VERONICA ABRAMS FICTION
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​SHORT STORIES 

Spite House
(Published in Menacing Hedge Fall 2018)
Click here to read or listen to the audio recording 
​
Fashion Victim
(Published in BlazeVOX Spring 2018)
Veronica Abrams-Fashion Victim
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File Type: pdf
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​The Intern
(A finalist for the 2018 Flexible Persona's Editors' Prize)
Click here to read 

​
​Call of the Death Job
Published June 2017 in Arcturus Literary Magazine (from The Chicago Review of Books)
Click here to read 
Perfect Match 
Published in Fall Lines: A Literary Convergence 2017 Vol IV​
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             Perfect Match
             Veronica Abrams
​
           "You'll never find your other half. Your 1/8th, maybe even your 1/4th if you’re lucky, you got to just pick somebody.” Haley had said to me, one day at a bar, drunk and laughing. Thinking she was so funny. Such a perfect little cynic.
            “I just think maybe there’s a plan for everybody. I dunno, at least that’s what I want to think.” I told her, taking a swig of my drink, romanticizing, in a loud crowded bar scene.
            “Ha,” she snickered totally belligerent, “Clearly. Cause that would explain Elephantiasis and venereal disease.”
            But it was eerie just how right Ryan seemed.  Online we had checked we liked all the same things,  snowboarding, dive bars, even antiquing and horseback riding. He worked at a non-profit that dealt with animal rights. I knew when we met in person there had to be something wrong with this guy. Like the Emergency room receptionist guy I met online, who showed me pictures of blood seeping out of body bags and shattered appendages while we were enjoying a fine Italian dinner. There just had to be some catch to him too.
            For our first meeting we decided to keep it brief, just a quick afternoon coffee.
            "Hey Maggie?" he said, eyes lighting up, moving towards me. |
            “Yep, that's me." I said giggling awkwardly, but reminding myself that internet dating had been the norm for decades. Almost nobody met otherwise.
            Removing his black beanie hat the snow drizzled off it as he placed it down on the table and took a seat in it. He really was the adorable guy from his profile pic. In fact, he was actually even cuter in real life. Not to mention he had grown the perfect little amount of stubble and really pulled it off well, just like my ex-boyfriend, Steve. Frozen in my tracks, like a stun gun just pierced my retina, all I could think was I like what I see.
            "So, you’re in your second year of Grad school? Masters in Anthropology?” sweet and awkward as hell as he said it, spilling a little dribble of his cappuccino on his stone washed jeans, wiping it off discretely.
            “Yep. There’s just something about dead guys that really does it for me.” I joked, but realizing I probably shouldn’t let my guard down just yet. He could be a serial killer himself.
            He chuckled and grinned with this adorable little dimple, bringing me back to safety. It was like he really got me. Only once in awhile do you meet someone who you feel is in the exact same dimension. It had been awhile, as I hadn’t felt that way since Steve.
            "I love anthropology. I took a few courses in undergrad." Maybe it was that familiar glazed look in his eye, that somehow reminded me of my ex, Adam. The longer I looked at him the more he almost morphed into him. There I was again, rolling down the sand dunes with a fierce storm overhead. The sand blowing in every direction. When he took me by the hand and told me that he loved me. Thunder storming. So close to heaven. Yet suddenly, I felt like for the first time Adam might actually just be a memory, and I was somehow okay with that.
            "What do you want to do when you finish, Maggie?" And then that’s when I knew it. We needed to cut out the crap, the trite formality. Cause words now didn't mean anything. We both felt it. I already loved him. He already loved me.
            “Live in northern Canada and research Inuit tribes." I finally replied.
            “I want to move to Canada too,” Ryan said smiling deep. It was like everyone I ever loved- Adam and Steve they were all a part of him, somehow they were all one. The only meaning I could make out of it was kismet, divine intervention, we were soul reflectors. 
  
