48 Hour Short Story Contest

Black sock. White sock. The two solitary pieces of fabric hung idly from my fingers, mocking me with their obvious incompatibility. Black sock. White sock. I looked hopefully into the slim neck of last night’s beer bottle. Whatever would be there would be warm, but at that moment…no beer. I sighed and walked over to the open drawer hanging out treacherously from my walnut set of 5, fifty dollars at a flea market in Asia. The humid tropical air accompanied by cool rainforest breezes had made me very agreeable to all I saw. Even the red markings that indicated the air mail charges would be nearly double the cost of said piece of furniture.

I had sort of thought it was lucky at that time. Even though I think there was a sort of under-her-breath muttering about termites from the sarong-clad vendor and how glad she was to see it go. Wait, termites don’t eat socks right? Rubbing my dry palms together, I decided to give it another chance. No way was a drawer going to get the better of me. There had to be a black, or the very least, a really dark brown sock in there. I mean, there had to be. Socks didn’t have feet, well...unless said feet were encased in said socks, but that was a thought procedure I wasn’t willing to follow through with that early in the morning.

No, not even one brown sock in sight. I sighed.

Black sock, white sock then. I could probably make sure my pants never once hitched up and from what I remembered of the office, the large leather chair with a swivel and recline function sat behind a table with backing all the way down to the ground. And hey, at least my tie matched.

Wait.

My tie?

*--*

The car didn’t start. I think it had something to do with the maintenance payments I never got around to making. They’d called me up, three days in a row, telling me they couldn’t start until I made the 50 percent deposit. I checked my bank account, three days in a row, and never returned their calls. On the third day, I took my car home because I knew I’d have to drive to a meeting the next day and I wanted the security of knowing I had my car at home with me. That was yesterday.

The bike was too small for me. I hung on like a muffin that had been baked too long, splitting open at the sides. It was an old Schwinn my dad left me before he moved to the retirement home. When he died, it was the only thing the home hadn’t managed to suck from him. It had belonged to his dad as a child, and the only thing that stopped me from getting rid of it was the fact no kid I knew wanted a bike that had been around longer than Hello Kitty or Naruto anymore.

The roads were quiet. Apartment windows were still drawn shut with dingy curtains that looked like they needed a wash two years ago. Kids were walking with their eyes half shut, popping coke bottles like they didn’t know it would someday kill them, and twice as fast if they drank it in the morning. Parents these days.

I swerved as a dog bounced into my path. A bouncing dog. Seriously. I glared at it wishing that it could understand even two words of the curses I was throwing at its retreating figure. I swerved right onto a bottle cap.

A shiny, gleaming coke bottle cap, its jagged metal edges pointing towards the sun like little hands all singing praise to the heavens.

*--*

Punctured tires on a bicycle on quiet roads leading nowhere.

I slammed my hands down on the bars and enjoyed the sting that hurt so dearly after which came the cool relief of metal on skin.

Punctured tires on a bicycle on quiet roads leading nowhere and I was late.

I rang the rusty bell as obnoxiously as I could but the faint ring of a bell in need of changing two years ago, or possibly twenty, dissatisfied me. My finger held on to the ringer and pushed, pushed as hard as it could, until I felt the plastic molding beneath my hands, and break off with a snap.

I jumped, even though I knew that was exactly what I had been looking to happen.

Punctured tires on a bicycle with a broken bell on quiet roads leading nowhere.

I seriously loved God today.

I jumped off the bike and bent down to pick up the flat bottle cap. I tossed it in the air and caught it in my palm.

The breeze that rose and blew through my hair reminded me of my Asian adventures. I looked at the roads and took a deep breath.

Good thing I didn’t have my second best shoes on, at least those would still be at home when I got there that evening.

*__*

“You’re late.”

“I know.”

“You should at least say sorry. Or something like, I was held up involuntarily and it wasn’t my fault but I’m here now.” He looked at me with shock,

I shrugged. A sort of numbness was settling over me and I was fascinated with how good it felt.

“And?”

“And?”

“And what do you say?!”

I shrugged again.

"Okay, that's it. You're fired. Get out."

I smiled. The numbness felt good, almost too good.

In my pocket, the cool metal of the bottle cap burned like there was a bunsen tube in there. I patted it, as if to say, calm down, you'll get your turn.

I ran through the numerous things I wanted to say, and realised I didn't want to say anything at all.

Instead, I slipped my hand into my pocket and drew out the flat, round, jagged edged bottle cap and set it on the table. The hard clink of metal against glass felt oddly satisfying.

"This is for you. For..." I tilted my head and looked at his red, ruddy face. "Luck." I finally decided.

I turned on my heels and started walking, wheeling a bicycle with punctured tires and a broken wheels on quiet roads leading home.

At home, the drawer hung out in exactly the same position I had left it that morning.

Peeking out surreptiously from the left side, a single piece of fabric smiled at me.

Black sock.

Word count: 1015 words.

Note: Edited to add word Entry into message title.