Short Story

Hey friends,

This post has NOT ONE THING to do with Pinterest. I apologize.

In creative writing class we were tasked with writing a short story. I have always ALWAYS struggled with sharing any fiction I’ve written, but I feel like this piece is something I can be proud of.

WARNING: You will probably look at me differently after you read it. There is some coarse language and sexual themes. But nothing too crazy, okay?

Just read it.

And probably unfriend me after.

Here it is.

Oh man, I need to stop delaying it.

Okay, here.




a story by

Hailey Gajadhar



I’ve seen a lot.

I’ve seen couples stagger into the room, half asleep, after their long wedding nights. They’re in love, and I love to see love. I’ve seen people walk around naked, thinking they’re alone, and marvelling at the freedom of being in an unfamiliar room. They love it. They spin around in their white robes and flop onto the bed just like the people do in the commercials, and eat the fancy chocolates that sit on the pillows. I love when they do that.

I’ve seen it all, and it’s my job. I love my job. My job is to shed light on what goes on in the room and I don’t take it lightly. I just observe them. I love to observe them. It’s not in a creepy way, but I do get turned on a lot more often than I care to admit. They know I’m there, but they just don’t know I’m watching.

My favourite people are the ones who stay in the room the entire time. They roll their suitcases in, throw their stuff all over the room, order a gigantic pizza that could feed six of their closest friends, and stay in bed watching TV. They’re my favourite. We watch old episodes of Friends together, and sometimes if I’m lucky they’ll buy a movie. It’s my favourite when they buy a movie.

No matter how long they stay, I count them as my friends. They need me, and I need them. I’ve never been in love before. I’m not anyone’s lobster, but each new person who walks through the door becomes my new best friend, my new favourite.

I never thought I’d ever hate someone who walked through the door. I never thought I’d actually hate someone as much as I hate him. The Nose Picker. I hate him. I hate him so much. I don’t think I know how to hate, but I know I hate him.

The first time he was here, he sat on the bed and kept his shoes on. He put his dirty shoes on the white bedspread. Everything about him felt dirty and I don’t know why. I hate him. He sat there, with his dirty shoes, and picked his nose. He picked his nose and flicked the booger off onto the carpet. I hate him. I think.

This time he walked right past me to the desk and sat down by the phone. I hate that phone. I guess I do know how to hate. I hate that phone. I can’t hear anything that goes on from the other side, and I want to know. I want to know what my friends are doing.

He went straight for the phone that I hate. I hate it. He picked it up and held it to his ear. I longed to be pressed up against an ear, but I’m not allowed. He pushed buttons on the phone, the phone that I hate. He pressed the buttons on the phone. I wanted someone to press my buttons.


Who’s Marissa? Is Marissa his wife?

“No. I told you I’m here for business. I’m heading to the conference early in the morning.”

What’s a conference?

“No Marissa. I told you it’s for business. Why would I lie about that? Does every fucking thing I do have to turn into an argument?”

His voice is so angry now. I hate it when they get angry.

“I don’t have to deal with this shit. I’ll talk to you after the meeting tomorrow. Goodbye.” The Nose Picker slammed the phone down.

He started pushing the buttons again. The phone was getting all the attention.

“It’s me.”

Who’s he talking to now?

“Olive? It’s me.”

Who’s Olive? Is Olive his wife? Are they in love?

“No, I’m in the exact same room as last time. It’ll be easy to find.”

He picked his nose as he murmured to Olive. He picked his nose. They can’t be in love. You don’t love a nose picker. He’s a nose picker. I think I hate him.

“What are you wearing?”

Why does he need to know that? Olive must have told him she was wearing a sweater or something because he started to unbuckle his ugly black dress pants, like he was getting too hot. I hate those pants. I flash a light at him. I want him to stop what he’s doing.

He looked up.

He looked right at me.

Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. Shit. That’s a word I learned from a movie. It means something bad happened. Oh shit.

I can’t run. I don’t have legs to run. In the movies they would have run. Rachel and Monica would have run away.

“Hold on, Olive.”

Hold onto what? It doesn’t matter. He got out of the chair at the desk. He’s still looking right at me. What do I do? I can’t run.

He’s coming nearer now. I don’t want him to touch me. He touched his boogers, and I don’t want him to touch me. He switches me on. I refuse to light up. He switches me off. I still don’t light up. He flicks me on and off, on and off. I stay dark. Olive is still holding onto something. He turns back to the phone, and like an uncontrollable twitch I flash my light again. What is wrong with me?


He grabs me off the bedside table. It feels nice, but shit, it’s not good. I hear my bulb smash.


2 thoughts on “Short Story

  1. brentos3 says:

    Those damn, snoopy-ass lights. I’m now paranoid every time I enter any lighted room.

    It feels like you’re writing is a combination of The Brave Little Toaster and Toy Story, which of course, are both awesome.


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