Forensics

Photo by Alexander Sinn on Unsplash

by R.K. West

They say that it isn’t possible to get rid of blood, for two reasons: first, it is pervasive, spreading out and soaking in, penetrating the corners and crevices, leaving tiny drops and flecks on unexpected surfaces; and second, it resists cleaning, undefeated by ordinary sprays and detergents, made even worse by bleach or ammonia. The only way to get rid of blood is to confound it with more blood. The two bloods will blend together, much the way decaf and espresso in the same cup create a single confusing beverage.

Using my own blood would be counterproductive, so I must turn to one of the neighbor’s chickens, and I am surprised when this makes me feel both squeamish and guilty. As the blood drains from the headless little feathered corpse, contaminating the red-brown puddle in the kitchen, I realize, with regret, that it is not enough, and another bird must be sacrificed. The carcasses go into the trash bins, where, of course, they will be quickly discovered, but I plan to answer questions about them the same way I will answer all the other questions: "I don’t know."

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R.K. West is a Canadian-American writer who lives next to the Columbia River.

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Credit: Originally published online at Six Sentences.

 

Whiff

Photo by Towfiqu barbhuiya on Unsplash

by R.K. West

Television taught Della that she smelled bad. Friends were secretly cringing. The problem was her breath, or feet, or some neglected territory in between. She swallowed supplements to dissipate digestive gasses and began using a fiercer soap, body-neutralizing spray, and hair freshener. The house stank, too, and needed several little devices emitting pleasant aromas, plus scented filters for the HVAC system and vacuum cleaner, while the car received fragrant capsules in its air vents. Another way Della made people cringe was her new habit of constantly sneezing and scratching, but fortunately, television told her which allergy pills were fast-acting and non-drowsy.

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R.K. West is a former travel blogger who sold everything, spent two years on the road, and now lives next to the mighty Columbia River.

Credit: This story first appeared at Six Sentences

 

Notes From the Committee on Redesigning Humans

AI-generated image

by R.K. West

Why did we make them out of meat? It’s weak stuff, needs a framework just to sit there doing nothing, and it starts decomposing almost immediately. It’s amazing they last as long as they do.

Cellulose would have been a better choice — just look at the redwoods, so strong, so old, real works of genius. Granite looks good, although it’s heavy and so dense no amount of evolution could make it sentient, but it has an impressive shelf life.

For real longevity, though, polyethylene is the way to go. That stuff never breaks down. It’s hard to believe meat invented it.

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R.K. West is a former ESL teacher and travel blogger who sold everything, spent two years on the road, and now lives next to the mighty Columbia River.

 

The Fierce Urgency of Meaningless Work

Photo by Kelli McClintock on Unsplash

Creative non-fiction
by R.K. West

Years ago, I worked in Business Affairs for a television production company that no longer exists. One day, we were working on the contract for a particular actor to appear in one of our shows. The contract had been typed up and printed. The actor was in town, staying at a hotel. (Was it the Beverly Hilton, Château Marmont, St. James? I don't remember.) His agent had talked to my boss's boss, and they had agreed on one last change to the contract. We needed to make the change, print the revised contract, and have it messengered to the hotel. That should have been easy, but for some reason, it wasn't.

I made the change to the contract and printed it, but what printed was the old, unchanged version. I tried again, with, of course, the same result. It was odd. Maybe I'm doing something wrong, I thought, and asked my office mate Alan to step in. He had the same problem. We could see on screen the updated contract, but it just wouldn't print. We tried different possible solutions, re-editing the document, saving it under another name, closing it, re-loading it, but nothing worked.

In the meantime, my boss, John, was fuming. He stood behind us, complaining as we struggled with the computer, his neck and face turning pink. He kept reminding us that the contract absolutely had to be at the hotel by 4:00. The messenger was standing by. "Why can't you get this right?" he demanded. I told him that I didn't know what the problem was and that I couldn't think straight because having him stand behind me yelling about it was making me hysterical. He stomped out of the room.

Alan and I continued struggling, but still succeeded in printing only the old version of the contract. Finally, John solved the problem another way. He picked up a pen and a copy of the contract and made the correction by hand. The contract was delivered, but the next day the terms were changed again.

I hadn't thought about that day in years, until something recently jogged the memory. I'm more experienced now, and I can think of things we didn't try that might have solved our computer problem. But without a time machine, my hypothetical solutions to a truly unimportant problem remain hypothetical. And if I had a time machine, I wouldn't waste it on that.

I was fired from that job a few months after the contract incident. ("Your position is being eliminated," John told me.) John died 15 years ago, at the age of 71. I think it unlikely that he ever remembered me or the struggle with that contract, or that it had any real effect on his overall job satisfaction or happiness in life. I also think it unlikely that, as he neared death, he wished that he had spent more energy getting paperwork done on time and meeting the petty demands of people in show business.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
R.K. West is a former ESL teacher and travel blogger who sold everything to spend two years on the road and now lives next to the mighty Columbia River.

