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Short Story: The Contestant, Part 2 - Somebody's Niece

Updated on October 6, 2011

I've been experimenting with perspective lately, and the the following is the second in a series of three short stories. I've written one story, but from three different perspectives (first person, second person, third person). Although I do say one story, each one is different-- it all comes down to perspective!

Part 1, which takes place in third person, can be found here. Parts 2 and 3 make more sense if you read it first.

This version is in first person, from the POV of the niece. Unfortunately, and as anyone who read the first installment will know, the niece has a bit of a potty mouth. I've cleaned it up a bit, and did check the User Guidelines on language, which wasn't too specific (basically don't overdo it). I've decided to publish with just the minor edits, but if anyone thinks its too much or just inappropriate for the site, please let me know and I will make further adjustments. I definitely don't want to offend anyone! I have to admit I got a bit attached to the potty-mouthed little trollop and didn't want to censor her too much...

Somebody's Niece

Holy mother of shitballs, I can’t believe I’m sitting in this awful apartment with Uncle Artie’s crazy-ass girlfriend filling out an application for a g.d. temp agency. If girlfriend is the right word for the old buzzard, I mean her hair’s turning gray and she doesn’t even think to dye it, and her behind is practically as wide as the stupid t.v. she’s had blaring on all morning. She probably keeps her teeth in a pickle jar next to the bed. This was not how things were supposed to turn out, and they wouldn’t have if Freddie had just left Crazy Broad and Snot Face. Or just hadn’t let Crazy Broad find out where I lived. Plus these stupid Benson and Hedges taste like sucking toothpaste out of a piece of notebook paper.

Still, I guess I’d rather be here than with my mom, who’s more of a witch than Crazy Broad, if that’s possible. I always liked Uncle Artie, in the summer he used to take me out to the woods and we’d fish and look at trees and stuff. Except that Uncle Artie’s at work now, and I’m locked into this house with Sonja Whatever, who I pretty much always avoided since Uncle Artie met her like five years ago. Pretty easy ‘cause she doesn’t talk much. Except today, blah blah blah, do you want soda, tea, coffee, eggs, bacon, Thanksgiving dinner, do you want to talk about what happened, do you want to call me Aunt Sonja, do you want me to stab you in the eardrums? Jeezus, my head is killing me, and I’m not sure exactly how long I can stand to stay in this tiny-ass apartment that stinks like cat litter, and why isn’t Freddie calling, unless maybe he’s in jail or something, and no I don’t want any frickin eggs.

I finish my stupid application and ask Sonja politely for another of her cruddy cigarettes but she doesn’t answer, she’s too busy picking fleas out of the cat’s fur like a freaking monkey to answer me, so I just go over and take one. I’m not supposed to leave, but I guess I could, except that it’s freezing cold outside, and Uncle Artie’s house is way out in Blahville, so I’d have nowhere to go anyway, and I can’t call any of my friends from school cause I’m not supposed to go back to campus or I’ll get arrested. Fuckety fuckety frick. I light the cigarette and since I’m not really sure what I’m gonna do I wander around a little bit smoking it and playing with the lighter. Frick.


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