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Short story

Maziar Shirazi
October 16, 2004

Colorido went into the store to buy a pack of peanuts. Inside, he forgot why he was there and ended up staring at the candy bars that lined the aisle. Then he started thinking about his ex-girlfriend, which inevitably lead to the candy bar theory of breakups playing out in his head. A thin slick of saliva started to spread across his bottom lip; it was about to fall off when he came to and left the store without buying anything.

The time that he was due for a call had passed; forget that bitch. He headed for the bookstore instead, looking for a book covering a mysterious subject that he could discover. His stomach was cold and clammy; he had to use the bathroom but ignored his bowels anyway. He was so determined to do exactly as he pleased exactly when he pleased, he couldn't be bothered by the weight of his own body's needs. Instead, he bought a magazine headlining a rapper that he sort of liked and left the store, heading towards his house.

Even though his body was pleading with him, he took the long way, around the windy suburban blocks of the neighborhood, passing the cul-de-sac where that attractive girl lived. He didn't bother to pause and take a look to see if she was there because if he stopped walking that meant less time to legitimately relieve himself.

It was sweltering outside and there wasn't a cloud in the sky or a tree with good shade to give him a moment of calm; only coldness from the weight of his stomach. He couldn't stop now even if he had wanted to. Why didn't he go at the bookstore? He bought the shitty magazine, and for what now, he had almost read all the big articles while he was flipping through it. It was mostly advertisements. He had let himself be robbed of nearly five dollars, with little to no compensation besides the models in the advertisements.

Colorido was paling and sweating with the anticipation of painful death. He began to look around, expecting his house to pop out at him; he still had a full five minutes of walking at the normal, unaffected rate before he could even make it to the front door. It was the end of the world. Right there, standing in the middle of the sunny street, he shat himself. He put his hands on his hips to make it easier, closing his eyes and finally enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face. His sweat trickled down his temple and for a full five seconds his face flushed with a smile of relief.

His cell phone rang, and suddenly he found himself plastered on the asphalt, surrounded by stables full of Hondas and Toyotas. Somehow, still bent over, he forced his hand into his jean pocket and flipped open the phone. She was pouring out her heart to him and all he could make out was the unbearable smell growing out of the bottom of his jeans.

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Maziar Shirazi


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