SheerContest2022 submission. Thanks to DukeFerret and psydrosis for editing and proofreading, as usual! If you like this, I also have a Patreon, where I'm working on plenty of short stories, erotica and novels. Enjoy the show!

_______

What's the Matter with Oswald?

               Oswald Pinkston was never a cheerful otter, but today was an exception. He'd shined his shoes to glass, ironed his dress shirt and paired it with a zig-zaggy tie from the 80s. He wore a confident, everlasting smile, pumping his arms as he strutted off the bus, swinging a briefcase like nothing was in it. And he took the stairs–not the elevator–a self-celebratory fist pump at the top of the fifth floor, not a minute to spare. “Job well done," he thought–and he was right. So oddly correct. Calling Oswald a ray of sunshine would've been an insult just a day earlier. Now, it was the most accurate possible description.

Gina was the first to see it. The door burst open, Oswald's confidence distracting the red panda janitor from her daily window scrubbing. She'd hardly rubbed the sleep off her brown-circled eyes to her auburn cheeks before his majestic walk swayed her drab white work dress. 

Ryan looked like Oswald wearing a bedsheet with a misplaced needle. An albino frame with a stocky build fit for a croc over an otter, yet the innocent blue eyes and the broad face of his kin. He brushed the fur off his pink shirt only for it to look like a kitten coughed on his jeans, losing his sentence in the phone call as Oswald rushed by. Oswald gave him a wave, otter-to-otter, each step perfectly in rhythm with the printer beeping in the other room; a quick reminder that maybe Ryan should fix it.

The raven closest to his rendezvous point, Roderick, rubbed his beady eyes. His hair was a maelstrom of curls and mashed razor wire pricks, body suffocated by his black dress suit fit for a ballroom. He wondered if his friend's earnest smile was his psychosis before remembering he did not, in fact, have psychosis. Forgetting to wave, Oswald slunk around the small crack in the open door of his boss's office and knock-knocked on the wall.

“Heya, Mr. Wolff!"

Mr. Wolff flinched as if Oswald had left a cataclysmic dent. “You're not supposed to be here!" 

“Just thought I'd drop by!" Oswald gleefully stuttered. That awful stutter always made him dreadfully embarrassed to speak, though today, it didn't phase him. He took a seat on the other side. “How was your…New Years?"

“Fine. I spent it with my family."

“Ah, really? That's…great! Wish I…could've…done that, too! Oh well, I…had a great time…putting up the….decorations! I was…putting up the little…multicolored lights around the…mantle and said, '...you know, you know what, I could…use a…couple purples', so that's when I-"

Losing patience, fists on the table, “Look, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but there's a lot of work to do. If you want to talk, schedule a meeting. You know this."

“Okay, okay!" he smiled childishly. “But first, I just wanted to…share my New Year's resolution."

Mr. Wolff glared, memories of Oswald sleeping at the desk curling through his head. “Will it be quick?"

Oswald nodded quickly.

“Will it be relevant?"

Oswald nodded quickly.

“All right. What is it?"

“This year…I'm going…" he leaned forward, “to wake up!"

His valiant cry of poignant prudence boomed like timpanis into Mr. Wolff's eardrums and echoed through the halls where the printers stopped printing, the fax machine stopped faxing, and the snoozers kept snoozing. Just as quickly as it came, there was silence, met with blankness, the unmoving curtains in the open window providing more expression.

“That's it?" Mr. Wolff asked.

“Yup!"

Another awkward silence. Mr. Wolff saw the stainless steel bottle in Oswald's paws and thought he'd ask if he liked his coffee light or dark. Instead, he pushed his glasses up and shrugged with the deepest of sighs.

“Well, you can do it at your desk," he said. “Time is money."

“No…problem, Mister W.!"

Finger guns out, he jumped in a hop-skip around the door and down the hall. On a bad day, that would've been a pink slip, but when he passed the water barrel he'd usually kill his time at doing nothing, Mr. Wolff lost himself in thought. His fifties taught him that changes this quick would never last. They go down with a squeak, not a bang. Though that was no reason to expect layoffs.

Especially since by the end of the day, Oswald was caught up on his paperwork.

               “Heya, Gina!" he said as he hustled to lunch break.

