Early Short Stories 1996-1997

By Matti Charlton

First a pair of dusty brown docks, the worn end of one balanced on the top of the other precariously, like a circus act. Then the frayed pantleg edges of bleached demins. A white-wash blue, continuing to a clean, loose white t-shirt, unlabelled. A cigarette, a white Player's, danced between deceivingly delicate fingers. The hand moved to parting lips, and the owner took a long drag.

"Do you dance, Señor Raymond?" She took another drag.

"Not legally, madame. But to entertain your company, my two left feet are at your service," I countered, motioning to the barkeep for another vodka. Response was prompt, and I sipped my drink. The ringing in my ears from the musty, smoky atmosphere and the kitschy music slopped about in my head. I'll need several more I thought, wiping my mustache gingerly with a napkin, before I'll want to go home.

Rachael peered at me, taking another drag of her cancer stick. "You say you work in real estate?".
I nodded, sloshing down another drink. Everything slowed down. "Past twenty years," I heard myself say. "It's an occupation with tremendous oppurtunities madame. You would be wise to try it yourself, with your charisma."

Rachael blushed, putting out her cigarette in a full grotesquely full ashtray on the bar counter. I felt the burning in my chest again. She ordered a beer like she was ordering a car; it seemed like a grand affair. She turned to me. "Do you love me?" she asked.

I stood up from my stool, and slipped a package of cigarettes from my sports jacket pocket, drawing one out and placing it to my lips.

"No," I lied, and turned away.

I looked outside of the window. The snow was falling like tiny white crystals in the air. A flick of my zippo and the smoke filled my lungs. The ringing in my ears wouldn't stop. The room was spinning already. I walked as quickly as I could politely to the door of the bar, and entered the cold.

The skyline burned a thick black red to my watering eyes. I crushed the cigarette in my hand and thew it violently aside. When my eyes dried I could see the northern star in a sea of calm space.

Tonight I sleep with my wife. Tonight I see my unborn son.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matti Charlton
• Release date: Apr 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223550778

Matti Charlton

Matti Charlton is writer, designer and recording artist. They live in Toronto, Canada with their service dog, Quentin.Matti is autistic, queer and transgender and writes passionately about social issues and modern technology; most recently, with their book "Homelessness broke ChatGPT" casting a critical eye on the bias of the popular AI software. Matti has also written several children's books and young adult novels.Matti is an advocate for trans issues, mental health and poverty, especially homelessness and addiction.Matti's career has spanned a wide range of disciplines, from software development and art direction to fashion design, music production and writing. In 2023, they published their 12th album of electronic pop music, "Almost", and their first fiction novel "Dendrome".Matti created the first transgender-owned underwear company in the world, Retromatti Athletics, in 2014, manufacturing the entire line from their apartment in downtown Toronto. The company expanded to provide digital artwork to craft makers during COVID-19.Matti's website: https://matticharlton.com/On Facebook: https://facebook.com/matticharltonOn Instagram: https://instagram.com/retromattiMatti's books: https://books.matticharlton.com/Matti's music: https://spotify.matticharlton.com/Matti's online business: https://retromatti.com/

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Early Short Stories 1996-1997

Matti Charlton

A Late Supper

The nameless child continued screaming even after Alec had sewn his mouth shut. Alec, after adjusting the boy’s steel arm shackles again and spreading the anesthesia on his shoulders, lifted the surgical saw and aimed it’s placement on the boy’s right shoulderblade. Placing his weight on the handle, he pushed the blade into the child’s shoulder and let it cut through with a back-and-forth motion. The boy struggled frantically but Alec held him firmly to the operating table. When the cutting was complete, he sealed the wound on the boy’s gaping shoulder; he then took the blood-dripping arm and, folding it in half gently, placed it gingerly on the dinner plate on the table beside the operating bed.

Alec casually wiped his left hand against his white labcoat, and carried the white dinner dish in his right as he walked up the basement stairs to the kitchen. He swung the old wooden door open, and noticed the stove was ready. Peering in as he opened the