For the Love of Gertrude Stein
by K.B. CARLE
My gerbil, Gertrude Stein, hates sunflower seeds, my girlfriend, and when I wear my hair up. She’s on a strict diet of bread crumbs and Boston lettuce leaves. Enjoys spending her afternoons napping in my curls and helped me collect all of my girlfriend’s things—her clothes, favorite snacks, and other miscellaneous things acquired between dates, kisses, and whispered I love yous—and put them in a box labeled “Bye.”
And sipped on my tears while monitoring my phone, deleting text and blocking calls from the girl who is now my ex-girlfriend.
My gerbil, who I named Gertrude Stein, loves going to the museum early in the morning, spending hours staring at paintings by people of color. Since she is a gerbil of color, black except her white paws and a white spot on her tummy, she can identify with the topics these artists portray the most. Horace Pippin is her favorite and, should I get another gerbil, she demands I name him Horace Pippin.
Gertrude Stein—she’s my gerbil—is best friends with the mouse living in my cupboard which, is not really okay with me because all my Cheez-Its and tea bags have bite marks on their corners. The mouse, her name is Toklas, spends her evenings with Gertrude Stein. They lounge on my bed and cuddle and kiss—so I’m not really sure if they’re best friends or not—and watch their favorite movie, Ratatouille.
My gerbil, Gertrude Stein, loves me the most even though she nips my fingers when I brush her fur the wrong way or squeaks in my ear when—just the night before—I told her I wanted to sleep in. Who now goes to the museum with Toklas and now prefers the works of Frida Kahlo.
Gertrude Stein, who is my gerbil, runs in circles on my chest one morning, panicked because Toklas is gone. I scratch behind her ear to soothe her, use my pinky to catch her tears and allow my darling gerbil to nap within my curls.
When my gerbil, Gertrude Stein, is curled into herself and snoring, I tuck her in my bed before going into my kitchen. In my cupboard, I recover my Cheez-It box where Toklas’ upturned body lies and hope it’s not too late—since today’s trash day—to leave her on the curb.
by K.B. CARLE
My gerbil, Gertrude Stein, hates sunflower seeds, my girlfriend, and when I wear my hair up. She’s on a strict diet of bread crumbs and Boston lettuce leaves. Enjoys spending her afternoons napping in my curls and helped me collect all of my girlfriend’s things—her clothes, favorite snacks, and other miscellaneous things acquired between dates, kisses, and whispered I love yous—and put them in a box labeled “Bye.”
And sipped on my tears while monitoring my phone, deleting text and blocking calls from the girl who is now my ex-girlfriend.
My gerbil, who I named Gertrude Stein, loves going to the museum early in the morning, spending hours staring at paintings by people of color. Since she is a gerbil of color, black except her white paws and a white spot on her tummy, she can identify with the topics these artists portray the most. Horace Pippin is her favorite and, should I get another gerbil, she demands I name him Horace Pippin.
Gertrude Stein—she’s my gerbil—is best friends with the mouse living in my cupboard which, is not really okay with me because all my Cheez-Its and tea bags have bite marks on their corners. The mouse, her name is Toklas, spends her evenings with Gertrude Stein. They lounge on my bed and cuddle and kiss—so I’m not really sure if they’re best friends or not—and watch their favorite movie, Ratatouille.
My gerbil, Gertrude Stein, loves me the most even though she nips my fingers when I brush her fur the wrong way or squeaks in my ear when—just the night before—I told her I wanted to sleep in. Who now goes to the museum with Toklas and now prefers the works of Frida Kahlo.
Gertrude Stein, who is my gerbil, runs in circles on my chest one morning, panicked because Toklas is gone. I scratch behind her ear to soothe her, use my pinky to catch her tears and allow my darling gerbil to nap within my curls.
When my gerbil, Gertrude Stein, is curled into herself and snoring, I tuck her in my bed before going into my kitchen. In my cupboard, I recover my Cheez-It box where Toklas’ upturned body lies and hope it’s not too late—since today’s trash day—to leave her on the curb.
K.B. Carle lives and writes outside of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. She is the Associate Editor at Fractured Lit. and Editor at FlashBack Fiction. Her stories have appeared in CRAFT Literary, CHEAP POP, Jellyfish Review, Milk Candy Review, and have been nominated for Best of the Net, Best Small Fictions, and the Pushcart Prize. She can be found online at http://kbcarle.com or on Twitter @kbcarle.