Three Micros by Steve Gergley
Editor-in-chief Jennifer A. Howard on today’s bonus content: Steve Gergley has the gift of ease. His stories present as light but feel weighty, they invoke doom but make me laugh, they position tactical emotional walls but are still vulnerable. I'm now head-spinningly in love with the word pants and need to read more from this author asap.
Summer Work
At work we're moving furniture. It's summer. It's a horrendous time of the year. There are bats in the hallways and classrooms. The bats cling to the loudspeakers like black clumps of dust and wait. They wait in complete stillness like some kind of death. I am terribly afraid of death. Of death and confusion and filing cabinets stuffed with hundreds of pounds of paper. There are upside-down desks piled on top of the filing cabinets. One or another of these things will destroy me soon. I’ve experienced it in my dreams. I’ve sensed it in the shower. I’ve seen it in the black thunderclouds that loiter illegally in the school zone. Why does this only happen in the summer? The humidity is the sun's most trusted accomplice. My belief in the bats is at its zenith. The heat is an angry engine. The bats continue to wait. Their silence is excruciating.
An Unpleasant Rain
At noon the sun vomits diagonal rain. It is not a pleasant rain. The droplets whisper snide comments about my wardrobe as they glide past my large, protruding ears. But there is no way to argue with the rain. Who can debate such an opponent? The moment I open my mouth to speak, my enemy has already retreated to safety. But I have had enough of these insults. So I step into the center of the street and bellow up at the powder-blue sky. In the loudest voice I can conjure, I say I have purchased no new clothes since the recession of 2008. I say I don't place a premium on such things because I am not a materialistic person. I say I do not trade in casual hostility to accommodate for my personal insecurities. But my words accomplish nothing. Instead, the rain clatters against my forehead with great fervor and rage. Acidic brown water floods my decaying shoes. My disgusting and shameful clothes cling to my spotless skin.
New Pants
All of my old pants disintegrated, so I ordered some new pairs online. But my new pants didn't arrive in time for work on Monday, so I wore a Terry cloth bath towel around my waist instead. This was a terrible idea. My coworkers mocked me mercilessly. My undercarriage chafed a large amount. My towel became spattered with paint multiple hours before we stopped for lunch. Despite all this, my towel-skirt did not fall down the whole day. This was a relief. When I got home, my wife and her car were missing. So were her clothes and her computer and her belongings from our bedroom. But I wasn't worried. She does this multiple times a week and then returns in a jaunty mood. So I dropped my towel to the floor and sat in a chair on the back deck. I ate cold pasta with my hands and watched the jittery birds swoop by. It was a nice day. The sun danced a jig upon the creamy skin of my thighs.
Steve Gergley is the author of The Great Atlantic Highway & Other Stories (Malarkey Books ’24), There Are Some Floors Missing (Bullshit Lit ’24), Skyscraper (West Vine Press ’23), and A Quick Primer on Wallowing in Despair (Leftover Books ’22). His short fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Wigleaf, X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, Maudlin House, Passages North, Always Crashing, and others. He tweets @GergleySteve. His fiction can be found at stevegergleyauthor.wordpress.com. In addition to his own writing, he is also the editor of scaffold literary magazine.
