short-short story I wrote.
Backyard
Bethany and I had lived in the new house for only a few months when I started noticing a groundhog running around our backyard. This was during autumn, when it was almost always windy. When Bethany was late coming home from work, I sat quietly on the back porch, on our crappy lawn chair, my legs tucked underneath me, and I watched the groundhog dart across the lawn for shelter. Back and forth. He was tiny and dark brown and dirty, his face a lighter shade of brown, and his mouth was always turned down so he looked like he was frowning. Once in a while I threw him carrots. He got fat. I told Bethany about him.
"You feed him carrots?" she said, slamming the door to the porch. "Where is it?" We were outside, and her voice was loud. "You know, he's going to stay, now, and dig fucking holes all over our yard. You better hope he doesn't make the porch foundation collapse. Where is it?" The backyard was empty and silent, the small shadows from the trees seeming slightly pathetic.
"He's gone," I said. "You probably scared him away."
"Oh my god." She went down the steps, kicking the grass and searching for holes.
I followed her. "What? Who cares?"
She found a few small holes, with piles of mud lying next to them in tiny mounds like pieces of dog shit. She muttered, "If it wasn't illegal, I'd get a gun and shoot it. They're parasites. They're going to ruin our home. This is our home."
The next day, she ordered a slingshot on ebay, and it arrived a week later. Then it was Bethany, this time, who sat on the back porch, waiting quietly. She shot little stones at the groundhog, whenever she saw him run by, but she never hit him. Her aim wasn't good enough, thank God. I yelled at her, saying she was sadistic and mean and had a heart of stone. Why was she so angry about a little animal? "Give it up," I told her. "Just stop. You're becoming a horrible person, do you know that?" She ignored me, and continued to sit sullenly on the back porch, her hands clutching the slingshot.
Winter came, and the sky became dark much earlier. It got too cold to sit out on the porch. The groundhog disappeared.
*
Two years later, Bethany and I are sitting on the porch, on our bench swing, and my head is on her lap and she is playing with my hair. Our friends tell us we seem happy together, that Bethany is kinder now, more grown-up, that I have mellowed her out. This morning I spilled coffee on our newly finished table, and she didn't get angry, but rather shrugged, and tossed me the roll of paper towels.
It's spring time. The sky is clear and black, and it is too early in the evening for stars to appear. We have our shoes off. Bethany asks me, "Baby, do you remember a few years ago -- that little groundhog, who I tried to kill with that slingshot?"
"Groundhog?" I ask, sitting up. "No, I don't really remember."
I lie to her because I miss the whole stupid fiasco, though I could never explain why, except to say that I miss her, even though I'm sitting right next to her.
Backyard
Bethany and I had lived in the new house for only a few months when I started noticing a groundhog running around our backyard. This was during autumn, when it was almost always windy. When Bethany was late coming home from work, I sat quietly on the back porch, on our crappy lawn chair, my legs tucked underneath me, and I watched the groundhog dart across the lawn for shelter. Back and forth. He was tiny and dark brown and dirty, his face a lighter shade of brown, and his mouth was always turned down so he looked like he was frowning. Once in a while I threw him carrots. He got fat. I told Bethany about him.
"You feed him carrots?" she said, slamming the door to the porch. "Where is it?" We were outside, and her voice was loud. "You know, he's going to stay, now, and dig fucking holes all over our yard. You better hope he doesn't make the porch foundation collapse. Where is it?" The backyard was empty and silent, the small shadows from the trees seeming slightly pathetic.
"He's gone," I said. "You probably scared him away."
"Oh my god." She went down the steps, kicking the grass and searching for holes.
I followed her. "What? Who cares?"
She found a few small holes, with piles of mud lying next to them in tiny mounds like pieces of dog shit. She muttered, "If it wasn't illegal, I'd get a gun and shoot it. They're parasites. They're going to ruin our home. This is our home."
The next day, she ordered a slingshot on ebay, and it arrived a week later. Then it was Bethany, this time, who sat on the back porch, waiting quietly. She shot little stones at the groundhog, whenever she saw him run by, but she never hit him. Her aim wasn't good enough, thank God. I yelled at her, saying she was sadistic and mean and had a heart of stone. Why was she so angry about a little animal? "Give it up," I told her. "Just stop. You're becoming a horrible person, do you know that?" She ignored me, and continued to sit sullenly on the back porch, her hands clutching the slingshot.
Winter came, and the sky became dark much earlier. It got too cold to sit out on the porch. The groundhog disappeared.
*
Two years later, Bethany and I are sitting on the porch, on our bench swing, and my head is on her lap and she is playing with my hair. Our friends tell us we seem happy together, that Bethany is kinder now, more grown-up, that I have mellowed her out. This morning I spilled coffee on our newly finished table, and she didn't get angry, but rather shrugged, and tossed me the roll of paper towels.
It's spring time. The sky is clear and black, and it is too early in the evening for stars to appear. We have our shoes off. Bethany asks me, "Baby, do you remember a few years ago -- that little groundhog, who I tried to kill with that slingshot?"
"Groundhog?" I ask, sitting up. "No, I don't really remember."
I lie to her because I miss the whole stupid fiasco, though I could never explain why, except to say that I miss her, even though I'm sitting right next to her.
Welcome to SG!