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 - a challenge - 52 short stories in 52 weeks...something must be worth reading, right? |
Ambrose nursed his rum and coke, letting the muted cacophony of the bar settle over him like a damp blanket. It was another wet Friday evening, and most of the bar’s occupants were the usual working stiffs in their grey and black suits, ties askew as they complained loudly about all the things they’d love to do to their bosses if given even half a chance. Ambrose had his own list—longer than a mile, easily—but he wasn’t about to volunteer it. He raised his glass, only to choke as a sudden hard slap landed on his shoulder. “—and here’s Ambrose!” Ricky slurred, throwing a beefy arm around Ambrose’s narrow shoulders. “Takes it aaaaall in stride. Like a champ! Nothing fazes this guy!” The table burst into laughter. Ambrose joined in out of habit, though his weak chuckle was swallowed by the noise. His face warmed at the insinuation, and Ricky’s arm was already beginning to ache against him. “…been kissing Dubois’s ass for years, and for what? Still junior assistant. Christ!” More laughter—louder now, tinged with pity. Ambrose stared into the remnants of his drink. The melting ice felt like it mirrored the slow freeze gathering in his chest. “It’s gonna be 2026 soon, Sullivan,” Henry from Acquisitions called out, blotched cheeks glowing under fluorescent lights. “How long you think you can keep that up, eh?” “Even Devon made it!” Ricky added. “Dumb idiot nearly tanked us with the Lipsky files. Would’ve lost everything if Ambrose didn’t bail him out. I love you, you smart bastard!” He punctuated this by planting a wet kiss on Ambrose’s cheek. The table howled as Ambrose flinched away. That was his cue to leave. He wasn’t sure what excuses he used, but their mocking protests—aw, come on, don’t be like that, we’re just messing with you—followed him out, clinging to him like the stench of failure. It was rare for him to join the “gang” on Fridays, rarer still to let himself drink anything with actual alcohol in it. And now he was reminded why. The one night he tried to be “one of the guys,” he was once again the punchline. He’d always been the quiet, nerdy kid from the Idaho sticks—big dreams, bigger ambition, desperate to escape the smell of potatoes and pig manure that clung to his family like a curse. But grades had saved him. A scholarship to a top university. Pride from Mom. Resentment from Dad. Predictable. His siblings—Marvin and Sally—hadn’t forgiven him for leaving, but he could live with that. Last he heard, Marvin was running the farm now that Dad was gone, and Sally had married her high-school sweetheart. Mom still sent Christmas cards, begging him to visit. But ambition kept him here—in the City—chasing the version of himself he believed he could become. Landing a job at Penny & Sanford had been his biggest triumph. He’d celebrated with Marge—the sweet brunette he’d met in their last year of college. No one would’ve guessed he had the guts for romance, least of all him, but three years and a wedding ring later, they were living in a cozy East Side apartment and saving for a quiet suburban dream. That had been the plan. Now, as he stood at his own front door, the first thing to hit him was a cloud of cologne—expensive, musky, and absolutely not his. I’m about to watch the year change, he thought bleakly. And everyone still laughs at me… especially her. How long had he known? Maybe from the moment he’d introduced Marge to Dubois at last year’s Christmas party. Maybe that was why he suffered so much mockery at work. …their moans were too loud… Maybe everyone had known. …he reached for the baseball bat in the coat closet… Yes, Mr. Dubois. Whatever you want, Mr. Dubois. I’ll do anything, Mr. Dubois. Even let you have my wife if it means climbing that ladder you keep yanking back. …he pushed open the bedroom door… They had all been in on the joke. “Oh my God!” Marge was the first to see him, scrambling away from the tangle of sheets and limbs. Dubois lifted his head, dazed with lust. “What’s goi—” “No!” she screamed. Her cry mixed with the sickening thuds that followed—heavy, final, painting the sheets red. Eventually, Ambrose let the bat fall to the floor. He drew in a long, steadying breath. He could already smell potatoes and pig shit. Home was waiting. And it would be nice to see Mom again. --------------------- Word Count: 773 Prompt: Use in your poem or story the following: For what?, No!, Smart, 2026, Year change. Written For: "The Writer's Cramp"  |
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