 

Interview With the Genie

Photo by Katerina Niuman on Unsplash

by R.K. West

There are three things that nearly everyone asks for. The first is money. They used to ask for a million dollars. At some point, that became ten million; now it has jumped to a billion.

The second request is beauty/youth. The old want to be young again, and the young want to stay that way. Everybody wants to be better looking: taller, thinner, with a more conventional nose and smoother skin. Bald guys want hair, and those with hair want it thicker, shinier, and not so much on the arms.

In third place is love/sex. Many don’t bother to ask, because they assume that if they have the first two, the third will follow naturally. I wish them luck.

No one remembers to ask for health, unless they're already sick.

Sometimes they want vengeance on their enemies, through misfortune or death. I don’t do death, at least not directly. I can inflict unemployment, lost love, intractable itching, public humiliation, sprained ankles, and acne. But I usually remind the aggrieved that living well is the best revenge, and it makes more sense to spend a wish on enhancing one’s own life, rather than to fritter it away on something that offers no real personal benefit.

Now and then, I meet a noble soul who just wants world peace. I have to explain that it’s outside my purview, because it involves too many people and places. It would take a power much greater than mine to change geography, alter weather patterns, redistribute resources, stifle religion, and probably kill a few thousand politicians and businessmen along the way. Sorry.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
R.K. West is a former travel blogger who sold everything, spent two years on the road, and now lives next to the mighty Columbia River.

 

Final Rest

by R.K. West

As Henry scattered Gilbert’s ashes in the pet cemetery, an elderly lady who had just placed a small bundle of catnip on a nearby grave looked at the box in his hands. “That’s a rather large container,” she said. “A pig? A horse?” “My brother,” Henry replied and saw her smile quickly vanish. “It was his last wish to be interred with his beloved dogs, but unfortunately, human burials are not allowed here.”

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Credit: Originally published at Paragraph Planet.

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R.K. West is a co-editor at Sudden Flash.

 

I Attended My Doctor's Funeral

by R.K. West

I attended my doctor’s funeral. Five years my junior, he died from complications of old age. My complications are of a different sort. Doctor Romanov understood me - or his patience seemed like understanding. I mourn for myself as much as for him. Now I must find someone who will be open-minded regarding my chronic toe spasms, mystery allergies, and a disturbing tendency to suddenly laugh heartily without provocation, as I did at the funeral.

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Credit: This originally appeared at Paragraph Planet

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R.K. West is a co-editor of Sudden Flash

 

Garage Band

by R.K. West

The guys started a garage band, but they had no access to a garage, so they rehearsed in the house and jokingly called themselves the Living Room Four. The drummer’s girlfriend changed it to Living Room Floor. The living room floor was where they were all found, unconscious, after the gas leak that could have blown the place up, but didn’t. Everyone recovered fully, but the experience was unnerving. They suspected sabotage by a music-hating neighbor, but the city inspector said the old pipes had simply cracked under the stress of an already-faulty foundation further weakened by months of excess vibration.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
R.K. West left a good job in the city, sold everything, hit the road, and ended up living next to the mighty Columbia River. West's writing has appeared at Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, Right Hand Pointing, Bright Flash Literary Review, 101 Words, Six Sentences, and others.

 

Renovation

by R.K. West

No one really knows why restoration stopped on the abandoned St. Julian hotel, where commoners and kings once came to relax in luxury.

Perhaps the worst part was that, although the lobby bar stayed open, the doors had been removed from the restrooms. The L-shaped entrances continued to provide visual privacy, but the constant sound of tinkling and flushing, coupled with the wafting scent of harsh disinfectant, made patrons reluctant to linger at the partially dismantled bar.

Unsuspecting tourists wandered in from the street, guidebooks in hand, to order the hotel’s signature cocktail, the Juliani. An obvious imitation of the Bellini at Harry’s Bar, the Juliani was an overpriced concoction of peach puree and Spumante, tinged with raspberry liqueur and topped with grated ginger. Nobody liked it. The locals just ordered beer or a glass of Riesling, which they quietly poured into foam coffee cups to be carried outside.

Nearby businesses blamed the hotel for increased problems with littering and public urination.

There were rumors that the St. Julian would be replaced by a Chinese-funded glass and steel tower, that the property was being repurposed as a mansion for some eccentric Arab billionaire, or that the restoration was about to be resumed by the original owner’s descendants. For a while, it survived as a fading tourist trap, the once-elegant bar reinforced with plywood, the silk-upholstered lobby furniture replaced by acrylic picnic benches, the restroom entrances finally covered with heavy drapery. Small signs advised patrons to keep hold of belongings and watch out for pickpockets. Local people came only when pressured to give out-of-town relatives the celebrity tour.

Eventually, an international parking syndicate bought the property, razed the building, and put up a multi-level garage, which has been credited with jumpstarting the economic revival of the downtown retail and dining district. Across the street, there is a small dive bar called Julie’s that offers peach martinis.

