New Year's Reservations

Scott mashes the red button on his screen and tosses his phone on the couch, careful not to hit his best friend.

“What are your resolutions?” he asks, and Dollar replies with a look that says, “I’m a dog. I have no goals beyond eating, sleeping, shitting, and–until you had my testicles removed–fucking.”

“We’re not so different, you and me,” Scott says, and occupies the open spot on the sofa.

Scott’s phone begins to buzz but he reaches for the remote instead. He knows it’s his sister, Debra, calling him back, and as far as he’s concerned, she can take her unsolicited advice, roll it up nice and tight inside one of those ivy-league diplomas she prominently displays in her study, and shove it up her even tighter twat. Bitch.

He tries to watch John Mulaney’s latest stand-up, but he can’t. Debra has made his brain uninhabitable to humor at the moment, which is really inopportune, because he managed to land a five-minute set at The Laugh Factory tonight and he needs some inspiration. He also needs her kids to stop watching Veggie Tales–or whatever the fuck they’re into these days–so he can login to her Netflix account. Little shits.

Scott’s thumb and pointer finger shoot up to his beard and a eureka moment chugs to life like the engine of his 93’ Toyota Camry. He grabs his phone, brushes off his missed call notification like a fly on a sandwich, and opens up his Jokes document.

“My sister can fuck herself,” he types, grinning at the sight of his words and the thought of how they will sound reverberating around the comedy club. “You laugh, but I’m serious. She has two kids, both born from a turkey baster and a bottle of pinot noir. And she wonders why I refuse to go to her house for Thanksgiving.”

Scott laughs until he realizes that joke will only eat up approximately thirty seconds of his set, laugh break included. He looks at Dollar and Dollar looks back at him like, “I’m a fucking dog. When’s lunch, btw?”

“Honestly,” he types, “those kids are such pieces of shit, you would think she had an anal birth. (Pause for laughter.) And they’re just like her. The first time I saw them I said, ‘Debra, they have your eyes,’ and she said, ‘You don’t know what my eyes look like,” and I said, ‘Yes huh,” and she said, ‘What do they look like?’ and I said ‘Judgmental.’”

Scott laughs again. His confidence builds with each cutdown of his younger sister. He becomes drunk on defamation of character and continues typing, uninhibited by Jiminy Cricket.

“Today, she asked me, ‘Have you made any New Year’s resolutions?’ and I said, ‘Yes,’ and she said, ‘What are they?’ and I said, ‘To be a better uncle,’ and she said, “And how do you intend to do that?’ and I said, ‘Stop visiting.’”

Scott laughs so loud Dollar looks at him like, “DUDE, shut the fuck up. And feed me.” Scott returns the glare like Arnold Schwarzenegger in Terminator–the first one, when he’s the bad guy–and his thumbs continue crawling across the screen like the fleas on Dollar’s belly.

“I think the only living creature more entitled than my sister’s children is my dog, Dollar.”

At the sound of his name, Dollar springs into what he would consider action. He props himself up on his front paws and lifts his ears, listening for a one-syllable, four-letter word that starts with an “F” and ends with the first letter of his most worthless appendage.

“Why did I name him Dollar, you ask?”

THERE IT WAS AGAIN, his name. Dollar sits up even straighter and bends his hind legs like he’s preparing to either take a dump, rub his a-hole on the cushions, or jump over the armrest.

“Because that’s how much I’m selling him for. Any takers?”

Scott laughs and Dollar howls, collapsing back into his sleeping position. “That’s right, buddy, Scott says, ”there are no friends in comedy.” Dollar snarls back like, “No shit, that’s why you’re so lonely,” and Scott says, “Zing.”

He goes to his phone’s home screen, finds his stopwatch app, and recites the insults that poured out of his fingers.

“ONE MINUTE, FIFTEEN SECONDS,” Scott yells and Dollar gets up all like, “THAT’S IT, we’re done here.” Scott hears his paws scrape against the faux-wooden floors until they reach the bedroom. If Dollar had opposable thumbs he would slam the door, but he doesn’t, so he just jumps into his doggy bed and plugs his ears with the pads of his feet.

