Not a story

Woot, another story. Simple little piece about a guy and a girl who love each other, but fight a lot. I like it, but I'm not sure about the last sentence.

Hatred

Truthfully, any half-baked pseudo-nonconformist could come up with a reason or four to hate the average shopping mall. The crowds, the parking, the really bad music the shops played, there was nothing not to be hated about the mall.

However, Noah took hatred and turned it into art. His hatred was dark, infinite, and all consuming. He could hate the part of a salesman’s hair, the pattern of the tile floors, and the fact that the mall owners put Hot Dog on a Stick right next to Coldstone in the food court. Noah’s ire burned so fiercely that it could absorb light, oxygen, and small independent countries.

But by far, nothing boiled Noah’s blood like the department stores. The prima donna middle schoolers, the bargain-bin jewelry, and the perfumes that all smelled the same, there was even more to hate in the department stores than in the mall in its entirety. Which doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. That’s how much Noah hated department stores.

Which had him wondering as to why he was presently sitting in a chair, in front of a dressing room, in a department store (the name of which shall be omitted, for fear of copyright infringement), with the prima donna middle schoolers, the bargain bin jewelry, and the perfume that all smelled the same.

“Hey Noah,” said Natalie, stepping out of the dressing room, “How does this one look on me?” Oh yeah.

Somehow, Natalie had managed to corral Noah into helping her shop for a homecoming dress. While the boy suspected that this was nothing more than another one of his girlfriend’s ploys to force him to buy her clothes, or another ploy to force him to buy himself clothes, Noah had capitulated and accompanied her. It’s not like he had a better way to spend his time, except make horrible, run-on sentences.

“Well?” Natalie said, golden curls bouncing as she turned so he could see from every angle, “What do you think?” She was wearing what appeared to be three strips of cloth, sewn together in an attempt to resemble something decent. And it was red. Very, very red.

From behind tousled black hair hanging over dark eyes that barely deigned to look up from his PSP, Noah replied, “Perfect, now all you need is a pole to dance on!” Natalie squealed in her shock and indignation.

“How can you say that, Noah?” Natalie cried, “Why are you always so mean?”

“Forgive me, Nat,” he answered wistfully, clutching his hand to his chest in mock sincerity, “I experienced a painful childhood, one which has left me scarred, able to display affection only through barbed wit and bitter sarcasm.” Natalie rolled her eyes at his “humor”. She narrowed her blue eyes, crossed her arms, and jutted her hips as she always did when reprimanding Noah.

“Oh come on, painful childhood? I was there for it, remember?”

“Case and point.”

Natalie mollified her anger by throwing a clothes hanger at her ever-so-clever boyfriend.

“Could you at least try to be a half-decent human being for once and help me? The faster we finish, the faster we can leave,” she said.

“Leave? So soon? But I do so enjoy your company.”

Natalie began to gargle and choke on her own fury-induced bile as Noah laughed.

She took several deep breaths before saying, “Honestly Noah, I have no idea why I put up with you.”

Still smiling, he replied, “Because you understand that, underneath my layers of malice and spite, I’m really just a nice guy wanting for love.”

“Oh, now your jokes are starting to get funny.”

“Not as funny as your sense of fashion.”

The girl harrumphed. “Well then,” she said, “Why don’t you pick one?” Noah picked himself up out of the chair and slipped the PSP into his jacket pocket. He walked to a nearby rack, feigning indifference, but actually scanning over the various dresses with the perception of a metrosexual hawk. Noah believed that a dark blue would be a much better color than the crimson travesty that the seemingly color blind young woman was wearing presently; it would complement her blonde hair and match her summer blue eyes. Noah might not have understood fashion, but he knew color theory.

After finally taking one off the rack, he handed it to Natalie with a carefully careless “Mm.” As she disappeared into the dressing room, Noah returned to his game. After an indiscriminate amount of time, he heard Natalie call, “Alright, I’m coming out!”

As she stepped out of from behind the door, Noah had to bite back a gasp. The dress was strapless, but not cut too low, granting her an aura of dignified beauty. It framed her delicate curves as if it had been poured onto her, and the warm azure of the fabric made her skin all but glow. All in all, it was perfect.

“Well? What do you think?”

Noah covered his reddening face with his PSP and muttered, “It’s fine, take that one.” Natalie squealed with delight (although only those who knew her well would be able to tell her squeals of delight from her squeals of shock and indignation), and withdrew into the dressing room to change back, while her over-excited boyfriend used the time to take a much-needed breath.

Now back in her sweater and jeans (and one of those woolen caps with the pompom on the top and earflaps with tassels that always looks adorable on girls but makes guys look like horrible douchebags), Natalie seemed ready to go.

