Fiction: Three Stories by Natalya Malick
Original art by Tanzanian Wojak
Jamal’s Friend
“Yooo, what’s up—what the bidniss is?”
“Aw you know, typical shit…”
“Nnn…”
Jamal took a sip from his cup.
“Nnnnnn….”
Jamal squinted his eyes. He took a short, loud sip. He tilted his head back and belched. Outside, through the car’s rear window, fireworks were filling the sky.
“The fuck is that?”
“What?”
Jamal was deaf in one ear.
“That!” Jamal’s friend said, pointing out the window.
Jamal was blind as well.
The fireworks were for Jamal…
“Man what da fuck—this shit right here?—this shit for you mane. Jamal, Jamal…you da king baby…the city on fire tonight yup yup.”
“I can’t hear you over the music!” Jamal said, and pointed to his one good ear.
Wagner was blasting on the car stereo. Jamal turned it down then said, “What?”
Jamal’s friend physically turned Jamal’s head so his one good ear could hear the popping and sparkling. Jamal smiled.
“It is pleasing to my ears…” he said, “but what is it?”
“It is the ending to the 1812 Overture,” Jamal’s friend said. “The whole block came together and practiced and put it on just for you big brah.”
Jamal smiled.
Great Genius
They would forever rue the day they rejected him. Little did they know what was to become of him. They...what did he want with them anyway?
He was Dostoyevsky, Raskolnikov, Proust, Disney, and Jobs—all rolled into one. But of course they couldn’t recognize this, since they themselves cowered in the shadows of Gaiman, Oates, and Kaur. Pfff…he decided he would send them a little ‘present’. Something to help them remember him forever.
So he sent them a bomb.
BOOM! Yes.
He watched from a distance as they died and were irrevocably mangled inside of their office building. He imagined their bookshelves burning, their tenure letters disintegrating, and he was greatly pleased. He did a victory lap around the west end parking lot of what used to be the English building.
Soon, the police arrived. He was surprised to see that they, too, were elated at the destruction of the university. When they saw him, they shook his hand.
“Victory is ours,” they shouted, but soon, he wondered whether or not the police knew deep down how great he truly was...had they even read his work? It was highly unlikely, since he had never been published. As the minutes passed, he began to grow resentful…why hadn’t they showed any interest in his work? They were ignoring him now...they weren’t even asking him questions about himself! He wondered if they too needed to receive a little ‘present’...
“I—I’ll be right back guys—yeah, yeah,” he said, nodding slowly, trying to act casual, “Just…stay right here.” He scurried away and hastily prepared another bomb in his car. When he looked out the window he saw them happily waiting.
“Hey, do you guys wanna read something I wrote?” he asked, deciding to give them one last chance. The staff sergeant stepped forward and placed a hand inside the car, onto his shoulder.
“You know, son...we thought you’d never ask.”
A Giant Love
“This is nice,” she said, turning circularly in the empty living room. “Real nice.”
“Really? How nice is it?” came a booming voice from the other room. It was followed by loud, crashing footsteps.
“Real nice,” she said, “come see!”
The giant’s face appeared below the arch of the doorway. He bent down and squeezed through the opening.
“That is nice!” he bellowed, squinting his thick lids so he could see every detail. “Chauncey said that you would adore this wallpaper, my love,” she said, her heart fluttering at his warm, approving smile. The giant smiled, thinking of Chauncey and his big bright red sandals, which the giant wished he had a pair of as well.
“Well I do like it indeed,” he said, beaming. Suddenly, his eyes fixated upon a corner of the room; his face darkened considerably.
“What is that doing there?” he asked, pointedly, unhappy about the small picture of Chauncey and Billingsworth, which hung at level height with his love’s head. “It’s absolutely repugnant.”
Once, Billingsworth stole the giant’s refrigerator, and threw it into the river…even thinking about it made the giant’s face contort.
“Get it out of here, or, or…”
She suddenly felt very small. Which she was.
“Or what?” she asked menacingly, as she sauntered over to the picture—then kissed it. She looked over at the giant, then kissed it again. The giant roared.
“This was such a nice…this was such a nice surprise…this wallpaper whinch I loved so much—yes, yes, this was such a lovely encounter with wallpaper—and Chauncey was correct, I did indeed see it was perfect—but this blemish whinch you kissed—you wench—aarrghhh!”
The giant took an egg from his pocket and smashed it against his face. She started to wail, and ran in a wiggly way to the next room.
The giant grabbed the photograph of Chauncey and Billingsworth and, planning to smash this against his head too, became transfixed as he caught a glimpse of the two faces in the picture. He remembered his old friends…suddenly, he heard Paco De Lucia’s “Entre de Los Aguas” being played on a guitar in the distance, perhaps down the street, on a porch that both the giant and the woman would have described as being very nice.
Mm, the giant grumbled, and as he stood staring sadly at this photograph, his love stood watching, peeking out from behind the corner of a door, her heart swelling.
Read Natalya Malick’s other work in Muumuu House and New York Tyrant.
