Drop #164: Snub

wedding cakeI see Johnny Malloy’s brother, Charlie, at the fish and chips shop and go up to him.

‘Hey there, Charlie, how you going?’

‘Fine. Fine.’

‘And how’s married life treating Johnny then?’

‘Good, I guess.’

‘Say, I think it was quite rude of him not to invite me to his wedding.’


‘Yeah, given we’ve known each other almost ten years.’

‘He must have had a good reason.’

‘I mean, seriously. I think that was quite a low blow not inviting the captain of his inter-pub football team, as if we weren’t really mates after all. Not inviting the man who introduced him to the girl whose friend got him that part-time job at the ice cream stall.’


‘To not even extend me an invitation. To leave a good buddy and fellow old Daltonian hanging that way. To be honest, I’m a bit hurt.’

‘Oh. Sorry to hear it.’

‘Well, how was it then anyway?’

‘What’s that?’

‘The wedding–his wedding. How was it?’

‘Oh, nice from what I heard. He didn’t invite me either.’

By E.M. Vireo


Drop #148: Happy Ending

on the roadAn hour from the hotel she said she had left her mobile there and we had to turn back.

‘Did you check everywhere?’

‘Yes. Everywhere.’

‘You sure?’


We were already late and this meant a two-hour round trip delay, at least. We’d just finished a lengthy stretch on a mountain road so terrible it felt like it had been laid right out of Satan’s anus. Getting off it onto tarmac was such bliss, like taking your shoes off when they’ve been killing your feet for hours. Now we’d have to do it again, twice.

The road back had further unexpected delays: in a gruesome accident, a sheet of sheet metal had skidded off a truck and beheaded a man on a moped. Ambulance. Indifferent cops. Blood stained sheet.

Shortly after, we got a flat. I changed the tire in the rain, which had just started.

We arrived to find the front desk deserted. They hadn’t picked up the phone on five attempts either. We were already so behind schedule to reach Sam and Trudy’s wedding, still hundreds of miles away, so, when no one answered our shouts, I went behind the desk to see if the mobile was there. A quick rummage found nothing so I opened the door to the little room behind the desk and went in, hoping to find it in there, or at least find some incompetent sleeping person I could put on the case. Nobody home, but as I was snooping around, I heard a man’s voice: ‘Hey! What the hell are you doing?’

‘Oh, just looking for my wife’s phone. Did you guys find a phone?’

‘Never mind that. You can’t be trespassing in there.’

‘Oh, sorry,’ I stepped out of the room and moved to join my wife, but the clerk—a large man we had never seen while staying there–grabbed my arm saying he had to call it in.

‘Get off me,’ I said, trying to shake him off, and he got angry, grabbing me harder and pushing me against the wall.

‘Get off him,’ Sarah echoed, but the guy only got rougher, pinning my arm aggressively behind my back. ‘You’re hurting him!’ she said, stepping towards us.

‘You just stay right there, missy,’ the ogre threatened, pulling out his phone.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: that the irony is that she’d had her mobile all along, having overlooked it in her bag, or that it was on the car floor. That we had gone back and suffered all those delays, setbacks and conflicts for nothing.

No. I wish.

It was gone, perhaps stolen, with all the photos and videos from the birthday party the night before: Grandpa Smith’s 100th and maybe his last. Turns out we were also the only ones who’d fully filmed his epic speech—probably also his last. Sam and Trudy are pretty much our best friends but we never did make it to their wedding since I was arrested and held overnight. I have a court date in a month—oh, and it turns out the guy fractured my wrist so I’m in a cast. Not ideal for an illustrator with crazy deadlines. So no, no irony here. Just life doing it’s best to be a pile of shit.

🙂 By EM Vireo 🙂

Drop #81: Soap

There was a bathroom attached to the outside of the old building behind the kitchen. He ducked in to take a leak. It was cramped but he managed not to dribble on his spotless gray suit.

He washed his hands in the tiny, low basin, encountering, for the first time in years, the same blue liquid soap used in the dispensers of his high school bathrooms. The smell triggered memories of teenage masturbation. He’d just discovered it back then, going at it pretty often and hard, and those bathrooms had been his sanctuaries in the act.

He quickly got turned on, unzipping again and searching out his hardened shaft with one hand while sniffing the soap scent off the other. It was a full, creamy arousal; one that crept through the gut and scratched at the hard-to-reach places, and he worked his rod with all the eagerness of a 14-year-old. It came quickly, aggressively and he climaxed hard, convulsing five or six times to expunge a large load. He had to support himself against the wall as it took him, buckling his legs and fogging his mind.

He had forgotten what that type of orgasm felt like. He hadn’t had one in a very long time and suddenly realized why he’d managed one now: while the bulk of his life had become so immersed in love, this act had been devoid of it. Subjects offer different gifts from objects. The two can overlap, sure, but for him, they tended not to.

It took a minute to straighten and clean up. He wiped the evidence off the walls, toilet seat, faucet and mop handle. It was a miracle he hadn’t hit his pants, shoes or shirt. That would have looked bad.

Leaving the small sanctum, he glanced at his watch and hurried up. He checked his appearance one last time in a broken pane of glass he saw on route, then walked quickly towards the entrance, where guests had already gathered.

By E.M. Vireo