“Thanks for coming with me today, Noah,” she said with a full-bodied smile, “You helped me pick out a good one.” Noah grunted in acknowledgment, more than accustomed to his girlfriend’s mood swings, and began to rise from his seat. Suddenly, before he could even tell what was happening, Natalie was on his lap, straddling his leg.

“However,” Natalie whispered, wrapping her arms around Noah’s neck and pressing against him so she could purr into his ear, “something is bothering me.”

Noah found himself speechless, the scent of cherry and vanilla in the ludicrously attractive young woman’s perfume causing several of his essential functions to short-circuit.

For the briefest moment, Noah felt Natalie’s lips brush against his ear as she whispered, “How is it that you knew my dress size?” One could all but hear the gears in Noah’s brain grind to a halt and subsequently explode.

And just as suddenly as it began, Natalie was back on her feet, laughing softly, while Noah was still in the chair, breathing heavily.

“Come on, Noah, lighten up!” she said, still laughing, “I was only joking.” Natalie then bounced away to the cash register, dress in hand. Noah rose from the seat, sighing and scratching his head. That woman is nothing short of terrifying, he thought to himself. He then slipped his hands into his pockets, only to find that his wallet was missing.

“What the—” Noah quickly looked about the area for his wayward cash clip.

“Do you take Visa?” Noah turned his gaze to the register, finding Natalie paying for the dress with his credit card, taken from his wallet.

“HEY!” he shouted, storming towards Natalie. Not very articulate, but it conveyed his feelings well enough.

“Ah, Noah, you’re just in time to sign for the purchase,” Natalie said, all smiles.

Noah, at first, could do nothing more than look stupefied. Then, sighing in resignation, he signed his name into the electronic tablet. Falling in love with this woman, what had he gotten himself into?

Not a story

The previous stories are things that I have written for both pleasure and for a variety of workshops over bygone years. So yeah, in case you were confused, none of those are things that have actually happened to me.

-Tim Han

Angels and Soda

I heard her coming before I saw her. With each step, I could hear the slap of her flip-flops against her heels as she approached from behind me. However, I didn’t expect the sudden cool of the chilled soda can. I think my cheek steamed a little from the contact.

“—the fuck!” I shouted, slapping the hand that was holding can against my face.

She just laughed and said, “You’re so cute when you’re boiling over with rage!”

I sighed and leaned back against the bench I’d been sitting on, and she stepped around to join me. I heard the soft rustle of her long blond hair as she lifted it behind the bench to keep from leaning against it. My head was tilted back and I wiped some sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. My eyes were closed against the sun’s glare but I heard a hiss as she opened her can of soda. I held out my hand so she could give me my own drink, which she did. I turned to face her and opened my eyes.

“Where’s the change?” I asked.

“Ten percent service charge,” she replied. I thought about saying something, but past experience had taught me that I had no chance of getting my money back. We just sat there for a few moments after that, sipping our drinks and trying to ignore the kids running around the park, noisy little hooligans that they were.

“Honestly, woman,” I said, “I have no idea why I put up with you.”

“Because I’m adorable, that’s why. And don’t call me ‘woman.’”

“Would you prefer I call you, ‘man?’”

“Don’t be stupid. You just say it like it was a fucking insult.”

“Don’t cuss.”

“Why not? You just did!”

“Well yeah, but I’m a guy.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Guys can sound cool when they cuss, but girls can’t. Their voices are too high. The only way that a girl can sound cool when she cusses is when she has a really husky, manly voice. You don’t want a husky, manly voice, do you?”

“Girls with husky voices were sexy in the twenties.”

“So was bootlegging and denying women’s suffrage. Remember how those turned out?”

She cried out in frustration, throwing her arms in the air.

“I really just cannot talk to you when you’re like this,” she said.

“And I can barely understand you when you try to say anything!”

She punched me for that, which I don’t blame her for. She had finished her soda by then, and I watched as she fiddled with the hem of her white sundress, holding it just above her knees.

“How’re you ever going to find a girlfriend when you’re this mean to everybody?” she asked, her tone even.

“I’m not going to,” I replied, straight-faced, “I’m going to grow old and lonely and be that crotchety old man who sits on his porch with a shotgun, just daring kids to run on his lawn.”

She laughed at that, a bubbly sound that came from all the way down the bottom of her stomach.

“And you’d be completely happy, living like that?”

“Well, not exactly happy, but that’s not the point, is it?”

She laughed again, then sighed a little.

“Noah… don’t ever change.”

Before I could ask her what she meant, we heard our names being shouted from across the playground.

