edith zimmerman

A series of very short stories.

“David, where’s the cleaver?” I asked.

“I’m not sure, honey,” he said without glancing up from the paper. “Have you checked the drawer?”

“Of course I’ve checked the drawer,” I said, putting my hands on my hips.

“Have you checked the wooden knife block?”

“Obviously I’ve checked the knife block, David. I’ve looked everywhere,” I said.

“Hmm. Oh, actually, you know what? It might be upstairs in my briefcase.”

“What?”

“I’m not sure, but there’s a chance it might be in my briefcase. Or not, I can’t remember,” he said lightly. “Just an idea.”

I stared at him. “All right. I’ll go check.” So I did. And it turned out the cleaver was right there in his briefcase like he said, wrapped in a red silk ribbon and tucked into a custom leather carrying case. Weird, right? What’s up with him?

A series of very short stories.

Marge stepped onto the scale and waited until the arrow settled on a number. “Well, that can’t be right,” she mumbled into her chest. So she stepped off and gave the scale a chance to reset before stepping onto it again. “God damn it,” she said as the arrow settled on the same number as before. She instinctively looked up and around her. “Someone’s been playing a practical joke on me,” she said to herself.

Marge lived alone, so it was unlikely someone had played a joke on her. First things first, however, Marge threw the scale into the garbage and poured lighter fluid over it. Then she walked to the door and lit a match, which she threw at the pile of garbage. As she walked down the stairs she heard a series of explosions, smelled smoke and gasoline, and felt extreme blistering heat at her back. But she knew she’d go crazy if she kept focusing on the negative, so she sat down at the kitchen table and poured herself a glass of wine.

WHO. READS. THIS. FUCKING. COLUMN.

And this teaser isn’t code for some other experience, like “hopes for better weather” means she hopes there’s no crying or death or something, bitch straight up wrote a column about how last time she was in Nantucket it rained and she hopes it doesn’t rain when she goes back. Fingers crossed.

Michelle fucking Slatalla. Who reads this shit and is like, “Nice, perfect, you really nailed the universal female experience yet again, keep up the amazing work”? Every week it’s some insufferable complaint about how her daughter is too smart or her wallet is too full or her husband loves her too much or her face looks too young. UGH. Fucking seriously, though?! The hardships of being invited to Nantucket?!?! There once was a lady who went to Nantucket / She sucked so hard everyone who read her column wanted to strangle her every fucking week / No one did / She kept writing / FUUUUUCK

Hey guys! I’m subbing at New York Magazine’s Daily Intel blog this week, writing their daily Gossipmonger column. Find out all about who was in that hot tub with Rebecca Gayheart right here. Click on it a few hundred times if you want!

A series of very short stories.

“But there weren’t any spiders in this box when I put it away last night,” Maria said as she stared in frustration into the box that was now filled with spiders.

“I don’t know how they got there, either,” I said, shrugging.

“Are you sure?” she asked me, her eyes narrowing. I work at a spider zoo, so I could understand her curiosity.

“I’m sure,” I said.

A series of very short stories.

A series of very short stories.

“Hello, kitty,” I said to the little gray cat that came through my window. “What do you have there?” I asked, noticing that it had a letter tied to its leg. I unrolled the letter and read it out loud.

“If anyone finds this letter, please send help immediately! I’m trapped in a cage that someone built out of human bones, and I’m being kept here as a prisoner. I don’t know by whom. But I’ve been surviving for the past five months on rats and water that leaks from the ceiling into a puddle on the floor. I used spare rat flesh to lure this cat to me, and once I had it near me I tied this letter to its leg with my own hair. The letter itself is written on a square torn from my own skin, and the ink is blood. Please, if anyone anywhere is reading this letter, you must send help right away. I don’t know where I am—only that it’s underground and every morning just before dawn someone prances around my cage and runs a stick along the bars and sings a song. I don’t know what it means, only that—”

Well, this is strange, I thought to myself as I nuzzled the cat. It was so cute! My girlfriend was in the next room, so I called her in and asked if it would be all right if we kept the cat. She said yes right away (yay!), and we started thinking of good names for it. I wanted to call it Munchkin, and she wanted to call it Sneaky. Eventually we came to a compromise and decided to call it Munchky.

*          *          *          *          *

Driving home from work I noticed something strange crawling out of the swamp. I couldn’t tell what it was for sure, though, so I pulled over and walked down the embankment to get a closer look. When I got to the swamp’s edge, I saw that it was a green man.

He didn’t look hurt, as far as I could tell, but I asked him anyway. “Sir, are you all right?” He cocked his head and made a clicking noise at me. I was surprised to see that instead of a typical mouth like you or I might have, his mouth was vertical, with teeth on the right and left sides, and it opened and shut, rapidly, like automatic sliding doors. I asked him whether he’d been in an accident and would like to use my cell phone, but instead of responding he unfurled a third arm from inside his throat and used it to pluck the phone from my hand and insert it—well, he tried to insert it into my bottom. “Easy now, sir,” I said, gently deflecting his unusual advances. “I’d be happy to dial for you if there’s someone you’d like to contact.”

Anyway, after I got home I realized I must have gotten some sand under my contacts, because both my eyeballs were red and there was blood crusted all around them.

A series of very short stories.

I came home to find a haunted trunk in my living room. “How did it get there?” I asked my husband Paul.

He looked up from his paper and told me he didn’t know.

I shook my head and sighed, then went into the kitchen to start preparing dinner. Before I started cooking, however, I poured myself a tall glass of white wine to relax. Just then, I heard a horrible scream. I raced back to the living room but it was too late—Paul was gone, and there was blood leaking from the trunk. I never saw Paul again, so I can’t say where he went.

*          *          *          *          *

Dear Diary, My mother’s friend Diane tried to kill me yesterday. She was over visiting with my mom, and when my mom went to the bathroom she pulled a knife out of her purse and started chasing me like crazy. I ran into my room and slammed the door—fortunately it has a lock. Diane went back downstairs, and then eventually she left. Should I tell my mom what happened? I know you’re just a diary and can’t write back…

Dear Jessica, This is your diary speaking. You need to tell your mom what happened—it’s really weird, not to mention scary. You could have died.

Dear Diary, Wow, I can’t believe you wrote back. Anyway, you’re right, I should probably tell my mom. I’ll have to wait until tomorrow, though, because Diane’s over again tonight, and at dinner she kept staring at me and pointing at her purse.

Dear Jessica, You have to tell your mom right now.

Dear Diary, OK, I’ll go tell her. Ugh, someone’s banging on my door really, really hard. I think it’s going to break! Hold on…