                                                                                          ~
            "How do you feel about coming with me to Albany for the Holidays?" there I said it, no taking it back now. 
            "Albany?" he said looking out of the restaurant window, instead of at me, as we were seated at Mick's cafe on another snowy day.
            "Yeah. My parents are dying to meet you. On the new hyperloop it’ll take less than an hour." What I really meant was Please I want to spend New Years with you. Show you off to my old crew. I could already smell the fireplace burning, us kissing under the mistletoe. Eating candy canes. Holding hands with adorable little mittens like snow bunnies playing in the cold.
            His face grew glum and he placed his hamburger back down on the plate without taking the bite he had anticipated. Rubbing his greasy hands on the napkin. He kind of stared right through me for a moment. Like he was reduced to just a ghost in the room now.
            "It’s okay if you want to see your parents. I totally understand." Shit. I should not have invited him, I knew it was too soon, we had only been dating for a month now. It was just like me to jump the gun. With no lotus of control, a stupid little cat in heat, always rushing into everything. It was too soon, even for me. My first New Years without Steve.
            "I don't have parents. I'm an orphan, Maggie."
            "What seriously?" 
            "Yeh, seriously," he said annoyed now, and he could tell I was somewhat disappointed by this influx of information, “Sorry to let you down.” 
            "What, No? Ryan, I'm sorry I wasn't trying to be mean. I just didn't know that’s all." I tried to take his hand but he didn’t want sympathy. And even though sitting there now, he was so far away from me.
            "It's okay sorry for overreacting.” He tried to console me, but I could tell he didn’t want to talk about his childhood upbringing anymore.
            But for some reason it really bothered me. I couldn't stop thinking about it and replaying the restaurant conversation in my head again and again, almost like some kind of epic battle scene. But it wasn't just that it didn't fit with the picture perfect wedding image of our parents walking us down the aisle, or that being an orphan wasn’t on my list of  dream guy criteria, that I had created in my diary when I was fourteen. It was something much deeper. So on our next date I decided to bring it up again.
            "Promise me you won't be offended, but there's something I need to ask you."  My heart beat racing, fear he'd find what I was about to say really off-putting. Maybe even 'let's take a break' material. Not to mention a crowded bar didn't really seem the appropriate place for this type of conversation.
            He looked somewhat horrified like he knew what was coming but managed to crack a smile, taking an extra large gulp of his beer, "ask away."
            “I really hope you don’t think I’m crazy," I said digging my face into my hands as if that would make it any easier, “Ryan, are you a lab baby?"
            “You mean like a test tube baby? From the sperm bank?” he laughed, “I don’t know. I’m just an orphan. It probably happened the good old fashion way.”
            I couldn't take this for an answer cause it had been bugging me for days. "You know what I mean, you know what I'm asking." I bit my lip and then blurted it out with no remorse. No verbal filter. "Are you a synthetic human? A mix of Steve Goodman and Adam Irwiny? Were you created in one of those 3D printers for me?"
            “What?” he laughed almost maniacally, “Are you serious, Maggie?...”
            “You haven’t heard of 3D cloning?”
            “I have, but who the hell would do such a thing?”
            "I dunno. They might. Adam and Steve. For the money. If someone paid them to do it. My best friend, Haley could have easily done that, she’s a medical student she’d have access to these kinds of technology. She could have paid them with her grant money to run the whole experiment. She could even choose them as a prank, to mess with me. Just to prove her point, as part of her whole science vs. god vengeance on me. To prove to me, I’d never find the perfect guy in real life.”
            "So you think they would clone their DNA, make themselves into me? And then stalk you on some dating app?"
            "I dunno…maybe?" I said, realizing how insane this all sounded somehow. I felt dirty. Really ugly now. My sparkling silver necklace now making me feel like the phony one, less than human. Showing my true colors, the real me. That terrible little narcissist. Who destroyed a good thing. Just like I had done with Adam and Steve.
            Then his mood changed and he asked me very genuinely, trying to maintain normalcy, now acting like me asking if he was a genetic clone of my ex-lovers was really no big deal. No big thing. 
            “Actually, I don’t see why it should matter anyway. I mean, you’re an anthropologist, doesn’t it seem part of evolution, anyway. Primates, man, synthetic humans?” Besides, he asked me what difference did it really make? If it was science or god that brought us together? And if everything on earth, all matter shared so much of the same DNA anyway, how was it any different if he was really created from the ribcage of Adam and Steve or if it just felt that way?
      