“God, what took them so long?” She got up, smoothed out the front of her sundress and held out her hand. Her head was blocking the sun, and with its rays against her wheat-gold hair, it almost looked as if she had a halo.

“Come on, or we’re going to be late.”

I casually wiped my hand on my pants, hoping that the worst of the sweat was taken care of, and took hers. It was small and soft and still cold from the soda, but held onto mine tightly.

“Yeah, yeah,” I said, letting her drag me along, as I generally did.

Don't Talk to Strangers. They're Weird.

“Jeanne! Last delivery of the night!”

The girl groaned as her boss’s high-pitched voice crackled through her walkie-talkie.

Jeanne pulled up to the curb and slammed the brakes on her bicycle. She clicked transmit and replied, “Are you fucking serious, Marty? I’m on my way home. Get someone else.”

Marty’s reply came in a hiss of static.

“The pick up and drop are both on the way to your place, and I’ll pay you triple commission as soon as you come in tomorrow. And you’re the only courier who keeps her radio on after hours.”

Jeanne sighed, weighing her options. Well, the only things waiting for her back home were a cold pizza and a hot TV, and it wasn’t as though twenty-something year olds weren’t in constant need of cash.

Pulling up her dark blonde hair into a ponytail, she answered, “All right, where is it?”

Four minutes later, she was knocking on the door of a fourth floor apartment on 22^nd Street, apparently belonging to her (obviously douche-flavored) client. An unexpectedly plain looking man, probably in his thirties, opened the door slightly, hampered by a sliding chain.

“Who is it?” he asked through the gap between the door and the frame.

“I’m with the messenger service, Mr. Hill. You called about a delivery?”

“Ah, yes, yes, I remember now. Here you go,” he said, slipping a thin parcel with an inordinate number of stamps plastered all over its surface, “It’s for my grandmother. Make sure it gets to her safely.”

Jeanne handled it for a moment before saying, “Um… sir… this is a messenger service. You don’t need to put stamps on the package.”

“You ask an awful lot of questions for a virgin.”

“I was just—wait, what?”

“Oh yeah! One more thing…” the man said as he suddenly unlatched the chain on the door, rushed forward, and grabbed Jeanne by the shoulders.

He hissed, “Whatever you do, don’t talk to strangers. Like, seriously. It’s a bad idea.”

The man leaped backward into the apartment and slammed the door in Jeanne’s face, precluding any other conversation.

Whatever. The delivery address was only ten blocks up. It was a wonder that the weirdo didn’t just take it there himself. It was even on the same avenue. But as they say, work is work.

Jeanne rushed down the stairs while stuffing the package into her backpack and ran outside to where she had locked up her bicycle, only to find that someone had stolen the seat while she had been dealing with her client. The girl stopped to marvel at that fact for several moments. It was quite baffling really, that someone would steal a bicycle seat. It was one of the most important parts on a bicycle, yet among the least useful parts of a bicycle when taken by itself. Maybe the thief was a bicyclist himself and needed only a replacement seat for the one that had been stolen from his bike. Or maybe he was just an asshole who wanted to leave Jeanne with a fully functional bicycle that she was unable to effectively use.

Filing away both her livelihood and most convenient means of transportation under “crap that I can take care of when I’m not in the middle of a delivery,” the young woman quickly set off on foot, determined to stay on schedule.

Jeanne was on 28^th when she was suddenly struck by a very strange feeling. It was as though thousands of invisible needles were pricking her fingertips. It felt like someone was sneaking up behind her, getting ready to—

“Hello young lady! Would you be interested in an erotic massage?”

Jeanne was so distracted by her strange feeling that she hadn’t noticed a man wearing too-tight clothing and sporting a rather unattractive goatee standing directly in front of her. Unfortunately, they had already established eye contact, so Jeanne was unable to ignore him.

“Fifty percent off!” the man continued, “Oil and scented candles are free!”

“Ah… um…”

“All right, all right, little Miss Bargain-Hunter. I’ll massage you myself! Final offer! Surely a lovely young virgin such as yourself could stand to lose some stress?”

“I—what—”

“Oi!”

The masseur and Jeanne’s conversation was loudly interrupted by a voice from across the street. It belonged to a suspicious looking young man: dark-haired, dark-eyed, wrapped in an army coat multiple sizes too large for him. He was taller than Jeanne by a good amount and at a quick glance, probably in his mid twenties. Judging from his accent, he was from the West Coast.

He crossed the street while cursing at several honking taxis, marching up to Jeanne and deftly placing himself between her and the masseur.

He turned to face Jeanne and asked, “Hey, kit, this douche bothering you?”

