Monday, around Noontime
by Victor Clevenger
“Listen to me, John, and listen to me well;
I am not going
down on you, or vice versa. I am going to cook these chili dogs, and we are
going to eat them. Tomorrow, you are packing your stuff and leaving.”
“Abby,” John said, “You know that
I am a writer and don’t
have a paying job. I have no saved money so that I can get a place to live. You
are acting horrible and ruining my life.”
“And what about my life, John, I have spent
the last ten
months taking care of you, simply because I promised your father that I would!
All you do is smoke cigarettes, get drunk, write love poems and try to seduce
me into screwing you. I’m tired of it all; you are the son of my dead husband,
and nothing more.”
“That’s pure bullcrap, Abby.”
“No. That’s a fact, John.
Now go get dressed, and I’ll cook the food.”
“Fine,” John said, as he walked away toward
his room. Abby
walked into the kitchen with the pack of hotdogs. She placed them down on the
table, and John looped his woven leather belt around his neck.
Abby found him lying at the foot of his bed,
minutes later, when she went to ask if he wanted sliced jalapenos on his
She struggled to try and undo the belt. She couldn’t
undone, and it didn’t matter that she couldn’t, because John was already gray-skinned
and far gone, naked and strangled, dead.
Abby placed a pillow on John’s lap to cover
him, and called
to report her discovery.
emergency services arrived, she was three bites into the greatest chili dog she
had ever made.
Victor Clevenger’s latest
poetry collection will be released soon from Spartan Press, and is titled Congenital
Pipe Dreams. Selected pieces of his work have appeared in
a variety of places online, and in print.
He spends his days in a Madhouse and his nights with his second ex-wife,
together they raise six children in a small town northeast of Kansas City,