                                                                                            ~
            After that we had our usual movie nights and dinner dates, but for some reason accusing my boyfriend of not being a real man, didn’t exactly stroke his ego. And maybe some girls would be happy about it. A foursome fantasy. This whole potential inter-human orgy thing. But some kind of spark, some candle had died. 
               "Maggie would you love me if I didn't remind you of them?" He asked me one night at my place, as we were snuggled up in a blanket on the couch watching a movie on a Sunday night. And he asked if I found out that he really was a part of them, the cloning beta study, would I still love him? I said of course and he was right it wouldn't make a difference. He was the only one. There were no other guys. Because I loved him for him. I had to take a sip of wine, and didn't want to look him in the eye, but I meant it. It wasn't a lie.
            "Cause I took this diagnostic test at the doctor’s today, and they said they ruled out 3D Printing see…” he said pulling a wrinkled hospital paper out of his pocket and handing it over to me.
            "No. I don't want to. You were right, it doesn't even matter." And I looked at him with a smile, giving him a kiss, trying to do it genuinely. "Ryan, thanks for doing that for me.” But somehow now I still didn't feel any better. 
            As we watched the snow fall down out my apartment window, with the TV filling the room with white noise in the background, I wondered would I ever really love him for him, or just fragmented puzzle pieces of other times, of other guys. And was our meeting just the result of a random haphazard string of occurrences, like being on the wrong plane at the wrong time, like flight I-2965, where a meteor shower hit the sky. Or was he heaven sent, and Adam and Steve just blips on the map, clues, footprints leading me to him, to where I'm at. 


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​TV bride, (A 2016 Carrie McCray Memorial Literary Award winner for fiction):
TV Bride
Veronica Abrams

Our soul connection and thirty-five years of marriage were reduced to the two most superficial words in the English language. “Happy holidays,” I said as I looked into pale blue eyes that seemed to say, Please don’t let me be alone this Christmas.

I tried. I tried to be a good TV Bride. I recited my lines just like any good actress-wife. I fulfilled my contract. We had a good run, decent internet reviews, the whole cast and crew.

How do we ever know why we do the things we do? How do you know it’s free-will when we’re already programmed by ten million cheering viewers?

We spent all our younger years feeling imprisoned by work, day-dreaming of freedom, what the future brings, and retirement. And we spend all of our retirement lost in nostalgia for our youth and daily routine activities, just glued to the internet and TV. Googling ourselves, rewinding our best performances, reading online reviews, addicted to hearing our own scrutiny. In some ways, this was what everybody wanted, enough internet photos and streaming videos archived of their career and life to watch until they died.

There we sat at the table in our flat on the fifteenth floor in the Newdoor Complex. Carl was helping Michael adjust his skinny black tie, and Tena was applying my waterproof twenty-four hour eyeliner off-camera.
We had a brand new mini sienna glass table they had rush ordered us, because one viewer in Wisconsin, had posted on our internet feed, that the old one was starting to chip a little at the sides and it was making me somehow look a little, ya know, frumpy? It had been product placed in the room, stage right, where I poured Michael’s morning coffee and delivered my lines right on time,

“Good morning, Michael.”

“Good morning beautiful,” he said with a perfect response time, kissing me on the forehead. He had gelled blonde hair with idyllic little waves and powder blue eyes, but I could never tell if they were real or just contact lenses.
I placed his eggs Benedict with a side of grits and julienne fries down on the table setting. They polished me up by dressing me in the black pleather pants and a silken heather V-neck sweater, not to mention, the perfect push-up bra.

Carl held up the cue card and I continued with my lines, “Can’t wait to go to Key Largo darling, our jet leaves at five.” We both knew this was a lie, we weren’t really going to an exotic island. If we were lucky it would probably just be some bayside beach off the side of a power plant or strip mall that would be framed and combined with CGI to give the illusion to those who viewed our video and images, that we were somewhere beautiful.

“Me too, sugar. Damn you look hot,” he said sipping his coffee, kinky little silver cuff links and crisp skinny black Minoshini tie working with the accent lighting. It was all just advertising. Artificial lies. And It wasn’t real. Michael didn’t mean it. He was just playing his part, reciting the script to our life.

“Cut,” said Carl, “Michael, can you slap her on the ass or something? Our internet feed has been trending lately, saying you and some of the other actor husbands have been too nice. Can we get a little more passion? Make it a little bit more feisty?”
Michael clenched his teeth for a moment and we all felt the tension rise—for a second there we wondered if maybe he didn’t take his medication. Cause he suddenly seemed really irritable, a little too angsty for primetime. But he quickly caught himself, remembering his livelihood was dependent on this and then he complied, looking me in the eye, “Me too, honey,” like he really loved me this time.

“Damn you look hot,” and his hand slapped against my ass in those pleather pants, just like our director advised.
Sometimes I wished I could get a new director, a new life. But I loved Michael, even though I only knew his persona and he only knew mine.

