Short Stories by Lola Nation - Make it Short

The bar looked like midnight, or maybe 2 a.m. at last call, it was so dark. The mirrors against the wall were stained in permanent fog and nicotine, even though smoking had been banned for the last ten years. The speeded-out bartender came out from her perch and wobbled her head toward Ginger as if to sexily say “what would you like?” But nothing came from her mouth, only a jaw grinding smile as she loosely placed her arms on the cooler. “Can I get a Jack n’ Coke please?” Ginger asked her in response. The bartender nodded, her jet black hair forward with yes and back with of course. She ambled to the bottles behind her and served the drink. Ginger left a five in front of her. She hadn’t had a jack and coke in a long time. She could feel her nerve endings begging to come out of her skin, a slight twitch in her eye that always gave way to her anxiety and a tightness in her chest. As the swinging doors creaked open and Jerry sauntered in, light followed him, unwelcome into

Alissa got up from the sofa and walked into the spare room. Sean was tidying up. She stood in the doorway watching him, admiring his methodical mannerisms. As he picked up the yellow towel, he peered up from the floor and whipped at her leg, she caught the towel mid-air on its return to Sean, he yanked and she came toward him unbalanced. Catching her with his left arm he kissed her. Everything suddenly slowed down, an overwhelming sense of dizziness shook Alissa and then she found herself straightening up, still face to face with Sean, her hand caressing his cheek and coming in for another kiss. They stood softly kissing, treading unfamiliar territory for a few seconds. Sean tossed the towel into the hamper. Alissa walked backward to the wall by the door frame, leaning she accidentally turned on the light and nervously laughed. She knew better than to speak. It had happened, something she dreamed of for years and she would not let a volley of emotion interrupt the serenity.

Sharon was in the bathroom when Dean let Petey in. She was blowing her nose, sniffing some water for comfort and examining her skin in the mirror when she decided to leave the bathroom. As she approached the doorway to the living room she saw the men in a Mexican stand-off, sitting down. “Oh.” She mouthed. Dean looked at her quickly as her presence caught the attention of the other two men she recognized as Petey and Little John. “If you so much as look at her, I will blow you both away before you can blink.” Dean said matter of factly. They rested their eyes between one another. Petey sat on the floor by the coffee table, Little John was on the floor by the curios cabinet and Dean was the tip of the triangle facing both of them, gun in hand and one on his lap. “This is why I don’t like having people over who don’t call first. Someone comes over and has a hot temper and the next thing I know, I’ve got two high and angry thieves arguing over how what they stole rightfully

The shower was running, Parker could see steam come from underneath the door. She had to pee. “Sam, hurry up, I gotta pee.” “Just a minute.” The shower droned on. She went to the kitchen and smoked a cigarette. Her window faced the west. She was watching the traffic go by, inevitably from the beach or to the beach, on this warm day. The cigarette was out. She got up and changed shirts into a tank top.  She was done waiting for Sam to get out of the bathroom. “Sam! Goddamnit! I have to pee!” When he didn’t reply she pounded on the door. Nothing. Well, he’d been in there long enough to drown. She waited a few more minutes while smoking another cigarette. The urgency of needing to urinate won and she knocked on the door again.  Nothing. He had looked sweaty when he came over and the racing gloves in 80 degree weather was a little ridiculous for driving a 1970s BMW around, its alternator was out and he had to constantly rev the engine and use the brake at the same time

The betta fish has been flotsam for about a week now, maybe longer. I don’t know why I keep putting fish food in the goldfish bowl, but I do. It sinks to the bottom in rainbow colors till like all promises of nurture, disappears into the tiny rocks, pebbles, stepping stones of our aquarium filled lives. I rationalize that my fish was just another small import from Asia to fascinate the cubicle dwellers in envious color, a fad, a pet rock like fad. Just another way for us to house cockfights at our desk and think of it as humane, not a big deal, after all they’re just Siamese fighting fish. If I’d had two pit bulls I’m pretty sure I would’ve gotten fired sooner. Maybe I should have had two pit bulls, they’re expected to fight, kill kill kill. What’s the difference? I shouldn’t have exposed my gambling problem. I have an urge to dramatically pick up the goldfish bowl that houses the dead bloated body of Seymour the Siamese Fight Fish Champion and smash it in all his glory against the k

Ilene arrived from the gate, walking toward Lola. She smiled warmly, they hugged and walked toward the baggage claim. She fanned her kilt that she was wearing over a pair of dark blue jeans, the aroma of pot filled the immediate area. She laughed and Lola smacked her arm. “You have to stop that.” “I don’t know what you all are so worried about out here…Can you smell that?” “Yes, I’m pretty sure everyone in terminal C can smell it!” They collided shoulders in a friendly manner and waited for the luggage to drop. On the drive back to the house they made plans to go to Lawrence on Saturday. “There just has to be a scene here, Lo, you just aren’t finding it.” She lit a cigarette. “There just has to be.” Ilene was convinced every visit to Kansas City that there was some sort of artistic/musical/hipster underground that they just weren’t finding. “So, I was reading your newspaper online and I see you have a serial killer on the loose.” She pressed a button o

I’m not sure how I came to that conclusion as a little girl when asked what I wanted to be when I grew up that the logical answer was “a cocktail waitress at Caesar’s Casino in Vegas.” Now, at thirty-two, I’d just received my uniform for the hotel cocktail waitress position I once thought would be elegant and glamorous. As an adult, I’d been in marketing positions with various corporate companies since I was out of high school. After being chained to a desk and departing on airplanes to arrive and pitch an idea (be it what it may) I had no desire to become a cocktail waitress. Until of course, I moved to Kansas City and my delusions of corporate America were destroyed after being assaulted by my former employer. I had no desire to jet set anymore. Serving alcohol to the occasional convention attendee or business man killing laptop time increments was fine with me. Lana had been with the hotel for over 20 years. I couldn’t help but notice she didn’t have a gold watch. She’d b

It was hot. A typical August heatwave and Los Angeles would part her legs for no pleasure tonight and the humidity she bore was unbearable for anyone else to sleep with. Grifter got up and opened the sliding glass door to the balcony. He was finally able to open the windows and balcony doors again now that he’d solved the problem of the old bat across the way. About six months ago, he’d asked her to kindly turn down her television. It wasn’t that he minded she was most likely deaf and had to have it on loudly to hear, it was the fact that she never turned it off. It was almost as if the three a.m. infomercials needed to be turned up even louder so that she could order that Nordovac system and God forbid you couldn’t hear the evangelists at the crack of a Sunday dawn. Upon asking her to turn down the television after ten p.m. like any other law biding citizen, she told him to fuck off. He didn’t react except with a nod of the head and pivoted slowly toward the step off he

I am sitting in the waiting room area of Cal Worthington Ford. Football is on the 20” screen that is here for the comfort of their guests while their friends or loved ones purchase their dream new or used Vehicle. Across from me is a bored salesman who came with the specific goal to hit on me. He’s wearing a yellow shirt and black pants, on a busy day it must look like a hive of bees around these cars. I am staring at my computer screen ignoring him, while he taps his fingers annoyingly against the steal armrests of his polyester blue chair. Well, maybe he didn’t come in to hit on me and is anxious for the score, is today Superbowl Sunday? Anyone who grew up in Los Angeles remembers Cal Worthington. Cal was on between Warner Brothers and Hanabarbara cartoons, talk shows and newscasts on local channels. Cal Worthington was old when I was in grade school. Somehow, he’s not dead. In fact, the LA Times wrote an article on the old bastard. He still demands to do his own commerc