Scott looks around the living room for more family pictures–aka targets–but his lack of interior decorating skills and sentimentality comes back to bite him. Rapid-fire round; Scott goes to Debra’s Facebook page and begins picking apart her photo albums like a buzzard on a zebra carcass.

“My niece is so ugly, Jared Fogle wouldn’t touch her.”

“My nephew is so fat, I get HIS hand me downs.”

“My sister is so pretentious, even her farts have accent marks.”

“Their Christmas postcard was so bad, my mailman walked into oncoming traffic.”

“Their smiles are so fake, they look like Tom Cruise’s new family.”

“She posts so many pictures, even the NSA blocked her.”

“She is so desperate for attention, she changed her last name to Kardashian.”

“She is so pleased with herself, she has a permanent handprint on her upper back.”

A red notification bubble pops up in the top-right corner of his screen, clogging his stream of quips like a knot in a garden hose. He clicks it, and it reads, “Debra is attending your event, Laugh At Me With The Laugh Factory.” “FUCK,” Scott screams and squeezes the backspace button of his Jokes document so hard he nearly breaks his phone. “Dollar,” he yells towards the bedroom. Dollar sprints down the hallway, too dumb and hungry to realize this is probably another red herring. “It looks like you’re my muse tonight.”

Written by: Mark Killian
Photograph by: Garrett Carroll

Child Support

 Read more of the Anna the Extractor series here: Introduction | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8

Anna peers at the family photographs hung up on the walls as Nancy’s dog Sadie sniffs her legs and hands. She stops at a photograph of Nancy’s daughter, Mira, a close up of her profile as she blows bubbles.

“When did Mira stop sleeping?” Anna asks.

“It’s been a year. I usually find her on the couch in the mornings. She says she just sleeps better down here, but I think it’s something else, because it bothers the dog, too.”

Sadie sighs through her wet brown nose and lies down on the floor at Nancy’s feet, chin resting on one paw. The front door opens and Mira comes in, cheeks flushed from running around outside.

“Nugget, do you mind coming in here and meeting someone?” Nancy calls.

Mira steps into the living room, wiping her nose on the back of her arm.

“Hey, I’m Anna.”

Mira offers a tight smile.

“Anna was wondering if she could see your room. Would that be okay?”

Mira nods and heads up the stairs, ponytail bouncing as she jogs the steps. Anna follows close behind, and Sadie harrumphs as she gets up to her paws and makes her way past to get to Mira first. The young girl is already sitting on her bed, running her fingers through a Barbie’s long plastic hair. Sadie hops up on the bed and curls her body around Mira’s hips.

Anna doesn’t even have to walk into the room to feel the presence of something otherworldly, resonating against her ears.

“You’re very organized,” Anna says, observing the color-coordinated bookshelf.

“I didn’t do that,” Mira states.

Anna glances at the girl before approaching the closet door, and flinches when her palm touches the knob. This is where it haunts, but she can’t see the ghost unless she knows its name, or it chooses to reveal itself to her.

“Mira, I have a friend who would like to sleep over with you tonight if that’s okay? She’s really nice, about your age but your Mom won’t be able to see her. Only you will. Do you want to meet her?”

Mira nods then jumps a little when the ghost of a young girl appears next to her, wearing a blue Easter dress and matching ribbons in her blonde ringlets. The dog moves her rear paws to accommodate the spirit, not even bothered by her presence.

“This is Lydia Marie,” Anna says. “She’s going to help us figure this out, okay?”

Long after Anna is gone and the lights are out for the evening, Mira and Lydia Marie lie on their sides facing each other in the dark, nose to nose.

“You’re not cold,” Mira says. “The one in my closet makes my room chilly when it comes out.”

“It’s because I’m happy,” Lydia Marie says with a smile. “We’re only cold if we feel sad or confused.”

“Is it scary being dead?” Mira asks.