Gina

“Hey," I replied, a little apprehensive. Oz doesn't say “Heya". He says “Hi," or “Hello," or “How's the cleaning going," and then nods off, because he's always tired. Still, though, good signs. He finally got rid of that ugly stained yellow button-down (who wears yellow?) and found a look that suits him. He even used the product I gave him in October to style his hair with a little cowlick. And I checked his desk to make sure: yep, no papers in sight. Computer all cleared up. Pen on the top keys of the keyboard. A sticky note on his screen reading, “Evolution well spent!"

Well, I'll be! I thought. Sarcastic little Oswald always had a sense of humor. He'd always come by while I cleaned the windows and talked about how his kind evolved from taking other people's dens to building paper mache in the office with little inky tablets of horse shit. He said we should just replace emails with who can make the best flying paper airplane. I asked him if that'd make his job easier…he said he'd be Employee of the Month. I'd believe him. That humor got him plenty of respect–even on Mondays when it'd sound worrying. That's Oz for ya. The kind of guy who looked deadpan even while cracking a smile.

Hey, now. Today's a Monday.

Hmm.

_____

Well, a week came and went, and Oz was still on cloud nine. And I guess he learned to do it better. Oz had two states: blowing through his work and staring into a random place in the room. Sometimes it was in the ceiling. Sometimes it was in his paw, which he'd poke at with his index finger, to his pinky and back. I don't get it, but he looked like a kid with ice cream while he did it, so…okay, then!

I'll be honest, I expected him to be more outgoing. That's what you do to wake up, right? But he just stayed in his own space. Each day, my little “Heya" grew a bit weaker, until he full-out blew past me to the stairs. It happened so fast. Whatever this whole “waking up" thing is, I guess I'm not a part of it. I shined his desk with disinfectant while he was gone, thinking about it. When somebody goes quiet without warning, that's when I start worrying.

I found Ryan and Rodrick chatting at the water cooler–the only other people Oswald talks to.

“What's this?" I beamed. “Ryan and Rodrick? Actually getting along? Am I dreaming?"

“Can it, Gina," Roderick half-smiled. “We were just talking about Oswald. He seems really happy today."

Ryan chimed in:  “Yeah. I was talking about how he gave me a high five, and when I asked him, 'Why?' he said, 'No reason!' I can't stop smiling. He's so expressive out of nowhere."

I was going to say, “That makes two of you," but that's something I'd save for Roderick. Oswald would've just laughed. He knows how to take it. But Roderick? He's a little emotional. I had my eye on him.

“Yeah," I said, “I was thinking about that, too. Did he get a promotion?"

“No, I don't think so," Ryan shrugged.

               “Maybe he got that email from Slots n' Kettles Corp," Roderick pointed out.

I said, “Oh, maybe he got the leadership role."

“Oh," Ryan said, “actually, he turned that down."

“Seriously?"

“Yeah! I took it, instead, and I felt kinda bad. He'll still be working on it, just in the backseat. I guess everybody needs to be there."

So…he wasn't making big moves? Maybe he just didn't “get it." Everybody makes mistakes. I just didn't want to hear about it in the following weeks.

“That's fine," I said, and the office was empty. “Hang on, has he talked to you guys at all?"

Roderick paused. “No, not really."

“Once or twice?" Ryan said, as if I knew the answer.

Then it got awkward.

“Well, in any case, see you later!"

Okay, no, I was definitely worried about that. And that feeling would linger. The next day, he was just as happy. Next month, same deal. I don't get it. All he said was, “I'm going to wake up," and for that, he cut all ties. Well, I'm the protective kind. You don't make changes this fast without someone prodding your side. And from that day forward, I was determined to get to the bottom of it.

On lunch break, I went down to the cafeteria and found him chatting with an afghan hound twice his size. Styrofoam cup with a blue label around the middle…wait, blueberry coffee? That's my favorite. He took a sip with a disgusted grimace, and I thought, “Say it, Oz! 'Tastes like a sewer drain!'" But he didn't. What? But that's always what he said to me. The strangest part of me was disappointed. Here he is, ignoring me for some girl he's never talked to in his life, and it's like the blueberry coffee is an insult to injury.

Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever seen this woman in my life. I don't recognize her hair, her patterns, or her sleek black dress. I asked around, but nobody raised an answer. I even checked the last email Mr. Wolff sent the whole team, and she was nowhere to be found. My only guess is that she's a guest that Oswald brought inside. If that's the case, there's no reason to fret.

Right?

Ah, whatever. I'm happy for him.

Hmm.

Cynthia

               He smiled at me at lunch today! It was bright and genuine. A smile that said, “I'm happy to see you, Cynthia!", no pillars of stress on his back. Those friendly office parties must've paid off. Finally, after all this time, I'm getting to him! And look how festive it is! They left up all the ornament lights from Christmas, so it looked like the year started all over again.

“Bug zappers!" he called them, like some triumphant knight raising his sword. “I love 'em. Have I said that? I just love bug zappers. I got three last week, and all…the ladybugs stopped showing up at my windowsill. Well, they…did, but–y'know. Dead."

“You got three?"

“Well, I have…three windows! Why…not?"

“Sounds great! Keep 'em around for the summer and they'll kill the mosquitos and horse flies!"

“Oh, I…don't get those. The office is another…story. Maybe I could…do a little…take-your-bug-zapper-to-work-day and…take the load off of everybody."

“What if I like being stung?"

“Then…you can…go in the zapper."

I laughed at that. It was all lining up so well! He always talks about wanting to wake up, and the best way to do that is with plenty of-

“Lights are the best," he said. “I think I might be an electrician. I was reading online the…other day that color can't exist without light. Which sounds obvious, but the more I think about it, light really does…make the world what it is. For instance, now, it looks…great on your…hair."

I scoffed. “Thanks. Took forever to get right."

“Always does, I bet. This is a little secret, but I always admired it."

“You've been telling a lot of those lately."

“What, secrets?"

“Yeah."

“Well, here's the…next one," he leaned in, “I like you. Do you…want to…go out with me?"

___

I don't know if it was the dinner or the lights, but something changed that night. He was strange and distant.

“What's the matter?" I asked.

“Nothing." He cracked a smile. “Just finding a…trash can." He found one and took the coffee cup out of his pocket. “And that," he dropped it in. “goes in there. Jury's out. Blueberry…coffee…still sucks."

“You had that the whole time?"

“Of course! Have you…seen this…city? Like the inside of a…landfill! Or an alcoholic hoarder's…car!"

“Hey, uh, first of all? Mom was a hoarder. So, please don't say that. Secondly, there's always been litter. There's litter in every city. It just comes with the package."

Oswald grew frustrated. “I just…hate trash."

“Well, we can go home, instead. Maybe together."

“Or…I could…take you somewhere."

So we held hands and took a stroll down the empty, black and blue streets, the moon blushing beneath the clouds. It seemed like he was unwinding until we went to this park with a white gazebo in the middle of a field.

“No trash," Oswald finally said. “I…wish I had…more of an…introduction. I just…like this place."

“It's pretty."

“Yeah, but… more than that. It feels like a….place I've…seen before."

I thought that was beautiful. The night was so young, but no one was around. I sat with him on the steps and watched the fireflies burrow into the bushes. He was right. It was a strange feeling.

We kissed that night. Then we danced. We danced as the rain drenched our clothes to a mess, but we didn't care. Whatever this place was, we were lost in it.

When we were finished, I walked with him to the bus stop.

“Can I come home with you?" I asked.

Worry crossed his face. “I don't think so."

“Huh?"

               “I'm sorry."

               I was shocked, but somehow I knew he was hurting. The raindrops curling over his dreadful face looked like tears. It all made me want to back away. As the bus's engine crescendoed over the mist, he leaned in, as did I, kissing each other for a moment.

               “I'm…sorry," he said again.

I guessed he just wasn't ready.

Ryan

               I don't get it. There, I said it. Call me an asshole, but it's true. It's been six months since this big change, and I'm happy for him, right, but you can't just ignore an itch. Wait, no, let me start here: I believe him. I think he's come a long way. The waking up thing: it was all physical at first, but the longer it stuck, the more I felt it radiating off of him. It was spiritual. I even found myself smiling with him, time to time.

