Lost Signals by Josh Malerman, Damien Angelica Walters, Matthew M. Bartlett, David James Keaton, Tony Burgess, T.E. Grau Page B
Authors: Josh Malerman, Damien Angelica Walters, Matthew M. Bartlett, David James Keaton, Tony Burgess, T.E. Grau
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The speaker suddenly starts popping again.
Shit fuck shit . . .
You pull the cords on everything. You hate the wiring in this house more than you’ve hated anyone. It eventually destroys everything. You hear water running in the sink, and you figure she’s going to be in there awhile. She does that sometimes. Runs the sink so you can’t hear. Like you’re really listening to hear her pissing ? Come on. Then you remember something, and you quickly crawl to your box of old cassette tapes rotting in the corner. It’s your worst, last pair of headphones. Huge ratty ones from the ’80s that cover your entire fucking head. You hesitate to put them on. Your headphones are getting bigger and bigger, and you seem to be sliding further back down the headphone-evolutionary ladder. Once you’re holding them in your hands and blowing the dust and insect shells off the foam, you realize they’re older than you thought.
These are from the ’70s, not the ’80s, no joke, and they’re also the only thing left of your mother. One time, your mom came up to you and put these over your ears, and you were pouting about something like kids do, so you didn’t say anything, didn’t even look up, but you didn’t take them off your ears either. And you still can’t remember the song she wanted you to hear or why she wanted you to hear it. Maybe there was something funny in the song ? Maybe the lyrics meant something important to her ? Maybe she thought it was your favorite band ? You can’t remember. You were too busy ignoring her for reasons long forgotten. And now you’ll never know what song it was because you just sat there, arms crossed, mad about something stupid, frowning until the song was over and she finally shrugged and walked away.
The wind blows the dead fly around on its string. Your ring finger is white from lack of circulation, so you unwrap the leash from your skin, waiting for the blood flow to return and paint the white knuckle back to red. You’re amazed at how strong her hair was.
The strange thing is, when you think back to it, you could have sworn you were outside, sitting with crossed legs and crossed arms under a tree when your mother walked up and put those headphones over your ears. The cord couldn’t have reached that far, could it ?
You hide in the bathroom awhile. It’s true that the bathroom is the last place where the remains of a relationship will linger. Is it all those half-empty bottles and soaps—or is it just hairs around the toilet ?
You’re no scientist. And even though you still have at least one toy stethoscope, you’re not that kind of doctor.
***
00:02:00:07—“End Credits and Ironic Theme Music.”
The next day you finally take out the trash. Not a second too late, either. You can see a box of sweet-and-sour chicken moving down there on its own, and suddenly that mysterious fly isn’t such a miracle any more because you can see at least three more green-eyed buzz bombs bouncing around in the bag with their snouts dipping in and out of a month of your scraps. Your grandpa used to say that tiny fish would appear in a mud puddle if it sat undisturbed long enough. Not true. He was lying. Those were mosquitoes all along.
You recite your favorite line from Titus Andronicus , the movie adaptation of the Shakespeare play everybody hates :
“‘What dost thou strike at, Marcus, with thy knife ?’ ‘At that that I have killed, my lord, a fly.’ ‘Out on thee, murderer ! Thou killst my heart.’”
You know how they say the bathroom is the last place your girlfriend exists ? You were wrong. You meant the garbage. You take out the bag, then keep walking past the dumpster to throw your headphones into the river before you change your mind. It’s one of those rivers that looks good from a distance. Then you’re standing next to it and
The speaker suddenly starts popping again.
Shit fuck shit . . .
You pull the cords on everything. You hate the wiring in this house more than you’ve hated anyone. It eventually destroys everything. You hear water running in the sink, and you figure she’s going to be in there awhile. She does that sometimes. Runs the sink so you can’t hear. Like you’re really listening to hear her pissing ? Come on. Then you remember something, and you quickly crawl to your box of old cassette tapes rotting in the corner. It’s your worst, last pair of headphones. Huge ratty ones from the ’80s that cover your entire fucking head. You hesitate to put them on. Your headphones are getting bigger and bigger, and you seem to be sliding further back down the headphone-evolutionary ladder. Once you’re holding them in your hands and blowing the dust and insect shells off the foam, you realize they’re older than you thought.
These are from the ’70s, not the ’80s, no joke, and they’re also the only thing left of your mother. One time, your mom came up to you and put these over your ears, and you were pouting about something like kids do, so you didn’t say anything, didn’t even look up, but you didn’t take them off your ears either. And you still can’t remember the song she wanted you to hear or why she wanted you to hear it. Maybe there was something funny in the song ? Maybe the lyrics meant something important to her ? Maybe she thought it was your favorite band ? You can’t remember. You were too busy ignoring her for reasons long forgotten. And now you’ll never know what song it was because you just sat there, arms crossed, mad about something stupid, frowning until the song was over and she finally shrugged and walked away.
The wind blows the dead fly around on its string. Your ring finger is white from lack of circulation, so you unwrap the leash from your skin, waiting for the blood flow to return and paint the white knuckle back to red. You’re amazed at how strong her hair was.
The strange thing is, when you think back to it, you could have sworn you were outside, sitting with crossed legs and crossed arms under a tree when your mother walked up and put those headphones over your ears. The cord couldn’t have reached that far, could it ?
You hide in the bathroom awhile. It’s true that the bathroom is the last place where the remains of a relationship will linger. Is it all those half-empty bottles and soaps—or is it just hairs around the toilet ?
You’re no scientist. And even though you still have at least one toy stethoscope, you’re not that kind of doctor.
***
00:02:00:07—“End Credits and Ironic Theme Music.”
The next day you finally take out the trash. Not a second too late, either. You can see a box of sweet-and-sour chicken moving down there on its own, and suddenly that mysterious fly isn’t such a miracle any more because you can see at least three more green-eyed buzz bombs bouncing around in the bag with their snouts dipping in and out of a month of your scraps. Your grandpa used to say that tiny fish would appear in a mud puddle if it sat undisturbed long enough. Not true. He was lying. Those were mosquitoes all along.
You recite your favorite line from Titus Andronicus , the movie adaptation of the Shakespeare play everybody hates :
“‘What dost thou strike at, Marcus, with thy knife ?’ ‘At that that I have killed, my lord, a fly.’ ‘Out on thee, murderer ! Thou killst my heart.’”
You know how they say the bathroom is the last place your girlfriend exists ? You were wrong. You meant the garbage. You take out the bag, then keep walking past the dumpster to throw your headphones into the river before you change your mind. It’s one of those rivers that looks good from a distance. Then you’re standing next to it and
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