"Snapping Turtle, Fish Messenger" is a short fiction story (that is technically also flash fiction) that explores the themes of normalness among a vaguely-American society. Content warning: this story contains some violence and mild gore, as well as strong language.
By all definitions, he is Normal. He is a Normal Man with a Normal Job. An ordinary job. An ordinary life which is simultaneously mundane and sad, the latter of which is pissing him off. But it doesn’t matter, of course, because he is Normal. He wakes up. He takes the bus. He goes to work. He takes the bus. He heats up leftover chicken soup for dinner and semi-enjoys a beer. He thinks about them. He goes to sleep at a reasonable hour. Normal.
It’s a quarter past eight and he’s there, in line, foot tapping. The cafe is small but adequate, he thinks. It’s packed, but again, it’s the morning coffee rush. Normal. There are too many sounds too many noises too many Other people, as usual.
He watches them go by. A scone. A latte. A mocha. A coffee, black. And then it’s him.
The barista is standing there smiling, she’s so nice. Her black hair in a braid down her shoulder, her olive skin tan from the summer. She asks what he’d like, and he gives her the order, but they’re out of the dark roast right now. So in return,
[he leaps behind the counter and pours the boiling coffee on her and her skin is bright red and screaming and then he shoves her under the steamer and turns it on and then she’s gasping, begging, crying, the people are yelling for him to stop]
he asks for a tea. A green tea. A Normal tea.
He sits at his desk, types nothing at his keyboard, listens to the Other people in the Other cubicles. A stack of papers accompanies his empty head. The job is boring, so extremely boring and Normal. An email. A PowerPoint deck. Two meetings. Another email.
The Other people are so loud so annoying Kelly won’t stop heating up tuna in the office microwave and Jack won’t quit chewing with his mouth open and David is coming by to ask him another question.
And then, she comes by. If anything, at least it’s a change of pace.
She’s too tall, too bossy, too annoying. Too much like his ex-wife with the blond hair and the bossy attitude. Too harsh and then she drops off the letter and suddenly it’s 3:46 and he’s
[taking the pen and he thrusts it into her eye, and she’s screaming and crying and she falls down and bashes her head on the side of a desk and she’s gone]
leaving the office, back on the bus, and he’s standing in his driveway by half past 4.
He opens the mailbox and takes out the junk and the bills. He tosses the majority of the paper away, who cares anyway about the red ink and the capital letters.
He sits on the couch and turns on the T.V., drinking a beer that disgusts him almost as much as the breaking news anchor. As usual, it’s all blabber. All for show. The idiot talks about government spending and the local council guy, and all of a sudden
[he’s on the studio on camera and he slams the anchor to the ground and punches her and punches her and punches her]
there’s a knock at the door.
It’s that cursed bitch, she’s talking about something money or other. She won’t let him near them until he gives her the papers, so
[he grabs the fire poker and she’s the flame, and he twists and twists until there’s nothing but screams and blood and blood]
he slams the door on her and returns to the couch.
It’s morning, and for once, he’s at home, still on the couch, still in his white polo and khakis and dress socks from yesterday. For once, he sees a white mail truck approach its target on the top of his driveway.
He yawns, and he slips on his dress shoes and walks to the mailbox, hair sticking up in parts like lightning struck, face unshaven like a cactus. She smiles at him anyways and hands him another pile of paper. In it is more shit he doesn’t care about, but one letter catches his eye:
NOTICE OF FORECLOSURE
What the fuck.
Who did the mailwoman think she was, giving him a letter like that? Honestly,
[he’s throwing his hands around her throat, hearing her scream cut off and watching her wriggle under his grasp, feeling the thump thump thump of her pulse as it quickens and then subsequently weakens, until there’s just nothing, nothing anymore]
he never really liked her anyways. She drives off, and he’s alone again.
There he is, sad old him. Him the nothing. Him the loser.
Him in line to buy cheap whiskey.
The girl at the counter is friendly and helpful, pointing him to a nice but affordable option. She takes his card and puts it in.
“Sir, do you have another card?”
Damn, he thinks, and then he’s
taking the heavy bottle and he reaches it over the counter and smashes it over her head. She falls to the ground, a heap of woman, and he’s got the neck of the bottle in his hand and he stabs it into her and again and again and again, there’s blood spattering on the counter on the walls on the ceiling on the poster warning against drinking and driving
[leaving the liquor store]
Wait.
He stands back, panting, realizing. His forehead is dripping, and so are his hands; a mix of blood, sweat, and whiskey. She’s on the floor, unrecognizable from her former cheery self. He steps back, and his shoes stick slightly. The surroundings are spattered in it.
Him the Abnormal, him the Unordinary. Him who has finally explored that side of him.
He drops the rest of the bottle and grins.