But, listen. I'm a bodybuilder. I've been active for four years, and there were days where I wanted to just quit. Those were always the days people asked me what's wrong. I told them anything: too tired, too unfocused, too flooded with memories of my wife, who died in a car crash three years back. I still had to push myself to do what makes me, me. Oswald just puts on a happy face and calls it a day. I'm a pastor, and I don't see him at church. He doesn't talk about charity drives. So how's that make him any closer to God? How is he “waking up" to the truth of himself, and how does he even know it's working?

               I'm not cynical, I-

               Look.

               Every day I arrive at work at six A.M.: that's two hours early, hot cup of blueberry coffee in paw and a morning run in the dark. But ever since around May, Oswald's been showing up, too, before I even get in the room. Completely exhausted and unresponsive. It took me a while, but then it hit me. Is he showing up before the building's unlocked?

               I walked in at five-thirty to check. Yep, unlocked. I'm like, “Okay. Crisis averted." But when the elevator opened, everything was dark. I turned the corner and flinched. Oswald was already staring at me. The blue glow of the computer was on his jaundiced face, and these huge, heavy bags under his eyes pulled it down. Pleasant smile, but forced. He sipped on his stainless steel bottle and didn't break eye contact, slurping up the contents, fidgeting with his other paw.

               Something red flashed in the printer room with an alarm that sounded like a robotic bird. The cartridge gets stuck from time to time. Before I moved a muscle, Oswald said, with absolute conviction, “It's your job."

               That pissed me off. And more importantly, it made no sense. Though I did it for him anyway, hearing the squeaks of his chair as he spun himself in circles. I came back and saw him lazing across it, sipping his bottle. No slurp. It was like it filled all the way up.

               All right, now he's screwing with me, I thought. I told him, “You were here before I was."

               “It's not my job."

               “You could at least just-"

               “It's not my job."

               “Hey," I sat down with my paws together. “You okay? You're in a crappy mood."

               “No, I'm not."

               I hesitated. “You-" No, that's dumb. “Well, that's how it's coming off. The lights are off, and you look like you haven't slept a wink. You're not you. Pull yourself together, man."

               “I am."

               Another long sip from his bottle startled me for some reason. I wanted him to stop. Suddenly I saw his left palm. It was shaking. Actually, his whole body was shaking.

               “Can you see them?" he asked, without a hint of irony.

               “Who?" I asked.

               He motioned to the darkest part of the room. Reminded me of when I was a kid seeing moving blobs in my bedroom at night. I got all freaked out and started reaching for my phone.

               “No!" In the most commanding voice I'd ever heard. “Not…the time."

               I tried calling them anyway, but got no signal. The modem's probably shut off in the electrical room. Now my heart was pounding, too.

“Did something happen?" I asked.

               “No," he mumbled. “Well. Yes." His eye twitched, cheek contorting like the head of a jack-o-lantern. “But if I told you, you wouldn't…believe it."

               The shudders started exploding through his body; another laugh, another sip from the bottle. I looked close and I saw something else. Pain. He squinted like a headache could split him open internally. 

The printer room flashed red again. Oswald slurped on his bottle. And when he stared into my soul, I knew what question was coming.

Roderick

No.

Think about every major change you've ever had in your life. Did you ask for it? Did it happen overnight? Probably not. Big glow-ups happen, yeah, but statistically, we're all in the gutter with Oswald. I know him. He's a cynical guy. The Oswald I know asks for pens and doesn't give them back. The Oswald I know makes plans and doesn't commit to them. Good guy, but he's in his own zone and always will be. Run all you want and sing all your songs about “waking up", but everybody's gotta admit to themselves that they're selfish like everybody else.

I heard him slip a scoff in the middle of a conversation with that new girl, and the urge fired up again. I've been a good boy and ignored it, but that doesn't last a month, let alone eight. Cynthia's gotta know. If she doesn't, she should. He and I used to make jokes about women all the time. Late nights over a couple of cigarettes. Good times. He was happy then. Ever since he left? All a façade.

I swore I'd never tell his secrets. A few years ago, Oswald was having a rough time. Long night in the bar with a lot of face-slaps. Couple too many drinks later, he thinks, “let's go on home, then." He takes the highway. And all the lines on the road blend together. When he came to, he saw the shattered windshield and the car beyond it. Driver and two kids, both in the hospital by ten o'clock. They all survived, but he never let it go.

