Everything Goes
Everything Goes
by Willie Smith
Everything goes somewhere.
The fork goes in the drawer. The knife in back. The spoon in the soup. The spork in a crack on the moon.
The ax goes in the closet. The hatchet goes on the job. Over the i the accent goes. I go in the bathroom, except when not. When you gotta go, you gotta go.
The ax goes in the head. The body goes in the trunk. The car goes to the dump. When I come back from the dump without the body, the success of the job goes so much to my head, I just go ahead and go in the closet.
Right to the hogo the dog goes. My DNA all over the floor. How come I come to hang myself in the closet. Because I am going bananas covering up.
Everything goes somewhere. Me, I go, “What?”
The detective goes, “You did it, didn’t you?”
“No.” Again I go: “No.”
The detective goes back out to his car. Comes back with a merry-go-round hot as an electric chair. Goes over each horse with a fine-tooth comb.
I go back on my statement. Confess I was lying when I confessed to being catholic. In lieu of going to church, I sit on the fence; or in the loo. God waffles. I wobble.
I am sure of only one ambiguity: they are going to let me go, because I am going apeshit sitting on this merry-go-round spiraling to a razor’s edge. Insanity obvious defense.
The detective sighs. Lights a smoke. Tosses match into tohubohu of beanbag. Goes inside his head, lest the gears of thought seize. Sizes up the situation. Exhales. Pokes a pinky through a ring. Goes, “I detect something funny.” Makes me go with him in the kitchen. Side by side we stand a moment going.
Catherine goes on her wheel. Elmo goes on the fire. Lawrence goes on the grill. Agatha’s tits on a dish go. In answer to sanity’s call to surrender, I go: “Nuts!”
He opens the drawer. Extracts the knife from in back. Plants in my back the shiv. Goes, while I’m dying laughing, “I was me all along!”
Knock over the Accent, while the floor goes up to meet us. Monosodium glutamate covers tessellation.
The detective comes out of the closet. I go in the closet. Above the racket of my going, he from outside goes, “Detect anything?”
And I go…
I was a little too half drunk to comment on this the way I wanted to when I saw this earlier in the morning, but it totally got my blood flowing then and still does now. This is such a great example of how tone and horror work. Horror to me is in the absence. Like an absence of light, or a murderer’s lack of self-awareness. The former is what is shown here.
And then, this short story is personalized with “Over the i the accent goes.” The verb placement (which is a theme) is really, really interesting. It ripples throughout and adds layers. Who the hell would think to write that? And in that way? I don’t know.
Thanks for the read Willie. That is great stuff.