GLOBAL REPLACE & Other Stories
SHORT STORIES WITH LONG TAILS
Two wives share a house divided. A writer writes himself a sexy new partner. A backseat driver's trapped. An elevator runs out of floors. And clothes control the man. Short, sharp jabs into your mind. Philosophical sci-fi quick reads. 17 pages.
Two wives share a house divided. A writer writes himself a sexy new partner. A backseat driver's trapped. An elevator runs out of floors. And clothes control the man. Short, sharp jabs into your mind. Philosophical sci-fi quick reads. 17 pages.
A House Divided (complete short story)
I have a bedroom wife and a kitchen wife. You must be thinking, lucky man… But I’m not.
“Did you call the plumber?” asked my wife.
I nuzzled the coolness of my just-turned pillow. “Why?”
She lowered her book—or what passed for a book in these strange times—peered over her spectacles and raised her eyebrows. “Because,” she said, spacing her words, “the kitchen tap’s dripping.”
“I can’t hear it,” I grumbled, sitting up.
“You’re deaf,” she said, “and getting deafer.”
“Okay, I’ll check.”
I staggered down the hall and tripped, arrived in the kitchen, and flicked on the lights. A brown thing scuttled, and something lacy flew, but the tap was new and glinting, and the sink was dry. “There’s nothing wrong,” I called.
Silence.
I hurried back, stubbed my toe again, and limped to bed. “There’s nothing wrong with the tap,” I said, rubbing my foot.
“It’s still dripping,” she grumbled, and closed her book. “I can hear it. And stop scratching, I need to sleep.”
“You must call the builder,” she announced the next morning.
I fiddled with the black and chrome coffee machine. “Why?”
She raised an eyebrow and laid her spoon across her muesli, like a headmaster’s cane. “Because the bedroom ceiling’s falling in, and there’s dust everywhere.”
Boiling espresso spat and dribbled. “What are you talking about?” I asked.
“I’ve been on at you for weeks to get it fixed.”
“First I’ve heard,” I said.
She glared.
“Okay, I’ll have a look.”
I tripped again in the hall, so I crouched down and ran my finger over the floorboards. There was a slight ridge going crosswise, like a tiny railway running over a scorched plain. Frowning, I slouched to the bedroom.
“There’s nothing wrong,” I called, “the ceiling’s fine. Needs painting, but that’s it. There’s no dust or plaster anywhere. There’s nothing wrong.”
Silence.
I fell again on the way back. “There’s nothing wrong with the bedroom,” I repeated, limping into the kitchen and dabbing my coffee-wetted shirt, “but the hallway floor’s uneven. I hurt my toe. Bloody thing.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, I’ll call the builder.” And with that, she stormed out.
The day moved on, her absence filling the house with a quiet and amenable tranquillity. The kitchen tap behaved, and the ceilings stayed up. The coffee maker spat and hissed, and the dishwasher grumbled and hummed, while out in the laundry, the washing machine churned. There was nothing wrong with the place at all; it was my wife who was cracking up.
And left alone and undisturbed, I finished another chapter, so it was a good day.
“I called the builder,” she said over dinner, stabbing a potato. It flew off her plate, smeared the table, and rolled to the floor. “Fuck!” She frowned, on the verge of tears. “But he can't come, he’s booked for months.”
“Did you try other ones?” I asked.
“Of course I bloody did, but they’re all busy—ceilings are falling down everywhere…”
“All my fault, I suppose.”
“Don’t be stupid,” she snapped.
And so we ate in silence.
“The ceiling’s fine,” I said as we lay in bed that night. “We don’t need builders.”
“You’re mad,” was all she said.
So we went to sleep.
The next day, she was back to her old tricks. “The ceiling’s worse,” she moaned, bashing dishes in the kitchen sink. “We need a tradesman, now.”
Smash.
“You’re mad,” I said, “the ceiling’s fine, I checked it last night. Remember?”
“Idiot,” she spat, and stormed away.
Once she’d gone, the day improved. But, out of an abundance of husbandly duty, I inspected the bedroom ceiling. It was perfect, just as I knew it would be. And in the quiet of my deserted, happy house, I finished another chapter of my book.
