Out of the Bag

By James Henry Taylor

(Short story.) Bert and Liz live in a house they cannot leave. A rumpled paper bag on the coffee table is filled with slips of paper; when a slip is drawn, whatever is written on it soon appears in their little world.
But words can have more than one meaning...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jul 19, 2012
• ISBN: 9781105979286

Book preview

Out of the Bag

Out of the Bag

James Henry Taylor

Out of the Bag

by James Henry Taylor

ISBN 978-1-105-97928-6

© 2012 by James Henry Taylor

Out of the Bag

She says with finality, I’m not putting my hand in there again.

Her companion is seated on the other side of the coffee table, atop a rolled-up Persian carpet tied with short pieces of rope, legs twined in front of him like a swami’s. He’s wearing a very pale beige Panama suit, with shirt-collar unbuttoned and no tie. He takes a drag from his cigarette, turns his head to blow the smoke away from her, then stubs out the half-finished butt in the jar lid by his right knee. He carefully straightens the stub—Never know when any more of these will show up—and sets it down with the filter resting on the lid’s rim.

I have a choice, she claims, as though his bland smile were a challenge. She flops back against the cushions of a Victorian settee —deep-red crushed velvet, totally authentic and in lovely condition—and pulls an army blanket across her lap, burying one arm underneath the coarse cloth. There’s a hole in the blanket big enough that one knee pokes through, though the knee’s covered by the flared skirt of an iridescent, dark green cocktail dress.

Well, if you really think so... He smooths back his dark, oiled hair with a delicate left hand; two discreet silvery rings decorate the middle finger and pinky. The other hand is bare.

Of course I have a choice..., she confirms, while picking at the loose fluff around another hole in the blanket closer to her thigh. Her eyes turn to the medium-sized brown paper sack sitting on the table between them. The paper is softened, rumpled and has a few small tears at the opening, as though it had seen a lot of use. She casts a long glance at the man sitting on the bundled carpet. On the bare-wood floor, next to the ashtray, is a jelly jar two-thirds full of water; there’s a small chip missing from its rim. He reaches for the glass, turning the nicked spot away from his lips, and takes a sip.

She looks away from him, sits up abruptly, and plunges her free hand into the bag. Turning her eyes to the ceiling, she hesitates before withdrawing it. God damn it, she spits, This could be any goddamn thing.

"Doesn’t have to be a thing. Could be an action, too."

Her lips purse contemptuously, hand still inside the paper sack. Really, Burt? You think so?

He shrugs, reaches for the jar of water again and takes another sip.

And besides, she points out, an old argument restarting, there’s really no difference between the two.

Burt cups his