“It used to be before I met Anna. I help her help people like you. And we help ghosts, too. We’re trying to help this one so it stops bothering you.”

“But why would you help a ghost? They just wanna scare people.”

“Ghosts don’t want to scare people. They’re here because they’re stuck, reliving a part of their lives that they can never have back. That’s why we help them. So they can move on and not have to hurt anymore.”

The temperature of the room drops as the drawers begin to slide open and clothes end up in piles on the floor. Lydia Marie sits up and squints, then sees the ghost of a small boy, shirtless and covered in dirt, squatting as he separates Mira’s clothes by color, obsessing over anything blue.

“Hello,” she says.

The boy turns to look at Lydia Marie then shakes his head violently from side to side. She slides off the bed then kneels next to him, placing a hand on the back of his neck with care. He lashes out at first, but she persists and runs her fingertips over the skin. His eyes close as he clutches one of Mira’s sundresses to his chest.

“What’s your name?” Lydia Marie asks.

The boy mumbles. Lydia Marie asks again and he mumbles once more, but she catches it this time.

                                                                                                   ***

The next morning, Anna stands once more at the closet door, placing her hand on the knob and whispers.

“Jack, come out.”

The door opens and two eyes peer at her from the darkness. Anna smiles and offers her arms to him as she sits down on the floor. He rushes at her, throwing his arms around her neck, burying his face in her shoulder, and wrapping his legs around her waist. Anna laughs, almost falling backward as she extends her legs out in the air to keep her balance.

“He’s just a little boy,” Mira says, holding Sadie’s collar as the dog leans forward trying to get to the shirtless spectre.

“Tickle?” Jack asks, moving Anna’s hand to his neck.

Anna can feel Jack’s life blend with her existence, the chill melting against her body as she holds him close and caresses the fine hairs on his nape. Her eyes well up as memories fly across her mind; Jack’s father locking him in the closet, his mother drunk and emotionally flatlined. She sees him looking out the window at the other kids in the neighborhood, noticing who wore red the most. And she feels his lungs give out beneath the pressure of a pillow, and the dirt cover his body somewhere in the woods behind the house. All because they didn’t understand his autism, didn’t understand his desire for a world organized by color, because he wanted them to help him build rainbows.

“Oh, Jack,” Anna whispers, rocking back and forth with him. “It’s okay, now. It’s over.”

The chill begins to dissipate in the room and Jack fades, his heart known and full as he crosses over to a place where Anna can’t yet go.

Written by: Natasha Akery
Photograph by: Erin Notarthomas

1:1 - Dot Dannenberg

interviewed by Natasha Akery

Over the next few weeks, 1:1000 will take you behind the scenes with our core writing and editorial team. We'll show you more about what makes these writers tick (or maybe twitch). 

This week we’re interviewing Dot Dannenberg, an English professor with a knack for snark and shade. But don’t let her sharp tongue fool you; she’s sweet as a Georgia peach when she’s had enough shut eye. Let’s meet the writer between such stories as “Product Placement,” “The Good Stuff,” and “One Lucky Bastard.”

1:1000: Your education and work experience reveal a long and committed relationship with words. When did this love affair begin?

DOT DANNENBERG: When I was five, I had a wonderful kindergarten teacher who emphasized a lot of creative writing and sharing--we wrote and illustrated our own stories, then read them aloud in the "Author Chair." That year, one of my stories (about a cowboy who loses his cows) won a county-wide contest. At that point, most kids graduated to video games and sports, but for me, the whole writing thing got more and more out of hand. I got really pushy with my teachers, making them use their bookbinding equipment on all my "novels" (featuring, usually, giraffes in space). By high school, I was monopolizing all my AP Lit teacher's time making her listen to my horrible, vague, Sylvia-Plath-esque poetry during her planning period. I also grew up in what my friend Katie likes to call a "learning family"--my parents always encouraged me to read whatever I wanted. The only rule was "no books at the dinner table." The rest is history.

1:1000: You’ve said more or less in the past that you don’t really consider yourself a writer. So, what compels you to write? 