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Author's note: The opening sentence for this story came from The First Line Literary Journal, which accepts submissions of short stories that all start with the same first line, chosen by the editors.

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R.K. West can be found on Bluesky.

 

It Looked Better On Me

by R.K. West

My arch-rival, Cassie, left her sweater on the back of a chair in an empty classroom. It was a well-made wool cardigan, in the style that was popular that year, with an Inca-inspired pattern knitted into the back and sides. I wanted one, but the price was beyond my clothing allowance. Of course, Cassie would have one; somehow, she always had whatever I wanted, from perfect hair, to the teacher’s praise, to my now ex-boyfriend.

Classes were over for the day, and there was almost no foot traffic in the hallways. I picked up Cassie’s sweater, knowing that if I stole it, I’d never be able to wear such a recognizable item. I could take it upstairs to the Administrative Office and turn it in as lost and found. Instead, I carried it into the restroom. Ready to dash into a stall if someone came in, I tried it on and gave myself a whirl in the mirror. It felt solid and looked great. I could imagine how much fun I'd have in that sweater, with all the admiring eyes on me, and I was a little bit sad when I stuffed it into the trash can.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
R.K. West is a co-editor of Sudden Flash.

 

Dinner Scene

by R.K. West

Jay was a waiter at some snooty dinner club. It was a classy place where nobody bothered the famous people.

At a banquet honoring Cary Grant, Jay bribed the photographer to capture him in a shot with Grant. He didn’t want to be obviously a waiter, so he set his tray down and maneuvered into position behind the actor.

In the picture, Grant was too handsome, contemplating his drink with a mischievous smile, and Jay looked like he was planning a jewel heist.

I haven’t seen Jay since 1981, and I lost my copy of the photo two or three moves ago.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
R.K. West is a Pacific Northwest writer.

 

Food Memories

creative nonfiction
by R.K. West

When I was little, family holiday dinners were always at my great-grandma's house.

She had a sturdy oak dining table that could be extended by the insertion of multiple leaves. In her tiny dining room, the long table had to be placed diagonally, and even then the table, chairs, and people barely fit. An overflow table (or two) used by random children and claustrophobic adults was placed in the living room.

In addition to the turkey and some other dishes that Granny and her helpers prepared, most of the guests brought their own specialties. We could expect roast beef, green bean casserole, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, gravy, brussel sprouts, probably some other vegetables, a few different salads, a variety of cranberry sauces, olives, bread, and, of course, a wide array of desserts.

Nobody went hungry.

One of the things I loved about these dinners was that I could eat whatever I wanted, and skip what I didn't. At home, my parents demanded that we eat everything on the plate, no matter how disgusting it was. At Granny's holiday table, serving dishes were passed around and everyone chose freely.

I remember those meals fondly, and have used my memories as inspiration to cook. I once commented to my mother that canned peas make me smile because they remind me of Granny's cooking.

"She didn't serve canned peas," my mother said.

"I remember them clearly," I told her.

Mom explained that Granny went to all the trouble of buying fresh peas and shelling them by hand. Then she cooked them the same way everyone in her family had always cooked them, which meant boiling them until they may as well have come out of a can. It seems a little crazy now, going to all that trouble to make fresh vegetables un-fresh, but it was the style of a particular time and place.

Today I eat most of my vegetables steamed, roasted, or raw. But now and then I encounter some boiled or canned peas, and I eat them with a smile, feeling just a little bit like a kid at Granny's holiday table.

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R.K. West is a former ESL teacher and travel blogger, currently living in the Pacific Northwest and posting on Bluesky at @ithinkiwrite.bluesky.social.

 

25 Words or Less

by R.K. West

These were written in response to a challenge to tell a story in 25 words or less.

For Better or - What?
Belching at the dinner table. Shoes on the bedspread. Weird bathroom noises. Really, really dirty laundry. Newlywed Laura began to rethink marriage.

SWAK
I sent you a thousand love letters but they all came back marked "postage due".

It Sounded Like Fun
He thought sexual variety meant another girl. She thought it meant another location. Boy, were they surprised.

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R.K. West is a former ESL teacher and travel blogger, currently living in the Pacific Northwest and posting on Bluesky at @ithinkiwrite.bluesky.social.

 

The Classics

by R.K. West

The faculty lounge was quiet. Professors Anthony Nelson and Charlene Hampton sat at adjacent tables, both drinking coffee from university-branded mugs. Hampton graded a stack of essays while Nelson stared at the screen of a small laptop computer.

“Nobody reads Hemingway any more,” Nelson complained through gritted teeth. “And now the department has dropped him from the required reading list.”

“Really,” said Hampton with unfeigned indifference. “Who’s required now?”

Nelson winced. “Joan Didion.”

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R.K. West lives in the Pacific Northwest, and uses the endless rain as an excuse to stay inside and write.