“No. Well, technically yes, I suppose, but…”

Jeanne was unable to speak further as the dark-haired young man grabbed the erotic masseur by the collar, yanked him towards himself, and head butted him with exceeding force. The masseur went down like a sack of bricks made out of potatoes. Jeanne was stunned, which was happening far too often for one day.

“Did you—why did you—how did you—”

“Don’t even worry about it,” the young man said, wiping some blood off of his forehead, “This totally finishes my good deed quota for the day.” He then reached into his pocket, pulled out a small notebook and a pen, and scratched a note into it.

Jeanne gasped as her gaze jumped from him to the masseur.

“Are you bleeding? Oh my god, is this guy dead? Holy fuck, you killed him!”

The stranger rolled his eyes and replied, “Chillax, kit. He’ll wake up in a few minutes and won’t remember either of us. He’ll be dizzy for a while, but it’ll wear off. Don’t worry, I do this all the time.”

“You’ve done this before?”

“Sure, it’s a great way to meet girls. I’m Jack, by the way.”

Jack held out his hand to shake, which Jeanne did. Awkwardly.

“Nice to meet you, Jeanne.”

“Nice to meet… wait… how do you know my name?”

“It’s right here on your driver’s license,” Jack replied, holding up Jeanne’s driver’s license.

She snatched it back, shrieking, “How did you get my license?”

“From inside your wallet,” he replied, holding up Jeanne’s wallet.

“You stole my wallet?” Jeanne screeched, grabbing it from Jack’s hand.

“Yeah, sorry about that. I have kleptomania.”

“What?”

“Neurological disorder. I steal things compulsively, I can’t help myself,” Jack explained while adjusting Jeanne’s backpack to fit more comfortably around his jacket.

Jeanne quickly patted her shoulders and spun about, confirming that her backpack was no longer on her back.

“Wha—how did you do that?”

“I’m magic, kit,” Jack replied, handing Jeanne’s bag back to her, “Let me show you: see that guy across the street? Talking on his phone?”

Jeanne looked back to the other side of the road and indeed saw a man in a business suit, shouting into his phone about stock meltdowns and synergy or whatever.

“Yeah, he’s got the new Blackberry.”

“You mean this Blackberry?” Jack replied, holding in front of Jeanne the businessman’s phone. Her head snapped back to the businessman, who was now shouting about suing ghosts or swamp gas or something as he ran in circles, apparently looking for his lost phone.

“You know, I should probably be like, angry or… scared or something, but that was actually really cool,” Jeanne said.

Jack bowed extravagantly and answered, “Thank you, thank you. And don’t worry, Jeanne. I like you, I’ll definitely return all the crap I steal from you.”

As he began to look through the phone’s files and functions, Jeanne asked, “Are you not going to give that guy’s phone back?”

“Hell no!” Jack said, “I don’t relish the thought of getting myself arrested before I figure out cold fusion. Besides, the guy’s a total dickhead.”

“How do you know that?”

“Check out his contact list.”

“Whoa… that is… not a small number of brothels.”

“Seriously. This might seem like something of a non sequitor, but would you like to buy a bicycle seat?”

Jack then pulled Jeanne’s bicycle seat out of his jacket.

“Did you steal that from my bike?”

“Oh, damn. This is yours? Sorry about that, kit.”

“Why would you steal a bicycle seat? It’s just so… pointless.”

“True. The thing is, I was walking past what is apparently your bike a little while back and I got to thinking that I hadn’t stolen anything in a good three minutes, so I figured I’d steal the seat off of the thing and be on my way.”

“Then why didn’t you just steal the whole bike?”

“God, Jeanne, I’m not that huge of an asshole.”

“Are you like, allergic to making sense?”

“I agree.”

Jeanne sighed and said, “Well could I just get my seat back?”

Jack replied, “Sure thing, kit. Truth is, I don’t really want it either. The seat is like, the most useless part of the bike by itself, y’know?”

The girl buried her face in her palms and replied, “Yes. I know.”

Jack stepped around Jeanne and opened her backpack.

“I’ll just leave it in here.”

He dropped the seat into the bag, closed it, and then pulled his notebook and pen out of his jacket once again.

“You’re not counting that as a good deed, are you?”

“Nah, I’m done with those for today. This is for my daily word count. Every day, I use a requisite five words that I don’t know the exact meanings of, y’know, to expand my horizons. With ‘non sequitor,’ I’m up to four.”

While scribbling into his notebook, Jack suddenly stopped, turned to Jeanne, and asked, “Do you think ‘requisite’ counts?”

“I think that you already know what it means.”