I leant back and sighed, pleased with my labours and my plot. And then it hit me: I had two wives: a kitchen wife, with a collapsing bedroom ceiling, and a bedroom wife, with a dripping kitchen tap. They shuttled back and forth, these two miseries, crossing from their failing worlds to mine. But where was the portal, the nexus in my house? Was it that hallway ridge, the one that tripped me up? Was that the door they used? But if so, why did my world cleave? And why two wives, when one is work enough? All stupid thoughts, of course, but what a story: a husband with two wives, two nagging mates who never met, but crisscrossed in a house that straddled worlds…
Buzzing with ideas, and jabbered at by muses, I returned to my scribblings, to A House Divided.
When I looked up and broke my writing spell, the light was fading. I got up, stretched, and rubbed my back, savouring the worthy aches. Then I drew the curtains, staggered to the kitchen, and poured a whiskey.
Behind me, someone tripped in the passage, muttered, and swore.
Panic soaked my veins, for my two wives were out. I panted, clenched my fists, and shook. But these were useless, atavistic things, for I was a modern weakling, not a caveman, and fiction was my thing, not break-ins.
I turned and there he was, framed in the kitchen doorway. The man was about my height--exactly my height—with a spanner in one hand and a decorator’s brush in the other. A drip of paint collected on the brush’s tip and fell to the floor. He wiped his brow with the back of his spanner-hand and coughed and fixed me with his eyes like mine.
“So there you are,” he said. “And about bloody time, too.”
“What?”
“Take these,” he growled, and thrust his tools at me.
I complied.
“Now fuck off, I’ve got a book to do.” And he pushed past, heading for the lounge room.
I weighed the items in my hands, as if I were comparing fruit. “What the hell do I do with these?” I asked the empty kitchen.
A tap dripped, and down the hall, a crash, and clouds of dust billowed from the bedroom.
I tiptoed to the lounge, expecting to see my doppelgänger hunched over my story, adding gory bits and making it his own. But the place was empty—there was no other me, no writing desk, and all the furniture had gone. The boards were stripped, the ceiling sagged, and soot spilled from the hearth. A bucket of creamy water stood in the middle of the floor, with slops and rags and sponges. Squares of sandpaper littered the mantlepiece. And a chisel, flecked with white and pink, lay on the window sill.
How can anyone write in such chaos? And as I stood there, surrounded by decrepitude and tasks, my story slipped away.
“You’ve missed a bit!” screamed my wife from the bedroom.
“The tap’s no good!” she bellowed from the kitchen.
Footsteps pounded in from left and right. And as they shrieked on either side of me, a tear collected in my eye and fell onto the dirty floor, just like a drip of paint.
Read the other stories....
I have a bedroom wife and a kitchen wife. You must be thinking, lucky man… But I’m not.
“Did you call the plumber?” asked my wife.
I nuzzled the coolness of my just-turned pillow. “Why?”
She lowered her book—or what passed for a book in these strange times—peered over her spectacles and raised her eyebrows. “Because,” she said, spacing her words, “the kitchen tap’s dripping.”
“I can’t hear it,” I grumbled, sitting up.
“You’re deaf,” she said, “and getting deafer.”
“Okay, I’ll check.”
I staggered down the hall and tripped, arrived in the kitchen, and flicked on the lights. A brown thing scuttled, and something lacy flew, but the tap was new and glinting, and the sink was dry. “There’s nothing wrong,” I called.
Silence.
I hurried back, stubbed my toe again, and limped to bed. “There’s nothing wrong with the tap,” I said, rubbing my foot.
“It’s still dripping,” she grumbled, and closed her book. “I can hear it. And stop scratching, I need to sleep.”
“You must call the builder,” she announced the next morning.
I fiddled with the black and chrome coffee machine. “Why?”
She raised an eyebrow and laid her spoon across her muesli, like a headmaster’s cane. “Because the bedroom ceiling’s falling in, and there’s dust everywhere.”
Boiling espresso spat and dribbled. “What are you talking about?” I asked.
“I’ve been on at you for weeks to get it fixed.”
“First I’ve heard,” I said.
She glared.
“Okay, I’ll have a look.”
I tripped again in the hall, so I crouched down and ran my finger over the floorboards. There was a slight ridge going crosswise, like a tiny railway running over a scorched plain. Frowning, I slouched to the bedroom.
“There’s nothing wrong,” I called, “the ceiling’s fine. Needs painting, but that’s it. There’s no dust or plaster anywhere. There’s nothing wrong.”
Silence.