DD: Oh, I very much DO consider myself a writer! For the longest time, I thought in order to be a writer you had to have a laundry list of publications and do the whole submissions hustle non-stop. I used to beat myself up about not getting up at 5 AM to write and not always obsessing about my characters, like some of my writer friends do. But then I realized a writer is simply a person who writes. And I am a person who writes. I will admit, though, that I am a very deadline-oriented writer. I can get a massive amount done in a very condensed amount of time, but there has to be an end goal in mind.

1:1000: You were a poet first, correct? 

DD: True. Sorry, poetry. I am a giant traitor. I started writing poetry in high school and studied poetry all the way through college. Afterwards, I got my MFA in poetry from Pacific University. I was actually terrified when I was asked to join the 1:1000 team, because I had never written what I considered a successful short story. But I found that flash fiction actually has a lot in common with poetry, structurally. You have a limited amount of space to work with, and you have to use that space as a window into an entire world. Also, poetry and flash fiction both depend upon image. The image takes the place of the backstory, the exposition, and all the blah-blah-blah. I also think poetry and flash fiction have to do the same work in their endings. W.B. Yeats said a poem should "click shut" like a box--I think the best flash fiction also does that. It has to feel complete, despite its length. I can't see the future, so I don't know if I'll ever go back to writing poems. I think, as a writer, I tend to get bored pretty easily. Once I finish a piece, I'm over it and on to the next thing. So right now, fiction is what excites me.

1:1000: In your stories such as “Brothers,” “Be Great” and “Los Niños,” you present cultural perspectives that are almost certainly from direct experience. How do these ideas occur to you? 

DD: A lot of my inspiration comes from my students. I teach English at a career college, and most of my students are from different cultural backgrounds than my own. Through getting to know them and reading their writing, they tell me the most heartbreaking stories about their lives. I don't lift their experiences directly for my own writing--that seems wrong to me, as they have their own voices and the right to tell their own stories. But teaching has taught me how to see the world through their perspectives, and once I'm in that world, it doesn't take long for my own characters to begin to speak. I do have a student who got pregnant in Nicaragua when she was sent there as punishment, just like the protagonist in "Los Niños." But in real life, the girl didn't have an abortion. Her son is in elementary school now, and she's back in the states for good. The inciting image behind "Be Great" actually came from a Facebook post I saw--someone talking about eating food their late grandmother had frozen the season before. For that protagonist, Z, I had one of my students in mind--just his attitude, more than anything, but it's not his story.

1:1000: In addition to multicultural perspectives, you also dabble in evangelical Christian environments with stories like “In the Darkness,” but the events that take place are a little hard to believe to the unfamiliar reader. What’s your motivation with these particular stories? 

DD: I think you've nailed it, actually--I want readers to see that these mindsets and events really do exist out there. I grew up, off and on, in the evangelical church, and it took until I went to college to realize that some of the things I experienced weren't the norm, even for people who grew up Christian. I'm especially fascinated by the way "youth" church was done in the late 90s and early 2000s--the purity culture, street evangelism, the attempt to stamp out secular influence. Many people I meet as an adult are so surprised by my church camp stories--white boys in blackface (really), people throwing their entire CD collections in the lake, pudding wrestling. (True! All of it!) So, in part, I think I write these stories to surprise and delight unfamiliar readers and strike a nerve of nostalgia in people who do remember this crazy stuff. But there's also a layer of complexity that looms anytime you write about religion. I don't really reflect on my time in the church from a place of bitterness, but for a lot of people, there is that baggage. And I like that you can't write about religion, even in criticism, without acknowledging that it still hits on elements of truth--the quest for connection, what happens when we die, how should we approach shame and guilt.

1:1000: So, can we talk about your dog? 

DD: CAN we. My dog's name is Moses. He weighs 95 lbs (he's half Great Pyrenees). He has his own Instagram feed (@thechosendog). Right now, he's lying on my living room rug snoring. Someone once referred to him as my "child," and I realized that actually, he's more like the house grandpa. He doesn't have a job. He sleeps all day. He barks when strangers walk by the property ("get off my lawn!"). He really only wants to eat cookies. Periodically, he complains about going up and down stairs. He is one of the great joys of my life.

