Karen Gargiulo
In the circle since July 2026
Stories by Karen
I walked into the house and immediately felt at home. The walls had long cracks from the ceiling to the floor, the wallpaper was awful, and the stairs were rotten, but I could see what it could be. Besides, I couldn’t exactly look a gift horse in the mouth. This was more than a step up for me, to say the least. Even if I could only call this place home for a few days, I would consider it a win. Running water? Hell yeah! An old, bare mattress on the floor? Yes, please! A few cans of barely expired albacore tuna? You bet. I’d be living like a queen compared to my recent dwellings.
I pushed the crooked front door closed. It creaked in protest, along with my fatigued muscles. A grey card table chair from a bygone era stood on the other side of the entryway. It caught my attention. I slid it across the warped, avocado-green linoleum floor and leaned it under the doorknob as a makeshift lock.
With careful steps, I padded up the termite-ridden stairway. A few steps down the hall, a smudged door led into a bathroom with a disgusting little sink that went drip drip drip. The cabinet doors, askew, hung open to empty shelves. The toilet was missing its seat, and its tank lid lay broken on the dirt-smudged floor.
But abandoned bathroom did display a rusty old claw tub. An upgrade to the dirty public park sink that I’d last “bathed” in. I turned the hot and cold faucets on, letting the brown water run until it ran more or less clear. I longed to plunge in and submerge myself.
My tattered jeans practically fell apart as I peeled them from my aching body.
Tears finally formed in my eyes as anger began to boil up through my chest. I sighed and crossed my hands and gripping the bottom hem, lifting it over my head and releasing it from shaking fists onto the vanity counter.
I stood before the vanity sink, trembling. Slowly, I lifted my downturned chin and forced myself to look into the cracked mirror. Somehow, despite what I’d just been through, I wasn’t prepared for what I saw. My bloodshot blue eyes went wide, shock tingling through me, like thousands of tiny pinpricks. I felt the cruel reminder that my greasy blonde hair had not seen shampoo in who knows how long. Layers of dirt hid the freckles on my fair skin. But there was no camouflaging the swollen, black-and-blue lump on my forehead.
A quick glance around the small bathroom revealed a travel-size sliver of what was once Dove bar soap, stuck to the edge of the tub. Beggers can’t be choosers, but it would seem I’d have to choose between washing the filth from my clothes or scouring the grime from my body. I opted for washing myself, then using the dirty, but soapy, water to soak my clothes before rinsing the hell out of them. Maybe there would be some kind of left-behind towel in a cabinet down the hall. If not, I’d have to settle for naked and wet until my only clothes dried on the splintery banister. Whoever found this house before me clearly helped themselves to any appliances. There were none.
[I opted to turn this story in by the deadline over giving it a proper conclusion. I would love any ideas on where you think the story might go! Please let me know in the comments.]
It was your typical pre-dawn Wednesday morning. Ralph crawled up through the storm drain and onto the sidewalk on 2nd and Mazatlan, where he usually basked in the delectable aroma of the Johnsons’ early breakfast bacon, sizzling in a pan. He knew this would mean a smorgasbord of satisfying goodies come 10 o’clock, haphazardly tossed into the organics waste bin. The Johnsons clearly didn’t believe in leftovers. But Ralph sure did. And, no one would be the wiser until discovering a mess after garbage pickup. The city waste employees always endured the blame for tidbits strewn about in the gutter, which tickled Ralph to no end.
He crossed the street, traversed the front lawn, leaped up onto the wooden bench on the front porch, and peered stealthily into the Johnsons’ kitchen window, his shiny black eyes camouflaged by his bandit mask. He sniffed enthusiastically, hoping to catch a delectable whiff of the bacon, though he knew the smell would torture him until later, when he could upturn their bin and devour whatever they’d thrown out from breakfast.
But something was off today. Something was different. His whiskers twitched this way and that. His ringed tail stuck straight out in alarm. This was no bacon smell. What came in through his tiny, black nostrils reminded him of his mother, back when Ralph was just a baby. He remembered the scent that came off of her when she threw herself between Ralph and an angry German shepherd that was intent on a furry snack. That smell was fear. And he smelled it now, coming through the screen window of the Johnsons’ kitchen. His fur stood on end as he focused his attention on Mrs. Johnson, sitting on a kitchen chair. Strangely, she had a bandit mask too, but hers was of white cloth, covering her crinkled eyes, and there was something stuck in her mouth. Her veiny hands were tied behind her back, and she was shaking. Ralph saw a large man standing behind her with a knife, at her. The hungry raccoon barely gave himself a chance to think before barreling through the window screen, screeching and baring his sharp teeth. The large man, caught off guard, dropped the knife, just as Ralph leaped at him and sunk his teeth into the man’s neck.