“Damn.”

Jack snapped his notebook shut and put it and his pen back into his jacket.

“Well, it’s been fun, kit, but I’ve really got to get going. I’ll call you sometime!”

As Jack dashed off, Jeanne harbored not a single doubt that the young man knew her phone number. On any other day, with any other guy, she would’ve called the cops, but… well… yeah.

A short walk later, Jeanne found herself at her destination. All told, her ten-block trek barely took more than twenty minutes. Of course, due to certain unexpected kleptomaniacal factors, it felt much longer. She dashed up the five flights of stairs, found the room, and banged on the door.

Jack promptly answered the door and asked, “Whoa, hey there kit. How goes it?”

Jeanne spluttered incoherently for several seconds, then mustered the will to ask, “How did you get here before me? Did you, like, teleport or something?”

“Well, actually, I’ve got longer legs than you, which means longer strides and greater distance. It’s like, basic physics, y’know?”

Jeanne closed her eyes and began to rub her temples with her palms.

“Wait, no, I mean, how did you even know that I was heading here?”

“What makes you think that I’m here just because you are? I like you, Jeanne, but you are very self-absorbed sometimes.”

“Oh my god I just want to deliver this package and—”

Jeanne began to frantically dig through her backpack, but it was gone. Gone, gone, gone, like everything that had ever had an ounce of truth or sense since she’d met this guy…

“Looking for this, kit?”

Of course.

Sighing, Jeanne took the package from Jack’s hand.

“You said you’d return everything that you stole.”

“I knew you’d come around here, I figured I’d just give this back to you then. By the way, that’s how I knew you’d be here,” he said, tapping the address printed on the corner of the package.

“All right, all right, I just want to get the Nora Hill’s signature and I’ll be able to go home.”

“Ah… I wouldn’t bank on that.”

“What do you mean?”

“The lady’s senile. Like, in a pretty bad way. I mean, I just knocked on the door and she let me in. I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m a cat or something. I doubt that she’ll be able to sign that for you.”

“Do you really think that she won’t be able to write down her own name?”

Jack leaned backward, faced down the hall, and shouted, “Mrs. Hill!”

“Yes?” a reedy old-woman voice answered, immediately conjuring up images of tea cozies, buttermilk cookies, and other such nonsense.

“Jonah Hex!”

“Yes?”

“Optimus Prime!”

“Yes?”

Jonah turned back to Jeanne.

“See?”

Jeanne was appalled, crying, “I can’t believe that you’d take advantage of this lady’s senility! I bet you’ve been grabbing anything that you can carry from her!”

“I wouldn’t steal from an old woman! How depraved do you think I am?”

“Very! And why is it okay to steal from me?”

“Because I’m a kleptomaniac. Real neurological disorder and everything, remember? Oh yeah, and there’s the whole deal about you being a virgin.”

How did everybody know this?

“But let’s not fight Jeanne, not when we’ve been apart for so long.”

“It couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes.”

“Details! In more important news, what the crap is in that package?”

“How should I know?”

“Open it. Duh.”

“I can’t open it, it’s Mrs. Hill’s!”

Jack leaned backwards once again and shouted, “Merry Christmas, Grandma! Can we open our presents now?”

“Oh certainly, dears, but do come in, I want to see your bright, adorable little faces here by the fire.”

Jack stepped out of the doorway and motioned Jeanne to follow.

“You heard the lady, kit. Senile or not, Mrs. Hill has the most awesome tea cozies, buttermilk cookies, and other such nonsense that you’ll ever see.”

Jeanne sighed a bit, and then followed him inside.

Memorial

My girlfriend passed away three years, seven months, and 24 days ago. Believe it or not, I’m not still incredibly saddened by the fact. I know. It’s odd that I know exactly how much time has elapsed since she died. But I can’t really help it. Three years, seven months, 24 days, and, (what time it is now?) about four hours ago, I thought it would be moronically romantic of me to remember exactly when she died, where she died, and how many days had passed since she died. I marked it on the calendar and everything. I think I was about six months into it before I realized how incredibly fucking stupid I was being about the whole situation.

Unfortunately, by then it was too late. It’s the first thing that I think of when I wake up in the morning. Tomorrow, I’ll get out of bed, and say to myself, “It has been three years, seven months, and 25 days since my girlfriend passed away.” But I try not to let it bother me. It’s not like I have to spend a lot of time thinking about it.

Beginning, I guess

Heya.

My name's Tim Han. I'm currently a sophomore at NYU, pursuing an English major with a minor in Creative Writing. A friend suggested that I start one of these so that people who care can read my stuff. So yeah. Go ahead.