Potluck

 

T H I S    W E E K

WATERSLIDES IN AUXILIARY HOSPITAL WASHROOM by Daniel Thompson

 

Samson

         Samson had been born and raised in North Dakota, he’d made all his major mistakes there first, and though the world had gripped him like a burin and used him to gouge out several travels  across its curved and rugged surface, Samson always called the plains near Bowman home.  Somewhat akin to the brand new taste of some accidentally-first-tried food, Samson’s surprise  was major and real when he literally stumbled over a Judy Doll that someone some time back  had carefully folded in an airtight pouch and laid in a mine shaft Samson explored last May, the  same day he also found a nine-carat gold nugget.

          In the printed instructions that accompanied the Judy Doll, she was described as being sixty-inches tall and anatomically correct. The yellowed paper further stated that this particular Doll’s name was Lady. While it took him much inhaling and blowing through her nozzle to give Lady her deserved dimensions, once Samson had enabled Lady’s growth and presence, he became smitten most of all by her understanding silence. He told himself that just because Lady was not expected to talk, that in no way diminished her sex appeal or her utility. But as the weeks went by, the question Samson came to most frequently ask himself was: Would Lady’s attractive quiet remain satisfactory enough for him in the months and years to come, satisfactory enough to overcome her somewhat lifeless personality and a somewhat-too-glossy-and-rigid demeanor.

          Well, Samson honestly gave her the test of time, and, after more than six months, he decided Lady was the best woman he was going to get in life, that he wasn’t going to do any better. But, shit, mistakes can so easily happen, especially after one assumes that everything that matters is safely battened down and tucked out of harm’s way. One night, as Samson and Lady sat on the sofa watching the cable channel, he politely excused himself and reached across her torso to scoop up a handful of salted nuts from a bowl on his oaken end table, and he accidentally and rapidly deflated Lady when his cat’s eye ring nicked her nipple as his hand was coming back with a load of nice cashews. At first shocked, and then, in gradual turn, cognizant and despondent, Samson nonetheless adjusted admirably to the untoward circumstances. In  remarkably little time he concluded that were he to return to the mine shaft near Minot, he  naturally could optimize his chances of coming upon another Judy Doll. So he went back into the mine—more than once, as a matter of fact—and while it’s sadly true he never came up with another Lady, he did find three more hefty gold nuggets, and by the time Samson had found a fourth nugget, Lady-the-Judy-Doll’s reality had positively dimmed, dropping down to the lesser magnitude of some flickering, decaying star in North Dakota’s vast and comprehending nighttime sky.

 

William C. Blome is a writer of short fiction and poetry. He lives in-between Baltimore and Washington, DC, and he is a master’s degree graduate of the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. His work has previously seen the light of day in such fine little mags as Amarillo Bay, Prism International, Laurel Review, The Oyez Review, Salted Feathers and The California Quarterly.