This is what happened when the government and media combined. For the last fifty years, middle class America had all been casted into TV life, scripted “reality TV” to entertain the upper class socialites. We still had the service people, the people who did maintenance, took out the trash, un-clogged the toilets. But we were the “middle class,” the TV casted caste. Our job was to entertain, and the upper class were the critics, who shaped us to their liking, wrote our lines, compiled them online, decided if we needed any changes, Botox or editing for the upcoming season, revised our persona and created new archetypes. A lot of it was generated through an online algorithm, crowd-sourced, based on our internet comments, 24/7 online feed, reviews, and likes.
“Cream and sugar, honeyboo?” the phrase that enticed millions. My tagline. How you can search me online.
“Just cream.” He recited, each morning, each time. They liked me asking him that, I resented it. Resented them. But never Michael. If I couldn’t love him, my run would be over. No one ever failed to remind me in between product recalls, run-throughs, or stage setups that I was in fact—nothing. Or how I was always just a step away from having the red carpet ripped from under me, of being cast into the service class, making five-dollars-an-hour shirts and ties to wear for actor-husbands and actress-wives just like Michael and I. And all our directors never failed to warn us to never question the system, or any form of authority.
It works best the way it does now.

The middle class used to work Monday-Friday. Nine-to-fives. Mostly in desk jobs, e-mailing, video conferencing, searching online, social media messaging. But the work/life balance had become so antiquated. Real relationships had been getting obsolete. The people wasted both most of their work day and time off just whittling away their lives, posting pics of cats sneezing, praying that their ass would go viral, and Googling themselves online. I wouldn’t know what that was like. I was born during the New Reality plan. The plan was exactly what we thought we wanted, to be broadcasted as reality TV stars 24/7, ranked, viewed, validated, and quantified by the upper class values, no more nine-to-fives. The upper class had been upset since they didn’t see enough people looking like themselves in the media, not to mention individual home-made YouTube videos were really boring and predictable. His plan included a new preamble that the, the people, the elite people, would get to write scripts for common people as we competed for performance-based salaries based on subscription fees.They’d help make us bold and beautiful like them, real performers, re-skill us with technique, suspense, and action, the way entertainment used to be. And we the people, we were relieved to have more structure in our lives. Less performance anxiety. We wouldn’t have to guess anymore what our viewers lusted after or desired. We could please them exactly the way they wanted. And know exactly what was required of us to make our ass go viral. It was so clear and formulaic that we were honestly thankful.

That evening, when we arrived on our next filming location, The Cove Hotel, I clapped my hands three times to turn on the light in the furnished warehouse near the sweatshop factories off I-75, on screen it would appear as a beautiful oasis. And I guess it was lovely, and I guess I should be happy. But what difference did it make. Nothing was real. Not my husband. Not my lines. Not even my life.

Michael smelled like Summer Dream Amber Mist and the linens were black and silken heather. Silken heather was really in this season. There was no escaping it. I forced myself to like it, the way everyone did, the way we had to when there was a monopoly on fashion and products. We really didn’t have any other option. These were our rations. We had to be thankful.

“Now, stop wasting time. C’mon over here and pour me some of this sparkling wine.” Michael smirked and smiled, just like all the girls wanted.

I poured it, right there outside our set, that mimicked an oceanside first-class five-star all expense paid resort, the kind the wealthy would really stay at. But it was really just blue screens and props. We were just actor models. Lab rats. Their guinea pigs. To showcase and product test the real items they would actually buy. Would we go in the heart shaped Jacuzzi next? Make love in the sand? Re-new our wedding vows? Would they force us into having children? Then convince us it’s what we wanted. Some of our viewers wanted jokes, more humor. If they wanted action, we’d do it. I never knew how my character would change each season. What would they have us do to appease them? It was all unknown, this front, this perfect intimate moment that could never actually be mine.

In his blues eyes I saw him say, Someday we'll write our own lines. Someday we'll do what we really want. But it was always hard to tell for sure, if any thoughts were even real, when everything was already crowd-sourced. I never knew and never asked. I would have to wait till we made it to sixty-seven. If we could just get to that 40th season, by law we could legally retire from TV life. Then if we wanted to, we could start using our own lines and really be together. Get married for real. Try to start our real life.
I loved myself too sometimes, when the critics loved me, “After this we'll go for a moonlit dive,” I said, thrust out of my daydream and following my stage direction as my character stripped down to a bikini and ran outside towards the Atlantic ocean. This was what they wanted, my free spirit side. But damn it was freezing. Fifty-five degrees. And they were sending me out in a polka dot bikini! Didn’t they care that I’d come down with a bit of a cold? Couldn’t they see me sneezing? We all knew I couldn’t use one of my “un-film” days now, no matter how shitty I felt, not on our vacation romance.