I fell again on the way back. “There’s nothing wrong with the bedroom,” I repeated, limping into the kitchen and dabbing my coffee-wetted shirt, “but the hallway floor’s uneven. I hurt my toe. Bloody thing.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, I’ll call the builder.” And with that, she stormed out.
The day moved on, her absence filling the house with a quiet and amenable tranquillity. The kitchen tap behaved, and the ceilings stayed up. The coffee maker spat and hissed, and the dishwasher grumbled and hummed, while out in the laundry, the washing machine churned. There was nothing wrong with the place at all; it was my wife who was cracking up.
And left alone and undisturbed, I finished another chapter, so it was a good day.
“I called the builder,” she said over dinner, stabbing a potato. It flew off her plate, smeared the table, and rolled to the floor. “Fuck!” She frowned, on the verge of tears. “But he can't come, he’s booked for months.”
“Did you try other ones?” I asked.
“Of course I bloody did, but they’re all busy—ceilings are falling down everywhere…”
“All my fault, I suppose.”
“Don’t be stupid,” she snapped.
And so we ate in silence.
“The ceiling’s fine,” I said as we lay in bed that night. “We don’t need builders.”
“You’re mad,” was all she said.
So we went to sleep.
The next day, she was back to her old tricks. “The ceiling’s worse,” she moaned, bashing dishes in the kitchen sink. “We need a tradesman, now.”
Smash.
“You’re mad,” I said, “the ceiling’s fine, I checked it last night. Remember?”
“Idiot,” she spat, and stormed away.
Once she’d gone, the day improved. But, out of an abundance of husbandly duty, I inspected the bedroom ceiling. It was perfect, just as I knew it would be. And in the quiet of my deserted, happy house, I finished another chapter of my book.
I leant back and sighed, pleased with my labours and my plot. And then it hit me: I had two wives: a kitchen wife, with a collapsing bedroom ceiling, and a bedroom wife, with a dripping kitchen tap. They shuttled back and forth, these two miseries, crossing from their failing worlds to mine. But where was the portal, the nexus in my house? Was it that hallway ridge, the one that tripped me up? Was that the door they used? But if so, why did my world cleave? And why two wives, when one is work enough? All stupid thoughts, of course, but what a story: a husband with two wives, two nagging mates who never met, but crisscrossed in a house that straddled worlds…
Buzzing with ideas, and jabbered at by muses, I returned to my scribblings, to A House Divided.
When I looked up and broke my writing spell, the light was fading. I got up, stretched, and rubbed my back, savouring the worthy aches. Then I drew the curtains, staggered to the kitchen, and poured a whiskey.
Behind me, someone tripped in the passage, muttered, and swore.
Panic soaked my veins, for my two wives were out. I panted, clenched my fists, and shook. But these were useless, atavistic things, for I was a modern weakling, not a caveman, and fiction was my thing, not break-ins.
I turned and there he was, framed in the kitchen doorway. The man was about my height--exactly my height—with a spanner in one hand and a decorator’s brush in the other. A drip of paint collected on the brush’s tip and fell to the floor. He wiped his brow with the back of his spanner-hand and coughed and fixed me with his eyes like mine.
“So there you are,” he said. “And about bloody time, too.”
“What?”
“Take these,” he growled, and thrust his tools at me.
I complied.
“Now fuck off, I’ve got a book to do.” And he pushed past, heading for the lounge room.
I weighed the items in my hands, as if I were comparing fruit. “What the hell do I do with these?” I asked the empty kitchen.
A tap dripped, and down the hall, a crash, and clouds of dust billowed from the bedroom.
I tiptoed to the lounge, expecting to see my doppelgänger hunched over my story, adding gory bits and making it his own. But the place was empty—there was no other me, no writing desk, and all the furniture had gone. The boards were stripped, the ceiling sagged, and soot spilled from the hearth. A bucket of creamy water stood in the middle of the floor, with slops and rags and sponges. Squares of sandpaper littered the mantlepiece. And a chisel, flecked with white and pink, lay on the window sill.
How can anyone write in such chaos? And as I stood there, surrounded by decrepitude and tasks, my story slipped away.
“You’ve missed a bit!” screamed my wife from the bedroom.
“The tap’s no good!” she bellowed from the kitchen.
Footsteps pounded in from left and right. And as they shrieked on either side of me, a tear collected in my eye and fell onto the dirty floor, just like a drip of paint.
Read the other stories....