A Sinking Shit Donut.

Isaac Smith
Craft Fiction
Exercise #3


Sally circled her finger in the dust next to the lamp. Months and months spent preoccupied by medical terms. Her grandmother, Pearl, had been a nurse. “Effortlessly,” thought Sally. But Sally felt the effort weigh against her every movement like thick humidity. Sinking her at moments with the lists, endless and pitiless lists.
Rasmussen encephalitis, lactobacillus, ocular prosthesis, and recurrent abortion.
She flopped on her bed, a twisted appendage, rigid in the summer heat. Staring at the ceiling she notice someone had written, “Exhume to Consume” on one of the tiles near the bathroom. “What a morbid thing to write,” thought Sally. “And why on the ceiling and why have I not noticed it before?” The room took a gloomy aura suddenly and Sally took her glasses off and placed them in the bedside drawer, on top of the photo of her and her ex-fiance standing in front of the Panda exhibit at the zoo. Things felt easy to control when they blurred at the edges, shifted as fuzz and floated in translucent light. School was over now. She could relax before starting her internship. Tomorrow she would dust, sweep the dander and rubble of two years worth of her life. “Suture and caulk,” muttered Sally as she turned the old lamp off.
It started with a baby, elongated like a long hallway, white and puffy. Someone yelling as if in a war movie. “THE BABY WILL EXPLODE!” Tubes and such spilled from the baby’s sides. Black and sticky. Sally turned in circles with her hands held to her head, in the universal sign of woe.
“Who’s in charge?”
“The Panda!” said a voice as one of the hoses severed and rich black smoke billowed from the open hole in the baby’s chubby leg.
“What will we do?” cried Sally.
“Run!” answered the Panda while grabbing Sally’s arm. “I’m just kidding. First, never hire endangered animals to do a simple enough job. Don’t let the baby explode. Sounds pretty simple to my ears. Right?”
“I guess,” answered Sally.
“I guess. Sally. I guess sounds like the space between an idea and a fuck up. Are you a fuck up?”
“I...don’t...what do you mean by fuck up?”
“Look here, this baby is a lost cause. A sinking shit donut. Let’s wash our hands and go...sailing. Sailing Sally. Do you sail or are you a fuck up?
“We can’t just give up on the baby?” Sally looked at the baby and it had become flattened, a limp raft of pale skin and bulging blue eyes with a whimper here and there.
“Sally, there’s a saying in the panda world. You need to know when to fight and you need to know when to eat bamboo. Ecouter. It’s French for fight. Now we all could take an orifice and blow until the cows came all crapping and tipping home but it wouldn’t change a thing for this baby. See. But don’t look so glum Sally. The thing didn’t explode. Now an exploding baby is the worse. Little flaming pieces of baby bone. See this scar?” Sally peered closely to the Panda’s chest. “Back in 74, a bad one, a real bungle, a shit scooper is what we call it in the business, and I took a pinky bone a half an inch from my aortic valve. Now when it snows my knees swell and I want a ham hock dipped in honey like a junky wants a juice of gold.” The Panda paused and pushed his paw to his chest and rubbed like one rubs a toddlers head when they’ve done something fabulous like tinkle in the toilet or eat the crust of a sandwich. “Besides. Babies are easy to come by. Dribbles and drool sprouting from every tree and shrub.”
“But I was fond of this baby,” said Sally with a little kick towards one of the deflated legs.
“Well I’ve never been one to stand in someone’s way. I’m sure you’re a talented young lady. By all means do your magic. I, on the other hand am going sailing.” The Panda bowed and disappeared into the lingering smoke.
Sally stood there. Alone. Thinking. She needed a bicycle pump. Yes, hope wasn’t lost. Only delayed.