A couple of weeks ago, the excellent journal HAD put out a call for submissions; specifically, submissions that made use of some sort of constraint. I thought this sounded fun, worked on a story inspired by a dream I’d had…and then the submission window filled up after roughly 60 seconds. I have no idea what else to do with this, so I figured I’d share it here.

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A Plot? I Murder.

1.

Months ago you’d been talking with your oldest friend Otto and you made a joke that wasn’t a joke. The joke that wasn’t a joke was that he should plan your murder and that you’d just go along with it. He chuckled — you would soon think about the nature of that chuckle a whole lot — and you figured he wrote it off as a joke on your part.

Three months later, halfway through a peppery risotto at his place, you realized Otto hadn’t written it off as a joke, not at all.

2.

Your gut cringed, crept, shuddered. This? No sense you’d ever felt before. You looked to Otto: “This it?”

His nod to you: “This is it.”

“Why?”

“Never liked you,” he replied.

The cringing got worse, tiny prickling knives below your skin. This is how it feels to die, you thought. Unexpected? Oh yes.

Otto told you, “The guest room is there for solitude, for musing, before the end. Then? Your trip.” You put down your fork, then stood, then trudged to the other room, then shut the door.

3.

In it now, your morbid insights on Otto drowning out your thoughts. Soon? Soon. But not soon.

Count clicks, count drips, count sounds outside your skull. Still no oblivion. Still no infinity.

You scry: how did this go wrong? You scry: how did I fuck this up? You scry: too soon? Now: sound of flowing blood. Now: body, still pushing. Lungs, still working. Mind, still ticking. Inching, now.

4.

You push button; summon Otto. “Not now,” you cry. “Too soon!”

Otto shrugs: “Soon’s now.”

Otto turns, summons two trucks for you, motors loud. Stubborn you go, through your door, slump on top of PVC. You go down low. Do you scour your outlook for grounds for joy or grounds for doom? No; your body slows, ground down.

5.

Turn. Turn. Turn. Turn. Pull up. Gut churns.

Push, push, push. Just uncut hurt. Gut burns. Snug rut? Dug.

Sum truth, but shun luck. Lurch, lurch, lurch; dusk.

Cut. Cut. Cut.

Dust. But—

Dust.