1:1000: When you’re not fielding submissions, editing stories, and writing your own for One for One Thousand, what can you be found doing? 

DD: Grading papers. A lot of my life gets eaten up by teaching. I had a professor in college who worried over me becoming a teacher, telling me that teaching eats up all the time for writing. And in part, that's true. But it also fuels the writing. It's a delicate compromise. I like to remind myself that I have the same amount of hours in my day as Beyonce does. I also spend a lot of time listening to audiobooks on the metro and discovering new restaurants with my husband (who would like me to ask readers for support as he embarks on a 30-day frozen yogurt cleanse). And I go shopping a lot. Oops.

1:1000: These days, it seems like “highly sensitive person” is the new “introvert.” As an HSP, do you see that play into your writing style or habits? 

DD: In some ways, it's a natural fit. HSP, for readers who are unfamiliar, in general means I'm very stimulus reactive. Not just emotionally, but also anything sense-related--noises, smells, visuals, whatever. I in part credit my HSP tendencies for making me hyper-aware--I can catch all the small details of the world, then drop them like little jewels into my stories. I also think it's an HSP thing to not play well with others and have a general disregard for the man. As writing is a pretty solitary pursuit (and one that should turn a questioning eye on society), this works out well. The only time I'd say the HSP tendencies don't jive with the writer life is that I really can't get my best work done in coffee shops. THE COFFEE SMELL. THE BAD SATELLITE RADIO PLAYLISTS. OH GOD, MAKE IT STOP. I also get really growly when people try to read over my shoulder when my work is still in draft mode. GO AWAYYYYY.

1:1000: Do you have a muse? 

DD: I think right now I have several. 1. Sleep. If I get enough sleep, I am a manic robot who can do EVERYTHING. And that's inspiring. 2. My student, Tiffany, who shakes my world up every day with her one-liners (The latest: "You know there's a season for people to get pregnant? Everybody has their season. Mine's winter, so this year I know I gotta zip my coat allllll the way up."). 3. Moody movies (especially French art house crap or Noah Baumbach-type films). It’s the triumvirate: energy, reality, cerebral fantasy.

1:1000: What words of advice do you have for your eight-year-old self? 

DD: Stop eating bread right now, and you'll save yourself from 20 years of misery as a fat person. Oh, and also, keep writing! Kickball is totally overrated.

Good Girl

We made eye contact through the chainlink fence as soon as I stepped out of the truck. No barking, I thought. That’s a plus. I held her gaze as I slammed the car door, hiked up my pants, and bent down to tie my shoe. Every fine-tuned muscle taut, ears and tail intact, the color of milky coffee. “Good girl,” I said to her.

Before I could knock on the front door of the red-bricked house, it opened. The man standing there was a head shorter than me, as most people are, and his cheeks were rough with red-flecked stubble.

“Heard you pull up,” he said.

I stuck out my hand. “Ben.”

“Curt,” he said, shaking it. “Come on in. She’s outside.” The house was dark, save for the TV flickering a muted football game. “Beer?” he asked, heading for the kitchen.

“Sure, thanks.”

He handed me a bottle, and motioned his toward the back door.

Standing on the deck, I could smell freshly cut grass, but it must’ve been a neighbor’s, since his yard was about as kempt as his facial hair.

“Holly!” he called, crouching down. “C’mere!” The dog came trotting up the steps and sat right in front of him. “Good girl,” he whispered, scratching the top of her head. She squinted her eyes and stretched her neck, tongue lapping at the humid autumn air.

I crouched down and held out my hand. “Holly,” I said. “Hey girl.” Breaking from her trance, she turned to look at me, head tilted to the right. I made kissy noises at her, and she padded over. Curt stood up and watched us, his free hand in his pocket. I glanced up at him and, in the sunshine, realized he couldn’t have been much older than me, but looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. “She seems like a great dog,” I said.

