Prose

Submission Guidelines

• 1500 word maximum
• Submissions must have a cover sheet and numbered pages
• Fiction or non-fiction
• 12 point, Times New Roman font
• Submissions must be double spaced with 1 inch margins
• Do not include your name inside the document
• Submission Deadline: December, 7th 2018

The following short story, written by Adam Engel, was published in the Spring 2018 Wildwood Journal.

Backbiting and Other Bad Habits

The door shuts behind me as I toss my damp coat over a chair. The anteroom to my suite was already on its way to potential health hazard as it was; one more bit of detritus wasn't going to make a difference. This was common area anyway, and that's supposed to be Suite 604's job this month. I don't think it's too much to ask that when it's your turn to keep the common areas clean, you might spend a little time actually straightening up. Eight of us share it on our level of the enclave, and no one but me ever seems to give a damn when they come up in rotation. It's always the next guy's problem.

The door to my apartment opens to admit me as I approach, closes again as soon as I'm inside. Lights flicker on. “This whole new 'Micro Privychka' fad is getting out of hand. Have you been keeping track of this fad?? Eight outta ten people walkin' around right now have at least one of the damn things leashed to 'em, and it gets more normal to have a couple at a time every day! Out of hand.” I punctuate each syllable with a slap to the counter top. I fancy myself a master orator with an audience of one.

“Wouldn't know," Nik responded noncommittally. "Haven't been out of suite for weeks." His heavily accented voice echoes in from the media room; to most people, he sounds Russian. My ersatz roommate doesn't appreciate the importance of good manners, never has.

"I'm tellin' you, it's an assault on decent behavior and good order," I expounded. "This one flip on the rail, she had three Privs! One on each shoulder, and one in her purse! Not even attractive ones either, one was a nail biter, one was just covered in crusty lookin' eyeballs, and I don't even care to make a guess to the one in her bag. I know Privs can have any number of arms and legs, but one that's all face and no limbs? Disconcerting."

My monologue was starting to reach around to poke at Nik's interest now. The constant clack-clack-clacking of keys from the media room has stopped, and I hear his shuffling, grunting movements. "No arms? What's it do for her, I wonder? Something dirty, bet. Something bad."

I'd put a pot of coffee on while I'd talked, now I stood watching it drip, struggling to fill the empty space in the container. My back was to the room, but I saw his shadow as he blocked the light shining through the media room door. "What do Privs do for anyone?" I ask. "May as well ask why they're always Slavic, even when they're conjured here in the States." A familiar thought occurs to me. I start to wonder why everyone has a Priv or two these days, why our society regards them as a necessity when all they do is exist as a burden to their nominal owners, but a tingle of heat on the back of my neck distracts me enough to lose my train of thought. I turn to see Nik pinching a thumb and forefinger of one lumpy, gnarled hand together, grinding them against each other as if squishing a bug. The gesture is a common one for him, I've always found it very distracting. And now this damned ache in my neck. I continue, "Bobby' s been overfeeding his, I think. I stopped in to see him, just being social, before I went to the store. Don't get me wrong, at least he has a traditional Priv, the proper dwelling restricted kind, not the new type everyone seems to want to throw in everyone else's face. But it's one of the zavisimost breeds, he should know better than to cater to it so often."

"Disgusting. Disgusting! It was his mother's, you know, before it was his," Nik says in his typically explosive, twitchy manner. "He says he didn't want it, but was making room for it before it had finished eating her."

I gape at him, shocked at his statement. "Really, you crass flip! I know it's just the two of us, but let's pretend a bit of decorum for my sake, can we? Some things shouldn't be discussed amongst gentlefolk."

He stares back at me through his bloodshot eyes. They're off center and more than a little bulging in appearance, but for all their unpleasantness they can convey obstinance quite effectively. "Not sorry. Is truth, Privs eat host. Not secret."

I sigh, resigned. I've been failing to teach the fat ape manners for years, and it's never managed to take. "I know that is technically accurate, but just because a thing is common does not make it appropriate conversation. I am a gentleman, and as such, not victim to the desire for such talk. Besides, that's off topic. I was talking about Bobby, not his mother."

That last earns a wry smile, as crooked as the rest of Nik's face. "Yes, tell, tell! Bobby is different, yes? Less than, yes?"

I see a shiver work its way down his blubbery, mostly bare form, head to toe. I know I really shouldn't indulge his thirst for gossip, but he can strike the right balance of pitiful pride that I just have to give him something. “And not just him. Guess who he's moved in with him this time!” My coffee's done, so I pour myself a mug and sip.

“Blake! No, is Jessica!” Nik's foaming at the mouth now; he can't get enough gossip and drama. He never sleeps, and the media room hasn't played anything that's not a soap opera or classic reality TV for months. “Jessica with her overfed ass and fake hair! Bobby likes fat ones. Nyet, Jessica needs attention, and Bobby's zavisimost too important to ignore. Maybe Eddie? Eddie is sad sack, put up with anything for affection. So weak! Pitiful Eddie, is like lost puppy!”

If I don't tell him now, he'll go on like this forever, just listing people and their faults, straight into gibbering catatonia, and then it's like pulling teeth to bring him around again. The older ones always have their ways, but I put up with it for Nik. Poor old Spletnik, he's been with my family for six generations; I was there to see him consume my grandfather. Okay, maybe it's bad manners, but the better the rumor, the more he likes it, and the one I was holding out on was sure to drive him to euphoric fits. From behind my steaming coffee mug I say, “Eddie AND Blake, and they've signed the plurals registry!”

Already popping eyes widen and I worry he might actually lose one. His vulgar conjecture into the personal lives and habits of the three concerned is disjointed and staccato, and only the occasional word in English. Pryvchkan, the language they all speak, sounds like Russian being gargled by a praying mantis. His chin lifts and lifts as he chatters, bug-eyes pointed in opposite directions; it keeps on lifting back, the scab-ridden, mottled flesh of his throat stretching and splitting as it distends. He slumps to the floor, shoulders slouching forward as his head reaches its unnatural destination, face pressed hard into his back. With morbid fascination, I watch this grotesque ballet play out for the hundredth, the thousandth, the millionth time. He hasn't stopped his gibbering, and now with each syllable his broad, crooked teeth dig into the flesh around his own spine.

This is why you don't take your Privs out in public in polite society. Just unseemly. Sure, everybody has one, but that's no reason to go parading them about for everyone to see. Really, no one needs them at all, they should probably do away with the beasts altogether. They're such ghastly things, and people would likely live longer lives without being leashed to the ugly eldritch imps. The more I consider it, the less reason I can think of for any of them. Surely there was a time when we lived without them, right?

An unpleasant sensation like heated needles climbs up the back of my scalp, scattering my thoughts. Other people's Privs are disgusting creatures, beneath the likes of me. So common. A well read, worldly person like myself would never indulge like that. Nik doesn't count, though, not my Nik. He's different.

He's mine.