Dorothy’s Wake

N.S. Simko
41 min readSep 5, 2022

a ‘short’ story feat. ‘Thom Pope’

Photo Courtesy of Author

I am lying in a motel bed ten miles southwest of Northfield, off route 12A, in a small town by the name of Patchwork; awaking from an eighteen-hour layabout off the cusp of rolling for which I feed off the drippings of acid. And in my thwarted command, in the bedroom well, I see a light brighten the blinds of the window, forcing a wave of shadows back at me. Who’d be leaving the motel at… what time is it? With a sweep of the slum, I see sectioned sequences crawling along the floor. It’s the carpet, I assure myself though I take my steps lightly, moving like a water-bug sinking in the ooze, while I hop along it. Looking further I think keenly, ‘Where are the numbers?’ They could not be seen. There was a clock clamped into the nightstand the night previous or the day before, from what I recall, but what I discount is the notion that I hid it somewhere. Unless it startled me with its hypnotizing waves; that sinister red riding ebb and flow into black matter. No surprise, now that I’ve rationalized the risk. I toddle about swinging my head lower as I try to raise it higher, and safely brace myself against the dresser. With my numb hand I judge the distance between my eyes and the drawers and with that passion for accuracy I open each one from bottom to top. I never thought to look in the drawers. Contents equal to the good book and a blue pinafore dress left behind from some unknown visitor. Whomever she is, she wasn’t here while I was. I’ve been alone in this room for the past five days. So perhaps she died here and all that remains is her beloved pinafore. I can’t afford to deduce the origin of the pinafore girl; I had gotten up for a specific reason which was… deduce the time of day stressing your suspicion of the light from out the window.

And as God would have it a knock rattles the door. I clamber with speed to the window, knowing full well you must spot the package courier before they escape. He’s tall and unimposing, youthful in his appearance yet his hair tells of wisdom. Sticking out of his Vermont university ball cap are stark black clumps of hair with dots of white; as if his hair has grayed in circular patterns along his head. He is wearing a black waistcoat over a space blue corduroy pant (better dressed than me) and his profile resembles an Englishman leaving a meeting with a spy ring hard-wiring information to Stalin. I’ll…

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N.S. Simko

Poetry, prose, short stories, and experimentations. Whatever distracts me from working on my novel.