IR Short Stories

  I am but a fly on the wall. I've learned to smile, nod, and remain a picture of indifference, taking jackets and serving tea. 43 years of service. I've stayed for the pension, for it stands to be the only thing I can give to my family as a legacy. I wonder, however, if money is legacy enough. I wonder if my silence will one day become so loud in the cracks of this generation. What if my silence becomes my legacy? What if my great-great-grandchildren learn that I was there, listening to everything, and did nothing about it? What if they fall into the cracks when I'm gone because I never tried to patch them? My heart suddenly takes on a different rhythm. My knees buckle, too weak to carry me. I calmly exit the room, then lean on the side of the wall, clutching my chest. Breathe, Zachariah. I stay here for a moment, waiting for my heartbeat to settle. When I can no longer hear my heartbeat in my ears, I return to the room. They are still sitting in complete silence, around...

  I am seeing double. It could be the wine or... my truth. Sometimes I get this feeling that this life is not my own. Like I am but a lost piece that’s not fitting anywhere in this world. I don’t know how I got here. All I know is a lot of things, or maybe everything, in my life does not make sense. Why is life a mystery? Give me a map. Is that too much to ask? One last gulp at the wine. I throw the bottle on a pile in a bin and burst out laughing. What I really want to do is scream. I want to scream so loud, but the last thing I want is attention. Perhaps I should scream, so my neighbour can have a good reason to gawk at me strangely. I don’t know his name, but every time I bump into him in the corridor, he looks at me like he knows my secrets, like he has heard the screams and knows why I scream. He invades my wet dreams sometimes, dreams that feel more like memories than dreams. Sometimes I see him, and he feels like someone I know from another life. Ridiculous, I know. Let’s c...

I’m in a queue; there are too many blank faces before and behind me. I think they feel the way I do. Lost. Where am I? I am naked, but for some reason I am not bothered by my nakedness. Maybe because everyone is naked. Nakedness feels as natural as it must have been for Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. Yet we are a grotesque display in a lifeless place that feels far from home. There is nothing save for a solitary door that seems to lead nowhere, and yet we are all headed toward it. Everyone who enters never returns. A woman is panicking, nudging everyone and asking, “Where am I?” Nobody answers. We are all clueless. The blankness on every face should be answer enough, but she keeps asking, on the brink of tears, desperate for someone to explain. I feel the same way, but I am not willing to make a scene of it. The queue is moving painfully slowly. I’ve moved an inch in what feels like an hour. I do not remember how I got here. I only remember arriving at the back of the line, but ...