See, you don't wake up when shit like that happens. I spent lots of nights over at his house keeping him company. We'd eat junk food, watch late night TV and smoke weed on the weekends, never turning on the lights. And he always told me with the bluntest tone, “I'm never going to a hospital again."

You know what I think? I think the Oswald I know didn't change for shit. I think Oswald did something even worse, and now he's afraid I wouldn't hold my tongue if I knew. Well, you and I have one thing in common. We don't like secrets. We don't like 'em one damn bit.

               Had a sip of blueberry coffee.

               ffffffffffffffuck, that's good.

               Anyway, I followed him home. I've been studying his routine. He takes the bus with the purple swan on the side door a couple blocks off the office. Easy trail, easy find. Maybe if he was so concerned about waking up, he'd cover his tracks. If some really fucked up guy got curious, who knows? Don't believe me, wait 'til you hear this next part.

               His window was down. Dead of night. I had a look inside, and saw him in the middle of a black space, lying back-down on the carpet, a shape to the left of him that looked like takeout. Above him hung a huge fluorescent light you'd see in a 2000's schoolhouse. Dangling from a couple of cords, creaking every seven seconds on this Poe-esque pendulum sway, like it'd fall off at any moment, but he didn't react.

               All he did was stare. No blinking or anything.

After an hour, his eyes bulged so fast I flinched. Tears streamed down his rosy cheeks, chest heaving and his mouth opened wide, but nothing came out. He started twitching, then thrashing, like he was being held in place. And then, he just stopped. But he kept that same mouth. Just no scream.

Wonder if he saw something.

Crazy stuff.

Gotta love Oswald. Knew he'd never change.

I turned back, and saw a red panda in my face with a badge, red and blue sirens in the background.

“Roderick Powers?" Gina asked. “FBI. You're under arrest."

Oswald

               Everything has a breaking point.

It ends with the part you can't unsee.

And it sticks to you for a long, long time. 

If you're lucky, for the rest of your life.

               December 31st

It happened five minutes ago. If this note is on my nightstand tomorrow, I know it was real. I woke up in a shitty, blurry haze on the floor. The blinds made light stripes on the stained floor. Blue, so I knew it was night. I saw the bottles by the couch like some frat party, only it was just me, and this is my house. 

Then I noticed I was in pain. Oh my God, the worst pain I've ever felt in my life, like a pinecone was rolling inside my skull and shooting spikes through to my paws. I'm writing left handed because my right one's covered in blood, which for some reason I didn't scream at, but I was about to.

The TV station was on the ball drop. I waddled up all groggy and wanting to die when I saw the bathroom door open with the light on. And it's like the ball knew about it. Five…four…three...two…one…

               The mirror was shattered. My fist did it. And there was some huge, blinding ray of light that came out from one of the cracks that burned my eyes back into their sockets. I couldn't control myself, I just peeked inside. It was warm. It was so calm. I started crying. It was the world, but with so much clarity and detail. So much to absorb. And then I snapped back and it was gone.

               I can't forget it.

               It was the most beautiful thing.

               And no one would ever believe me.

               January 1st

               This has to change. This has to change. This has to change. This has to

               January 14th:

                My heart is pounding. I told Roderick to leave. He's been coming uninvited for years now, but I finally told him to go home. I don't need him. Right? I don't. I can deal with myself. 

               January 15th:

I just realized I hate Doritos.

               February 3rd

               I met a girl named Cynthia today. She's beautiful, and I can't get away from her. Gonna do everything I can to get with her.

               February 11th:

               “Who's Cynthia? Who's Cynthia?" Shut the fuck up, Gina. If you were so interested in my security, you wouldn't have walked up to my door on a Sunday night uninvited looking like a bottle rocket about to take off in thirty seconds. Just text me like a normal person! Right? Is that so hard?! You're so invasive. You think every bad choice I ever make is your chance to be a superhero. You're like Roderick, except you don't insist on coming in, you just sit there and whine. “Don't do that, do it this way!" What, because you read it online? “Listen! You're not listening to me!" “Take my advice, it's better than what you're doing!"  Here's an idea: why don't you stop trying to fucking babysit me? Why don't you stop assuming every bad thing that ever happens to me is the ultimate result of my own actions? You are every dead asshole in all three of my bug zappers combined. Take all your little bright ideas and either write a book about it or shove them up your ass.

