Erik Samworth by Rachel Hartley-Smith (not sure if Erik and I really connected . . .

to improve this, I think I'll have to consider more of Erik's need for prestige . . . I tried)

Erik Samworth, 27, male
Scandinavian Catholic Lawyer
6'9", jet black corse and thick hair, engaging hazel eyes
divorced, Dad is a pastor, Mom is a psychiatrist, no siblings
Collects bottle caps and newspapers, loves snowboarding, sushi and the color teal
Has a partner named Steven
Biggest dream?  to rule a city
Biggest need?  prestige
Biggest secret?  deviant sexual desires
Is most comfortable home on the toilet, naked.  Loves Polka music.

Well, now what? I’ve been in enough of these stifling rooms, stared at enough blank walls, enough polished oak trim. If they didn’t have suede sofas in their centers, then they had plain benches for kneeling – and always one, little darkened window. The illusion of some sun, but nothing distracting. If this doc expects me to confess in so many words, if he can’t read my problem on my face, he’s up for another thing. Confess. Confess. Confess. I heard it daily – nearly every other hour – from my parents. When I was a boy, instead of making me sit in the corner, they sat me on a chair, and then they both stared at me, waiting patiently for my confession. Now, Erik, what have you done? “God is listening,” father said. And God’s forgiving but he’s also angered quickly. And in the other accusing face, God was mother. God was always watching. I can feel her eyes on my back now, here in this little room. She might be on the other side of those dusty venetian blinds.


This doc has to know that it’s wrong to make a man come into his office and ASK for something like this when he’s otherwise tall and strong and healthy. The pills sold late at night on television don’t work, so I need a prescription for the stronger stuff, a cure, something to help the blood flow as well as it should be flowing for a twenty-seven year old – if you know what I mean. That’s as close as coming to a confession as I get. The doc has to know that it’s not right for a man to throw himself under the eye of scrutiny. He’ll want me to say I’m dysfunctional, weak, problematic. He might want me to flop it out. And it’s a god damn power trip for the doctor. He could care less of my dysfunctional Scandinavian salami (as father never called it). Me either. I don’t need it. I’ll be damned if I’m staying.

I can’t make myself leave. I’ve already put this paper gown on. I wish I was home on the toilet. Give me my downtown office and an open window. Give me my legal secretaries – “Yes, sir” they repeat and repeat. Give me a bite of sushi. My Grampy’s old Polka music.

What would my father think? Mother could write me this prescription herself. But who would ask his mother for it? And this low ceiling, so stifling.

I miss my clients. I miss Steven. He is the only person I could ever kiss who stood right at my lip level. We are a pair. We scare my clients, together, towering over them. But Steven is so kind. He worried about losing my law office money, so he stopped coming downtown. This was good because my parents were seeing too much of him, passing the two of us on the streets, catching the two of us eating lunch in the Market. I won’t be confessing another thing to them, ever. Ever. They can go on confessing to each other and breaking bread like it’s flesh. I don’t care. I’ll have Steven. At least as long as I can rally up the courage to ask for this pill. I might work myself up to punching someone as soon as this door opens.

Not even one newspaper in this room. The room smells vaguely of Pine Sol. And this bed is covered with a nice shade of teal blue vinyl – and the pictures on the walls – the doc’s degrees and whatnot – all have the same color in their frames. It’s relaxing. The color reminds me of the sky in December when Steven and I went snowboarding. The scent of pine illuminates it all. We grappled that mountain. We came away with half of the thing stuck to our boots. We made love in a makeshift igloo. We melted the snow under our parkas as they laid under our asses. We invited another couple in, a man and a woman, my idea. Around the fireplace at the hotel, they seemed beautiful, innocent but hungry, and friendly enough. Steven hadn’t been happy with it. He was never happy when I had deviant ideas. He could accept that I kept him a secret, but when I overstepped his boundaries, he would shake his head and, with each instance, he’s grown more distant. It’s taken this to see it. Maybe my penis has stopped working of its own accord. To teach me a lesson.

Since that very day – that evening on the mountain, convincing young strangers that we were gods in all of our magnitude and genius – I’ve been crying over Pippin the Small.

Mother would call it self-imposed karma if I asked her. Father would say Satan is sitting on my shoulder, imposing a curse. Maybe they’re both right. Or maybe I could sue the Hotel for their soft lighting and erotic lobby music. Maybe I could sue the entire Ski Lodge for making their snow too warm and wet, making it too easy to build an igloo.

Once he shows himself in this room, I might strangle the doc for his note pad. I’ll kill him, escape, and then write my own damn prescription. On the note, I’ll write “supply: endless.” Now THAT would earn me power. Power to gain Steven back. Power to rule a city now that I think about it.

As we venture into Flash Fiction . . .

. . . consider Ernest. 


There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.

                 ~  Ernest Hemingway