Dominic Stabile

 

 

“We’re up here bakin’,” Les said to the man pissing on the back of his parents’ house. The man looked up, squinted at the two boys peeking down from the roof. We had crawled out Les’ second floor window, hoping for privacy.

“Nice to meet you, Bacon,” the man said. He zipped his fly and went back into the house.

We laughed and scooted to the wall. The window yawned above us, the noise of the party like distant radio chatter. Truly, it was more humid than hot. The shingles were slick with dew.

“You talked to that girl?” Les asked.

Every time he asked, it was like a knot loosened in my stomach. No one but Les ever asked about her.

I shook my head.

“You need to say something to her.”

“Every time I start to, I feel sick.”

Les sucked his teeth and said, “You just have to do it.” His voice never shook when he said things like that, a thing I envied about him.

We stared across the narrow yard. The dogwood tree and the dead garden were shadows in the orange fog.

“I could talk to her for you,” he said, and I looked at him.

“Why would you do that?”

“Why not?”

Still, his voice was steady.

“Because you don’t know her,” I said. “And I wouldn’t know what to say.”

He got up and paced toward the edge of the roof. He spat into the yard. His hands were in his pockets, and he stood in a cool way I could never manage — feet splayed out, shoulders rolled forward.

It took a moment for me to realize he’d pulled his phone.

“What are you doing?” I said.

“Calling Dej. He’s got her number.”

“Why does Dej have her number?” I said.

I got up and started toward him. My foot slipped on the wet shingles, but I steadied myself.

“Give it to me,” I said.

“It’s fine,” he said.

I reached for the phone and he jerked away from me, stepping closer to the edge of the roof.

I pulled back and said, “Watch the edge.”

“What’s up, Dej?” he said into the phone.

“Give it to me,” I repeated, reaching out again.

He swung back with an elbow, just missing my jaw. “Hold up.”

“Please, Les,” I said.

Les turned and looked at me. His features slackened in a familiar way. I wanted his sympathy, not a girlfriend. But it always made me feel like shit when he took pity on me. Pity was more demeaning than sympathy.

He lowered the phone and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could get a word out, a three-dimensional triangle the size of a microwave floated out through his window and hovered between us. Its translucent, black exterior caught the afternoon light like a dark marble.

Les looked at me and sucked his teeth like I was playing a joke on him.

“I got to go,” he said into the phone and hung up. He put the phone in his pocket. He looked at his shoes and shook his head. After laughing to himself, he looked up at me. Purplish light from the triangle painted his face.

“What is it?” I asked.

Les sucked his teeth again, shaking his head. He stared at me.

The object began to hum, and the purple light brightened.

“Seriously, what is it?” I asked.

Les turned away and looked out over his yard. The fog had begun to thin. The dogwood tree had come into view, and I could make out the dead tomato plants hanging from stakes in the garden.

 

 

 

 

DOMINIC STABILE‘s bizarre fiction has appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies, including Sanitarium Magazine, Atticus Review, and Fossil Lake III: Unicornado. He is a regular contributor to Manor House Productions’ horror podcast, which produces haunting audio dramas. His bizarro-noir book series, Stone, is published by Sinister Grin Press. Connect with Dominic on social media or at his website, dominicstabile.com.