Some day in November, I woke up to the sound of giggles.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The plush surface of my pillow had deepened. Its shadows became wrinkles. Its creases formed a face. It couldn’t stop laughing. Its lips fibrous, the inside of its mouth, a pure darkness. Tongue and toothless, how did it form words?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou’re supposed to be inanimate. I bought you from Bed, Bath, & Beyond.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBed, Bath, & BEYONDDDD.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDon’t tell me… \u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI’m the\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cPlease, no.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBeyond.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cReally.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cReally? I\u2019m a lost soul. Or maybe I\u2019m a figment of your imagination projected out onto the thing you take for granted.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Lightning made of lava; an anger thundered in me. \u201cExcuse me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou heard me. You’d be nothing without me. You’re just a silly boy. All you do is sleep. Sleep, sleep, sleep. And drool. Stop drooling on me!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI don’t drool,\u201d I said plainly, as I flicked one of the pillow’s droopy corners.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It threw itself on me, punching my face with each of its corners like I was its personal speedbag. It didn’t hurt. Because it was a pillow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Finally, I got a hold of its love handles and body slammed it into the mattress, bending its torso, folding it in half. I plunged both of my hands into its back, changing its feather distribution, gripped the fabric, the pillow’s satin skin, tensed up for a moment, and pulled apart as hard as I could. Sinister, cavernous roars.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then a sharp tear, feathers snowing across the room, and the dissipation of laughter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
*<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A few days later, my father called me. From my voice he could tell something was off. I begrudgingly told him about the pillow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He laughed, kind of like the pillow, but a bit more warmly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Lovingly, he said, \u201cThere comes a time in every person’s life when an inanimate object taunts you. It just means you’re growing up. The important thing to remember is to keep your cool.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI ripped it up. It’s gone. Destroyed.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dad laughed his airy, deep laugh again. Billowing with laughter, \u201cYou’ll always be my boy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
*<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My phone pinged. It was Dad. He sent me twenty dollars through cyberspace. \u201cGet yourself a new pillow, son.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou didn’t have to do that. Thanks, Dad.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cLove you son, talk to your mother when you get a chance. She needs to hear your voice.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn’t have the heart to tell Dad pillows cost a lot more than twenty dollars in this economy. Especially the hypoallergenic ones I was accustomed to. It didn’t matter anyway. I never bought a pillow again. The mere sight of them creeped me out. My neck hurt, sure, but the pain reminded me of Dad and to always keep my cool. And fuck pillows.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
_____<\/p>\n\n\n\n
S.S. runs Saltwater Coffee in New York. His stories appear in <\/em>Shenandoah, Passages North, 3:AM, and elsewhere. He has been nominated for the Pushcart, Best of the Net, Best Microfiction, and Best Small Fictions (2x). His work has been supported by the<\/em> Asian American Writers’ Workshop, Kenyon Review, Martha’s Vineyard Institute, Periplus Collective, and Bread Loaf (4x); recognized as notable in<\/em> Wigleaf and <\/em>The Best American Food Writing; and anthologized in a forthcoming book on craft from Columbia University Press. One time, a mac and cheese shop handed out two of his stories to 10,000 customers.\u00a0Cool.<\/a><\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"