— sssssorry

My son’s just died in a horrific car accident.

He hasn’t. I don’t have a son.

But that’s what I say when something’s gone wrong. When I get caught, you know, stealing or whatever. Never say sorry; it’s an admission of guilt, that you’ve done something warranting an apology. I just say it and walk off. I’m an age now where I could have a son. I guess that’s why it works. When I was younger I would just have to run. I’m not so fast these days, guess I’m smarter though. I know to play on people’s sympathy instead.

—

This was from short short stories.

Which was a zine I made of short stories measuring precisely 100 words, or comics lasting 1 panel.

Click above or on the link to the right to see it in its entirety.

Hope it entertains you. Briefly

Her nails tapped incessantly on the black plastic of the dash and a loose lock of hair was compulsively moved off her brow only for it to fall back each time. No matter how many times she told herself she was calm, her palms were still slick. All she could think was: it never looked like this on screen. In movies they all seemed to make it look so effortless. Maybe if she smoked she’d look the part.

Finally he returned. She saw him in the wing mirror first. He looked pale and distracted. His mind seemed to be elsewhere as he walked at pace. She tried to sit upright like some noir femme fatale, as if her casualness and confidence could rub off on him. But he just sat down in the driver’s seat, stared into middle distance and swallowed.

At first she waited for him to say something as if trying to be aware of his feelings.

So what happened?

I’m not really sure, he replied. He talked like he didn’t have any air left in him. His eyes moved as if on a delay only turning to face her a second after answering.

She struggled to keep her voice even. You’re not really sure?

It got pretty crazy in there.

Oh, ok.

Silence fell on them again.

She sounded like she knew she shouldn’t ask the question but she was forcing it out anyway. Did you, um, did you shoot any of them?

They both looked down at the gun in his hand. He was having trouble keeping it from trembling. In films the hero always looks innately comfortable with a handgun, like it’s a natural extension of themselves. He didn’t look like that.

Yeah. I think I shot them.

Ok. Where do you think you shot them?

His brow furrowed at the question.

Back there in the…

She cut him off as he turned round in the drivers seat to point back at where he’d just come from. No, where on the body do you think you shot them?

Oh, I’m not sure, he replied.

Ok, I know this is weird, but do you think you killed any of them? As she asked the question she glanced back in the direction he’d come from.

I hope so.

What do you mean you hope so?

Well I’ve only got two bullets left.

But you got the bag back?

Yeah.

Maybe we should get going then. Her voice had moved from mothering to guiding.

Yeah. Yeah. We should get going.

He reached down to the ignition. The point of the key danced around keyhole before he managed to steady it in. Suddenly he let out a rasping dry gag. He got the driver’s door open before throwing up, managing to get the majority of it in the space between the car and the kerb.

He turned back to her sitting next to him. She stared back wide-eyed and open mouthed. In his head he dead panning it out, telling her not to worry, reassuring her it was just the adrenaline. In reality he got out three and a half syllables before throwing up again.

He turned back to her a second time, eyes watering, mouth moist. Don’t worry, it’s just the adrenaline, he managed to say this time.

Ok. Sure. I understand. But we need to go.

He knew she was placating him but didn’t have the energy to try and explain anymore so he started the car and they pulled away.

—

This was part of the zine, 2 Stories. Find it here or in the zines panel on the right.