Short Stories by Lola Nation - Make it Short

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