He nodded, taking a sip of his beer. “The best. Holly—go get your ball.” The dog sprang from the short steps and sprinted toward a tennis ball nestled in the tall grass in the middle of the yard. Taking it in her mouth, she pivoted and ran back toward us, looking for all the world like some kind of Purina commercial. She stopped in front of me, dropping the ball at my feet. I picked it up and threw it as far as I could, marveling at her grace and speed as she launched herself off the deck, into an arc any quarterback would kill for.

“So, uh, have you gotten a lot of response to your ad?” I asked.

Curt shrugged, watching Holly race back up the steps, her sides heaving. She dropped the ball and Curt threw it again. “You’re the only one I’m considering,” he said. “If that’s what you’re wondering. Only one who seemed normal.”

“Oh,” I said, “that’s great!” Suddenly my voice seemed too enthusiastic, too loud, even in the outdoors. “Can I, uh, can I ask why you can’t have her any more?” I mentally patted myself on the back for not saying why you want to get rid of her. He obviously loved her, had obviously taken impeccable care of her for the past three years.

Curt took another sip of beer. After a moment he said, “The wife.”

“Oh. Not a dog person?” I said, trying to get the volume of my voice to match his.

Another sip. He was still watching the dog, who was now running laps around the ramshackle shed in the back corner of the yard. “She died.”

“Oh, shit, man,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugged again. “It was a couple years ago.”

I managed to keep my next question to myself: Then why are you just now getting rid of your dog?

As though he read my mind, Curt looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “Do you believe in reincarnation?” he asked.

What the— “Uhh,” I said, shrugging. Is there a right answer?

“Sometimes I think Jen’s soul is in that dog,” he said.

Holly had dropped the ball at my feet again, so I threw it, hoping the action exempted me from having to say anything. Didn’t seem right to tell him that in reincarnation, a soul doesn’t enter something already living.

Curt heaved a sigh, and used his forearm to wipe the perspiration from his forehead. Then he turned on the ball of his foot to look at me, making eye contact for the first time since our handshake. “Don’t laugh,” he said.

“I-I wasn’t!” I said. “I won’t!” Was that a reprimand? Or a warning?

He nodded. “Look, I can’t explain it. But a couple weeks ago, I brought a woman home for the first time since Jen died, and Holly—” his voice broke, and he cleared his throat, “—and Holly walked in on us.”

I wanted more than anything to break this eye contact, mostly because I could feel nervous laughter gurgling up into my sinuses, but his eyes weren’t going to let me go.

“I gave Holly to Jen our first Christmas after getting married. Ever since that night a couple weeks ago, she hasn’t made a peep. Just stares at me all the time. I feel like I’m gonna throw up every time I look at her.”

I nodded. “That sucks, man.” I threw the ball again, and noted the feeling that I didn’t want the dog to hear what I was going to say next. “But don’t you think Jen would want you to be happy?”

Curt let out a half-grunt, half-laugh, and turned away from me. He lifted his forearm to his face again, and I suspected he was wiping away more than just perspiration.

“Sorry,” I said. “It’s none of my business.” Holly was now at my feet, panting. “Well, hey, I’ll take really good care of her.”

Curt nodded, staring straight ahead.

“And if you change your mind, or you wanna visit her, just let me know.”

More nodding. Then he turned toward the door, motioning for me to follow him. “Come on. I’ll get her leash and stuff.”

A few minutes later, Holly was leaping into the passenger seat of the truck. I tied up the plastic bag of her accessories and tossed it in the back. I got into the truck and started the engine. Looking up, I saw Curt standing on his front porch, arm raised in farewell. I waved back, but he wasn’t looking at me. Holly was rapt, and as I put the truck in reverse she started to whine. Even as we drove away, she kept her eyes on Curt. And as soon as he was out of sight, she let out one long, bone-chilling howl, and then was silent.

Written by: Melody Rowell
Photograph by: Emily Blincoe