Tag Archive: suhem

Carpet by Eric Suhem

“What’s that filthy-looking liquid you’re pouring on the carpet?” demanded Belle during the cocktail party.

“It’s what’s left of my soul,” Ron replied, eyeing the fluid, and the watery ice cubes that fell on the avocado-colored shag carpeting.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” said Belle, lifting her finger to signal white-suited minions, who hurried in and began an extensive scrubbing operation, using brightly-colored sponges to remove the stain.

“The pink in the liquid is residue of my brain, and the runny red is my blood, sweat, and tears you have wrung out of me in our relationship,” Ron added as Belle supervised the scrubbing operation.

“Do you ever look at this from my perspective? Do you know how much work I do to keep things on track?” she queried as one of the minions moved from the carpet, and began scrubbing the toes of her white plastic boots.

Prone on the carpet, Ron drifted into a dream, encountering his identity from a past life:

“I’m Roy, I run the neighborhood hardware store on Saturday mornings and beyond. I have sharp, penetrating eyes, but a friendly manner. I have been here forever, and will remain here throughout eternity. I chain-smoke and fantasize about committing bizarre sexual crimes. ‘Yes, a radio transistor, sir? Right away.’ I live in a faded yellow house in our respectable tree-lined neighborhood. I fix the neighborhood’s bicycles and kites, with a bright sparkle in my eye. Why are you judging me?”

In the past life, Belle’s earlier soul had been Roy’s 9th victim.

Ron licked Belle’s white boots and she kicked him in the teeth. He slathered around on the heavy fabric, looking for molar remnants, and she kicked him some more, spilling blood onto the carpet.

Tweed by Eric Suhem

“I love your tweed, is that who you are?” he asked.

“Maybe,” said Peggy coquettishly.

He tore into the nectarine, his incisors gleaming malevolently with traces of orange fruit. She wrapped her lips around the banana and slowly pulled it down her throat in one sensuous, luscious gulp. He did the same. There was fruit piled up on the wobbly kitchen table, in a 7-foot high mound reaching to the asbestos-filled ceiling. She pulled tomatoes from the pile and threw them angrily against the wall, splattering redness against the floral wallpaper. He removed an ice pick from a kitchen drawer, and began stabbing an eggplant, more and more violently, the ice pick sticking in the imitation Danish cutting board.

He started to sniff at the tweed, disturbing his companions, who wanted to look at the Ferris wheel. “The Ferris wheel is so round,” they cooed in unison, admiring its arcs. “Don’t bring your tweed obsession into our enjoyment of the Ferris wheel!” they said sternly, moving along the boardwalk to other carnival attractions.

“What does tweed have to do with a Ferris wheel?” he asked, head full of bemusement and tweed.

For the next course, he chewed into the pig, cow, and bird remains with abandon. Her right eye gleamed with lust as the lamb parts steamed on the plate before her. She dove into the meat, incisors and molars gnashing incessantly as steam rose from her forehead. The bones and pieces of skin flew onto the floor as they gnawed and chewed feverishly.

“Well it has nothing to do with that, but we just felt that we needed to set some boundaries,” they said, perfectly willing to move their attention to other subjects, while he refocused upon Peggy’s tweed hat.

Gordon parked his car in front of the financial center. He needed to be on time to give his presentation on the company’s strategy for identity success in a global marketplace.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Gordon Snaff.”
“No it’s not, who are you?”
“I told you, my name is Gordon Snaff!”
“No, it is not who you are.”
“Gordon Snaff!”
“No, it is who you are not.”
“Gordon Snaff…”
“You are who it is not, no?”
“Who is not it, you are, no?”
“I tell you, my name is…”
“No, are you who it is not?
“No, is who you are, not it?”
“You are not who it is, no?”
What Gordon found most disturbing was not the fact that he was having an identity crisis, but rather the fact that he was having this conversation with a parking meter. He searched his pockets for change, and found nothing.             
Suddenly, he was putting pieces of himself into the parking meter. It started with a toenail, which bought him 30 seconds of parking. Some saliva brought 15 seconds more. He cut a piece of skin from the nape of his neck, a minute more. A deposit of his innermost dreams into the meter gained him 5 minutes. Unfortunately, it was not enough. The car remained, but Gordon was towed away