“Cut, Madison,” said Larry, “C’mon what is this? You seem tired, Madison. You know that ain’t good for vacation Primetime. Do we need a commercial break already?” He sipped his coffee.

“No, I’m fine. Sorry Larry. Sorry Michael,” I shivered. “Yeah sure, let’s take five.”

I went to the bathroom, to regroup. If I had a fever they might let me off easy. But that wouldn’t change my already declining user profile.  I could already see those kids laughing at me, making Madison Zaparoe memes of me fleeing the “Florida keys” sad and blowing my nose,  looking as together as last year’s microwave dinner.

“Madison,” Michael quietly knocked on the bathroom door. “You alright?”

My heart rate picked up. What was he doing? We were breaking our legal work agreement. This was how seasons ended.
I quickly grabbed a towel and wrapped it around me and cracked the door open. To think, this was considered infidelity. Talking to the “real” him and not his scripted version. What had our norms become? For once, we were not acting. He kept to himself on the other side of the bathroom, like a complete stranger, this husband. And I was a stranger to myself.

“I think I’m coming down with something,” I whispered. That was the truth, wasn’t it? “I’m just not up to swimming in the Ocean tonight. It’s too cold, y’know? It’s the middle of January.” Even uncensored I wasn’t saying how I really felt, what I really meant, Let’s run away together.
​

Michael looked at me, half in fright and half full of awe and wonder. He slowly and quietly reached down and pulled something out of his front drawstring pants pocket. A little plastic baggy with a pill in it. He smiled and unwrapped it. My knees shook, I was dizzy, and sweating. We were risking everything. I knew it. He knew it. And he watched me as I swallowed it in one gulp. We looked into each other’s eyes and tried to cherish it. Over the sound of my own breathing, and heart pounding, I could hear Larry, stepping on the wooden floor above me, getting antsy. This was all just a fleeting high. It would never last. What good was it? He could never really have “me”.

“I know what we’ll do,” he whispered, like he wanted to wrap his arms around me and be the real him. Without the pretense, without the crowd sourced stage direction. “Follow my lead.” His eyes pierced like silver bullets. He quickly turned his back, brushing against me ever so slightly and he fled the bathroom. Was this it? Our big escape? And if we ran away together, would we actually even like each other?

But it was too late. They had caught us. Carl goose-stepped us and sucker punched us with his dark brown eyes. Tena crossed her arms and bit her lip, amused at our potential demise, her stupid perfect brown bob, an empty shell conglomerate, a copycat of every fashion adviser and set designer. This could be her big career moment, depending on how she choose to frame us.

“What’s going on here guys?” Carl had such perfect vocal tambour, the proud other half of the firing squad. He was acting the bad guy, only he wasn’t acting.

“You both know this is a violation,” Tena said.

Michael and I stood with our backs against the wall like a police lineup in the old movies. An Identity Parade. I could already hear the critics. I could imagine all the images of myself online, people adding brand new scarlet letter twibbons unto me.
I sighed and tried to take a deep breath. Stay calm. I tried to practice what my vocal coach always showed me—never show fear, or doubt, nobody wants a flimsy insecure female lead. Not on primetime. But standing there in my polka dot bikini, they knew they had me. Tears not caused by actor eye irritants, without dabbing vapor rub or menthol below your eye, or other stage tricks, were now falling.

“It’s my fault guys. I made Michael come in,” I lied, “He was just giving me some cold medication. I swear. He hardly said a word to me.”

​ Michael looked up at me with glazed eyes. Like he loved me. Like he was sick of this daily grind. This robotic automated life. But the scariest thought of all, if we really did it, ran away from the camera and lights was this—could we really not live a dictated life? Wouldn’t we still be acting in another role? How would we ever know? Be sure that was our destined real life?
So we don’t run away. We don’t do anything. We take the mark against our contract, our second official strike. And then we get back in line, all set up, hair and eye makeup fixed, with our cue cards, and we smile and stand in the limelight.

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​Peak Experience
​Veronica Abrams

 
Tied to this oxygen supply, nearly attached at the hip, electronic appendages glowing and blue lit. Processed food wrappers and bottles encircled around from last night.
 
Still so high above the clouds, and dizzy I haven't come down, like my vestibular or mesolimbic system's malfunctioning.
 
Suddenly I feel a draft creep in, all the distance now between us, as something breaks loose on this connection and we start descending.

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