Short Story: “Homer The Saint”

short story

Homer has lived his life up until this point by the morals and ideals he had hammered into him as a child. A combination of comic book superheroes and a rather solid upbringing made something of a do-gooder out of Homer, putting others ahead of himself every chance he could.


Until now.


Cause fuck it.


Homer wasn’t born with super powers and God knows he’s never felt like a saint. Self-sacrifice has been nothing but a burden for the man. Its only effect has been to fill his head with enough baggage to take up at least a few of the claims at JFK.


Said baggage only grew heavier and heavier as the years went by too, to the point where Homer decided to finish that bottle of oxys he had become so fond of. It was supposed to be so simple; all he needed was a glass of water, cause who the fuck takes pills dry, and then all that was left was to sit and wait for them to usher in a kind of peace he had not known in years.


However, as he sat there in his Sunday best, waiting for that oh so elusive peace, he had a vision of his mother walking in and finding his soiled corpse laid out on his bed. It was enough to open Homer’s eyes to the truth: even though Lauren took her life and left him behind, he couldn’t do the same to those he loved most.


So as quickly as he could, Homer shot up from his bed, everything around him beginning to blur and fade away.


“Move Homer,” he said to himself, as the reaper closed in on his pasty white ass, “get it out.”


Homer tore open his bedroom door and stumbled across the hall, falling through the slightly open bathroom door. Collapsing on the floor, he immediately stuck his middle finger down his throat in an attempt to aggravate his gag reflex and vomit out the synthesized charley sitting in his belly.


It wouldn’t work. No matter how much he tried, he couldn’t make it happen. At that moment, he felt as helpless as his final night with Lauren. Worse than that, he had become what he feared most: a failure. Not only had he failed at life, quite literally, but he was failing at reclaiming the life he fought so hard to keep as a chronically ill child.


Another vision: this one of his brother and two sisters crying over his badly done up corpse at his poorly put together funeral.


“Not like this.”


And like that, the world became clear and focused again for just a moment. He had only long enough to give all that hillbilly heroin a new home at the bottom of his toilet.


Breathing heavy, tears rolling down his cheek, as a mixture of snot and drool dripped off his face, Homer expelled all that sat inside him; only able to say one thing before melting into a puddle on the floor.




When he awoke the next day, Homer stood resolute. He knew what had to change. He knew pieces of him had to go. Everything he had become since Lauren’s death had to go the way of disco and die a quick death.


It’s been years since the attempt on his life and a decade since Lauren abandoned him. There’s still a baggage claim or two reserved for Homer, as it seems to have went the way of Rasputin and chosen a slow and painful death; mind you, a constant intake of marijuana hasn’t helped that, but regardless, after some stumbling, Homer is at his best.


Once a teenaged recluse who matched Howard Hughes blow for blow, Homer has finally now begun to live. It’s almost as if he’s been given another chance. Large portions of his life have disappeared, creating something of a clip show out of his life so far. Until now, he’s lived in sickness and sorrow. Fuck that.


It’s become his time to make new memories.


Homer’s favorite stories have always been those that take you one direction for a bit, long enough to make you comfortable, and then change everything suddenly and shake it all up.


So Homer finally started shaking things up.


Homer will return eventually…


Joseph Finnegan