Stories
Disappear Completely
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Girl On A Train
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"Disappear Completely is the third
installment of my ongoing story collaboration with David Agasi, completed
in New York, October 27, 2006."
Disappear Completely
Toshiyasu Inoue, Narrator: David Agasi
Katherine Carling: Joel Hanson
It was late in what was
known as deep autumn, when the threat of snow appeared more menacing than
it had previously, that Toshiyasu Inoue decided to step out of his work
uniform once and for all. Neglecting to inform coworkers of his decision,
he strategically fell out of step with the body-filled spaces around him,
allowing instead the heavy shag carpet of his father’s former study to
engulf his everyday like a comforting lamb of redemption. Months would
pass, and not long afterwards, they had—just like that—passed. He enjoyed
the certainty of this phenomenon so much that he believed leaving the
apartment would make time stop altogether, and this thought terrified him.
The majority of those
present might impatiently enquire as to why such a drastic shift in
lifestyle, should one care to call it that, was necessary. Life is always
in the end a sedimentary thing, something lashed to a pole which the
minutes, spilling into days and finally decades, pass their death upon. No
man’s life, no matter the color or comforts it may contain, is clever
enough to outfox its curtained closing ceremony. But Inoue had time. He
was precise about framing it with just the right amount of indifference to
assure that his plans on Earth had been worth it. Japan was the country to
blame for those experiences responsible for veiling his actions from “the
rest of them,” but there was no particular resentment present while
referring to this fact. By and large, yesterday or tomorrow, under any dim
caption or personal dare, Inoue knew that any town on any continent would
have pressed him to close the door, to open it for no one. His freedom lay
not in the more than modest inheritance he had acquired since the death of
his father, a high-end official in his prefecture whose mysterious
automobile accident left his ruptured 67-year-old torso too far from the
crash site to warrant a conclusive string of investigation. Nor did Inoue
Toshiyasu in any way believe money helped most people manage their tiny
lives. Invisible frequencies buzzed violently about the men with money,
and in this poison tide pool of murderously internalized forces, Inoue
began as early as five years of age to hike a different mountain.
(for entire
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"The short story
“Cut” is the
second story of my online collaboration with David Agasi. CAUTION: This work of fiction contains material relating to
violence and sexuality."
Cut
Katherine Carling: Joel Hanson
David: David Agasi
“Don’t you want to watch me
cut myself? You’re not the least bit curious?” In the candlelight, David
is sprawled out on my royal blue bedspread, head propped up by his right
arm, brown eyes wide and wet with surprise from the question, which is, of
course, unnecessary. I don’t need any permission for what I’m about to do.
I know David will be curious about—or complicit with—whatever plan I
devise tonight (our second together) because his goal is simple: he wants
to fuck me, just like any other guy I’ve met since I was 13. Oh, he’ll do
his best to cover up his true intentions—David is a slightly finer breed
than most of his base gender (and undeniably attractive in his fedora and
black overcoat): he likes to overplay his intellectual sophistication and
feign emotional empathy to fool a woman into letting her guard down,
trusting him, and, ultimately, sleeping with him. But it’s not difficult
to see through that pathetically obvious strategy.
God, he’s staring at
my breasts again. I thought my red, sleeveless turtleneck could draw his
attention elsewhere but David seems principally intrigued by what he can’t
see. No doubt the man has some imagination. But it’s so disappointing to
know that all men are attracted to the same stupid things: a pair of
well-formed breasts, the flare of a woman’s hip, a shapely ass. I won’t
lie to myself: I’ve been given all three and I’m consistently the object
of unwanted attention as a result. But why the second date when it was
obvious from the first one that David and I have very little to say to one
another? He arrived just an hour ago with a handful of CD burns he told me
“you must hear” but I know what he really wants. Is the sexual impulse so
strong that a man will lie to himself and a woman he’s attracted to just
for a few minutes of fleeting pleasure? Is it possible to establish a
spiritual connection with a man that doesn’t lead to the inevitable—and
always dissatisfying—sex afterward? Well, I’m going to test him, like all
those other losers who tried to shag me in high school. I’m going to see
how much shit he’ll put up with before he decides I’m not worth it. Or
better yet, I’ll force him to discard what I believe to be his dubious
relationship ideals—that emotional connections invariably lead to physical
ones. I gaze at him through the strands of my brown hair, unwashed for
three days now, the curl of a smile on my lips. Then, I watch the shadow
of his horizontal form flicker on the sponge-painted brown wall behind
him. I reach for the pink razor and wait for his answer.
(for entire
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Girl On A Train Photo: Milford, CT Train
Station, October 2006 - Copyright © 2006 David Agasi,
www.davidagasi.com. |
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Milford, CT Train Station October 2006 |
The short story
“Girl
On A Train” is the result of a collaboration
between myself and fellow ESL teacher/photographer/traveler
David Agasi. It is entirely a work of fiction.
Girl On A Train
Foreigner: written by Joel Hanson
Native: written by David Agasi
In a crowded car on the Denentoshi Line in the dead of winter, I spot her
immediately. She is standing diagonally to my right, behind the light-gray
suited businessman who also stands in the middle of the car and coughs
into a white handkerchief. She's beautiful and bewitching, a sharp enough
distraction to momentarily puncture this bubble of boredom and routine
I've been enveloped in for the past 11 months. The abundance of beautiful
Japanese women is a constant distraction. But since I can't speak Japanese
and have no intention of learning, there is no way to delve deeper than
their glossy surfaces. And thus there is very little to distinguish one
woman from another. They are all singularly beautiful and frustratingly
unavailable.
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