               Also, blueberry coffee still sucks. Fuck you.

               February 12th:

               Wow, I wrote that? Jesus Christ. Except the coffee part. That's still true. 

Still, that could've come out at work. Thank God it didn't. I'm gonna work on this.

               I don't even remember what I was going to write. Gina's still nice, I guess.

               March 10th

               I told Cynthia to go home. Fuck, I didn't want to, but I need to figure this out. I'm seeing those mirror cracks in more places. Beams of light through the walls, the floors, tiny little holes; now I have to look away from windows. It happens especially when I look up. Today I learned if I mess with my paw enough, I see it. Gets a little clearer every time. And then I can't stop smiling.

               June 20th

               Anger's in check. Bad thoughts, controlled. I don't want to sleep anymore. I'm seeing it everywhere.

               Cynthia would know. She came from the same rifts.

It hurts. It hurts so much.

Maybe Ryan will just think I'm messing with him.

               July 17th

               It was beautiful outside. Today of all days. I don't know. I wish I was a kid.

               July 24th

               Gina was right about Roderick. It'd be awkward to tell her now, but those were some pretty weird times. I don't know. I didn't know where to put this.

August 20th

I saw something. I don't want to talk about it.

August 22nd

Okay, fine. There was a light beyond a light. Some huge, distorted face I didn't know. It's like a gargoyle except melting in the weirdest ways. And even though I was scared, I didn't want to look away.

In other words…

I was right.

Oh shit.

               November 18th

               I put it down. Better off flipping through the paper than a journal. I rest on the park bench right after getting off the bus. My shoulder aches, but I know I didn't sleep on it. I watch the feral bluebirds and their white tipped wings and peck at the crumbs by a trash can at the bus stop. Is their blue my blue? Desaturated, dilapidated picture frames yellow-tinged; just empty phone books. Everything is the wrong color. So last night, I looked up to the stars. And, of course, they were yellow, too. The world is different, and not everything sticks out.

Something in the deep is getting heavy! The resonating POP!-POP!-POP! singularity! Messages in rhythm with the images in front of me, the wind, the streets, a porcelain vase in a display window, and the apron on the lady that doesn't quite fit; it's a ghost of it. Like a coughing mower that won't come to life no matter how many times you pull. Like a kid with a hula hoop, only moving so it won't stop. It's all the same. “Be happy for the hell of it, don't ask why."

But if things were that simple, I would've hit it by now. What more is there to do? Is it ever worth it to wonder how everyone perceives your own happiness? The minute I realized it doesn't matter, it all changed. I'm in control. I feel great. It's a feeling nobody can take, and it feels right. Never forget. Can't forget.

               The elevator plays some song. “If she spins fast enough, then maybe the broken pieces of her heart…"something something, I don't know, sounded pretty. I'm getting dizzy and everything's fuzzy.

               The clock strikes twelve. I'm late. I'm early. I'm right on time. Doors open.

               Ryan's right. I'm not me.

               Tried to. Sip my. Water. Paw. Crunched. Fell. Stomach feels strange.

               Tired. Tired. So tired.

               “OSWALDAREYOUOKAY?!?!?"

               Gina.

               Sheholds mysh oulder.

               I look     to        the          sky.

               I        slink         down.

               Cynthia 

above me

               Terrified. Confused.

I              touch                her                         face,

               “Cynthia,

               you have,

               a wonderful snoot."

               Watercolors.

               White chocolate dream.

               Forehead wet.

               Left. Pale ghoul. Dripping black eyes.

               A woman's voice:

“Oswald!"

               Who?

               Ghoul holds my hand. 

Not ghoul. 

Otter.

She's crying. Why?

Or…no. 

That ring. 

That's my wife.

Her name's Cynthia.

“Mister Pinkston?"

Golden retriever looms, blue fabric over his mouth.

“Good morning! Your coma is over."

               My wife kissed my forehead as the doctors applauded. 

               Across the room.

Looks just like me.

               Eyes shiny. Boots shaking.

               That's…

               That's Ryan. 

My son.

The drink in his paw smelled so sweet.

So bitter. 

I can't put my finger on it, it's–

               Oh yeah.

               Blueberry.

I love blueberry coffee.

Oh my god.

               I'm home.