OK, so Jezebel had a contest going for very short fiction, but alas, they closed early due to overwhelming responses. But I did write a miserable stream of conscience piece of crap that I knew had nil chance of winning, but was like “eh, what the hell!” Paint me vagina pink and call me Virginia Woolf, but it needs some sort of airing, so it gets it here among my devoted fans. Remember, it’s fiction. I don’t got no Gothic lover, though Lily is similarly neurotic.
E. Coli for the Soul
by Lisa B.
Lily thinks she’s in love. She also thinks she’s dying, but she will do nothing about either issue. Lily sees love as a germ similar to the flu. Love comes upon you suddenly and hard, then more often than not, leaves you weakened instead of dead. Death, on the other hand, is fatal, and she has no desire to know that she’s dying.
Is the pain in her abdomen strained muscles, or millions of cancer cells building and spreading throughout her body? Will she stop thinking about The Man so often? Wonder what he’d think about this thing, or that person? He is dark, brooding, but strangely kind. Lily loves the darkness, the Gothic quality of his personality. The sadness she loves too, her attraction to people who are more unhappy than she is acts like a magnet.
I will help you. I’ll love you. Please love me too. She won’t say it. She’s become a mute. Love is a contaminant to friendship, e. coli for the soul. He would reject her, not wish to speak to her anymore, and most importantly, he loves someone else better suited for him…
But death, now that’s a weighty subject for a weighty woman. As long as she avoids the doctor, she won’t have to know she’s dying if it so happens she is dying. She may not be dying at all, but she won’t take a chance for someone to say she is.
Everything is complicated in her mind.
Instead of loving or dying, Lily goes for a swim.