Into the Hour of the Red Minutes by Darrin Naill (Random Title #15)

He believed he could stuff his soul into the left front pocket of the green flannel shirt he'd stolen from the Goodwill just over a week ago. He would place the business end of the metal tweezers into his left ear, easing them in until his right ear could hear him screaming, and then quickly remove what must be his soul, and drop it, tweezers and all, into the pocket. His soul would then creep back into his ear at night while he slept, causing him such great anguish that his dreams turned to dying.

He made an attempt to keep his soul from leaving his shirt by placing a broken Pez dispenser in the pocket, hoping the soul would bond with the object and remain dormant. It did not work. More drastic steps were taken. One evening, he pricked his finger and proceeded to stain a white handkerchief red with his blood. After an hour of droplets, the cloth was nearly all red. He let it dry for a bit and then folded it neatly and placed it carefully into his soul pocket. That night there was no anguish and no dying. That morning, the handkerchief was white again.

Ten nights and ten sore fingers went by. He had stopped eating. He drank tap water from a sponge in the dark on his bean bag chair. His fingers were dry. His soul grew to the point where he could almost see it darting around in his shirt pocket. He knew it was a matter of time. He took the shirt to the Goodwill and hung it on the rack, leaving a spotty red and white handkerchief in the pocket. He left the store; his soul; his blood; his dreams. He was sure he would not live another minute.


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