The Fix-It Shop

Day 1,494, 05:59 • Published in USA USA • by Silas Soule

(This is my entry for Jon Malcom's short-story writing contest. Note: it is under 1200 words!! -- PQ)



The Fix-It Shop


As usual, it was a dark and stormy night.

I was alone in my office, a dank, dark and lonely dive near the Combat Zone. Another butt was smoldering in my overflowing, oversized ashtray. A nearly-empty bottle of scotch teetered on the edge of my desk, about to be pushed over the edge by the mountain of manuscripts piled around it.

I was on the prowl for really atrocious opening lines.

People call me the Fixer, 'cause when bad short stories break, I fix 'em. The name's Boyle, Lance Boyle. Welcome to my nightmare.

It's going to be a long night. Let's get started....



'It is a very naughty thing you have done, Mr. Blue.' he said.

His name was Mr. Green. People talk like that all the time in the town where I'm from: Brownsville. The tension of encountering a character named "Mr. Blue" was so delicious and unique that he was green with envy...


Ach. This one's hopeless. Sometime there's just no saving them. Let's try another.



It was your typical late summer night in August.

You are a character in my head inside my story. All of your late summer nights have been typical. And you live in the northern hemisphere. Like everybody.




In my 22nd year on this Earth, I started a new job as a bartender at the tavern down the street from my apartment.

On my home planet, Phucm, I had had many jobs. Now I lived on rinky-dink planet, on a street with no name, and in a town that still has "taverns" even though it's the 21st century. Such freaks.



Ha-ha! OK, myabe it's not great literature, but I'm on a roll!

Let's see what's in this pile... Oh damn, the gay porno crowd.

What the hell, I get paid regardless.



I could not sleep a wink that night.

Because I was so horny. Bet you didn't see that coming, eh?



It's relatively straightforward. We had a really good relationship. He was a friend of the family for years, so I never really thought of him as a stepfather.

Even though, of course, he was married to my Mother and I was a groom at their wedding. And by "relatively" straightforward, I mean I used to think he was straight before he boinked me in the butt.



The thing you should know about me is that I like males -- a lot.

But then you probably guessed that since the title of the story is "My Gay Story".


Oh jeez, my life is pitiful. Those all just go right into the trash. Sigh...

That flushing sound you hear is my life going down the toilet.

I'm not sure how much longer I can do this.

This is the time of night when I break out my special supplies. And by that I mean a bong..


OK. Better.

Next looks like a bunch of aspiring screenwriters...



At eighteen I wanted to leave this little town, I wanted to get as far from it as I possibly could.

The thing of it is, the town didn't even have name. That's how small it was. I just felt so stupid when people asked "Where do you live?" and I'd have to think of some way to change the subject. So I moved to Mauritius.



It was late in the day and the sun was going down in Las Vegas on a Thursday evening.

Somewhere it was also early in the day. And the sun was coming up in Kuala Lumpur on a Wednesday morning. Also, I can't much tell the difference between afternoon and evening because I never really leave my room. I like cookies.



I was trying to console my best friend of twenty five years but sadly I was failing pretty badly.

This story is about me, not him. He's a loser. I was madly working for like an epic win, amirite? And he was all like, "I'm sad. Waaaah."


Woo-hoo! Hollywood, here I come!

Yeah. Well, maybe I can earn enough to pay the rent on this rat-hole anyway.

All right, let's take a look at the last pile of atrocities. Then maybe that Thai place around the corner is still open. Damn, I'm hungry. Holy crap. Is the sun starting to come up? I must've spaced out for a while...

Right. OK. Let's see what's in this pile...



A couple of years ago, I went to my neighbor's house to pick up some tools he had borrowed. As I was leaving, I walked in on Henry looking at porn on the internet.

Hey, I am not a continuity editor working in films, OK? In fact, I have a good bit of trouble with space and time orientation. So I was either leaving or walking in someplace. And somebody named Henry may or may not be my neighbor. Also, I always just walk into my neighbor's houses without knocking or anything. Since I'm quiet as a doormouse, they never notice I've been in their house until I barge into their workspace and say, "Hey, watcha doin' on the ol' Internet there, you big perv?!"



The large, metal door opened into the dark unlit alleyway. A young man with blond hair that brushed the tips of his ears and touched his eyebrows stepped outside.

I know this because folks from my planet can see in the dark and have an acutely tuned sense of fashion, especially when it comes to hair. And we often lurk around in alleyways with large metal doors. On my planet, it's like playing "kick the can".



Every person at some point in their lives has an experience, a moment of clarity where a collection of seemingly insignificant facts add up. The last piece of the puzzle results in a sudden realization where those thoughts that kept you up at night finally make sense.

I know this because I've had a chat with every person who has ever lived regarding every experience they've ever had.


Y'know. That last one -- if it wasn't for that damned "omnipotent observer" tone -- wasn't really all that bad.

Maybe there's hope yet.




BONG! BONG! BONG!




Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Where'd those freaking bells come from?


Oh, right...


Christmas morning. Hallelujah.