A Million ShortStory

A Million and Only One Short Story - Shai Kiwanis

Salty droplets that stain my face glisten under the sun, the harsh wind feels as if the drying tears lash scars into my skin. I’m not sure if they know where I am, or if my efforts to change have failed, but it all started with the lack of taste I had for everything.

“We need ten more cents!” She desperately clawed at the couch cushions, her nails dragging across the soft leather seat, creating a scratching sound. I tasted iron that day not because I was bleeding. I wanted metal in my mouth.

Ten more cents is all we need. 

Then we can afford the taste of iron once more. We can hope to feel the spongy firmness of bread again, at least for this week.

“Today, let’s share with your sister, okay?” She kneeled to my height, bruises matching the black spots crawling across our ceiling and into the crevices of our home. “I don’t want to.” I grimaced with a pout. I refused to meet her eyes, knowing the light that once lived there had disappeared along with her untainted skin. Now, the woman I aspire to help one day matches our walls, slowly crumbling away.

I crave nothing. With nothing to taste comes ten fewer cents to pay.

Ten years later

The backpack slips off my shoulders with each movement, slumping with the single object inside it. They don’t believe I’m actually leaving. I had just turned seventeen, a legal adult, at least where I lived. She gave me that look, the pitying, tight-lipped smile, yet still tightened the straps, closing my bag, making sure no one would steal the only piece of home I had left.

She didn’t look me in the eye, only held me in her arms one last time. I could always see her pain, even in the shabby, crumbling walls of our house on 100th Avenue.

Dark swirls pooled around her irises, reflecting the dimming bulb above the doorway.

“Take care of yourself. Don’t get into trouble.” She squeezed tighter. She didn’t know it was the last time she’d see me as her son.

Unzipping my bag, I pull out a penny. I crave the taste of metal each day, the instinct to reach for it never leaves. The strange thing about money is I never learned the difference between good and bad ways to make it.

Money is universal. No ethics. No morals. Just metal and paper.

If money is paper, why do we pay to live and to die? Are lives that fragile? If so, this object is just as cruel as our morals. I chose how I made money because people paid to strip pieces of their self-worth away. How you earn it speaks louder than how you spend it.

Over time, I became addicted to the game of money. I don’t know when it started, or if I had a life before it.

My first hundred dollars bought a meal a ham sandwich on rye with mustard. Then my first thousand bought a car to keep everything moving. With each grand, the craving for metal grew stronger. So did the desperation.

If I could collect it all, I’d have a million more chances to save myself. Ten pennies more. A million chances to assure them I was doing well—that she did well.

A sharp noise downstairs snapped me out of my thoughts. I have a habit of drifting at the worst moments. Running my thumb over the tainted copper coin pulls me back every time.

“We should just grab the bag and dip,” said a voice I recognized immediately. “Not before we teach him a lesson,” said another.

I stepped down the stairs and faced the two men standing in my living room.

“You don’t want to do this,” I said. “What are you gonna do without your supplier?” I shook my head, gripping the coin in my right hand. Tevin stared at me with blank eyes.

“That’s your problem,” he said. “You always need a reason. There’s no room for that in this business, kid.”

Tevin and his boss climbed the stairs, grabbing my right arm. My confidence collapsed when they forced my fingers open and revealed the penny.

His boss laughed, tightening his grip.

“A penny? Where’s the key to your car? Where’s your stash?” Tevin shoved me into the wall, folding my arm behind my back. In that moment, my reasoning disappeared. The last bit of hope fled with the penny they threw out the window.

“It’s in my room,” I muttered. “Straight down the hall to the right.”

“Tevin, are you really doing this to me?” Tears streamed down my face. “After everything?”

“Money has no morals, remember?” Tevin whispered as his partner walked away. He loosened his grip, staring straight ahead.

“What was that, Tevin?” his buddy asked, rounding the corner.

“No morals. No attachments.” Tevin smirked, then shoved me behind him. “RUN, KID!”

He tackled his partner without hesitation. I ran...to anywhere, as far from that room as possible.

BANG. BANG.

The gunshots echoed like balloons popping. I didn’t stop. My legs knew only one thing: keep moving. Because if you stop...who pulls you out next time?

The tall white tower stood above me, always intimidating, no matter how many times I stared at it. The day felt unusually dark. Clouds covered the sun that normally bled through a crack in the sky. A storm was coming.

The wind whipped my face, making me hiss in pain. The usually calm waves collided violently, dancing in a devil’s tango as they smashed into one another. If someone listened closely tonight, they’d swear the sea was moaning. Ocean parts shouted a sailor’s warning: escape the sea, follow the light, for the tower on the hill guides all ships home.

I ran across the open grass field toward the tower to report the storm. Each step felt suspended in time as the rotating spotlight drew sailors closer to shore. The sky collapsed into darkness. The contrast between stillness and chaos was familiar to me. Tonight simply gave me reason to move faster.

“We got a storm coming south of Fraser,” I reported through the radio. “Catch ya, Copper. Any noticeable changes?” the coast guard replied. “Safe and sound as could ever be,” I said, deadpan. “Somehow I can hear your sarcasm, Copper, but I’ll take it,” they answered, signing off.

As the line went quiet, I notified my temp partner to take over the lookout and began my tasks.

“You have to be crazy going out in that storm every night, Copp,” my co-worker said, shaking his head. “Who else is gonna do it?” I replied, grabbing two lengths of rope and the circular flotation device.

I descended the metal spiral staircase, the roar of waves growing louder with every step. When I opened the door, the sea pulled at me from the edge of the cliff. My grey overcoat tugged in the wind as my boots sank into mud and saltwater. Footprints scattered across the flooded grass, swallowed by the sea.

“COPPER! Get out of there! What are you thinking? Are you trying to die? CODE RED!” my partner shouted, running after me through the soaked field.

“Do your job, Clint! The boats need you!” I yelled, standing at the cliff’s edge staring into the crashing waves. I leaned forward reaching to hook the rope onto the metal loop bolted into the rock.

Footsteps crept up behind me, faint against the ocean’s roar.

“Not today, Copper. I don’t care about your reasons. Come back. I need you.” Clint grabbed my right arm. “Do you not have morals?” he screamed over the waves swallowing our feet.

“No morals. No attachments, Clint.” I smirked sadly, eyes dry.

“Code 1004 ...where are your signals?” The radio clipped to Clint’s pocket cut through us.

He looked at me, eyes pleading. Dark pools swallowed his irises, a dull glint of light buried deep within.

“I’m not sorry for trying,” he whispered, before letting go and walking away.

“HELP! HELP!” A woman’s voice was heard in the lulling sea of chaos. I quickly started to panic and ran behind me to grab the flotation device.

Throwing it into the water, the woman attained it, only to harshly push it aside.

“IF YOU’RE GONNA SAVE ME, JUMP AND SAVE ME!” she screamed in desperation. “Are you crazy? Hold onto it or you’ll die!” I screamed back in panic.

“HELP ME!” She clawed onto the rope attached to the flotation device, and just as she was about to be pushed under, I dove into the water to save her.

She stared at him deeply as the waves started to calm and the sun slowly rose. No more darkness.

“I’ve missed you, son,” she coughed harshly.

I started to zone out, deep in thought—missing my piece of home. The small copper coin that reminded me of her. Of my mom.

How long has it been?