S.” She says with blind fury. You can’t believe this so you open the front door. A man, whose hair is light brown and body well built like a freight train, waits on the other side.
    “Why if isn’t you, old friend. I’m sorry about leaving you with all that work today.” Henry David appears at your door, him, the man that is stealing your wife. You can’t let that happen, you won’t let that happen. So you do the unthinkable. You grab his shirt and pull him inside and in a calm steady voice, you say:   
“Henry, you don’t have any idea what you have done.” You draw him in closer.
    “I can’t believe that this fateful day has come, you see I’d always wished something like this would happen. So I can finally fulfill my dream.” I traced the firm line of his cheek,  though the skin was as plump as a baby’s bottom then I leaned forward my mind swirling like a candy cane. The kiss was like fire crafted in the very pits of hell and I was entranced. I pulled away preparing to fly like a baby bird into the next step, I grabbed my wife who’s aroma was colliding like the waves against the shore with her cheap perfume. I snapped my head towards her like a twig breaking in the night pressing my lips against hers, which were swollen like a bee’s sting against the skin. My selfish dreams had been fulfilled.
   
This was an attempt to write in Noire style. It didn't turn out as well. Originally this was an Satire but I dont know if I exactly succeeded there. It still was fun though. The really romantic part was written by my best friend MidnightRose404