Happy Birthday
by Ricky Pitaniello

The sharp sound of a match being struck shot through the kitchen. Once all the candles were lit on the birthday cake, Stewart blew every one of them out, plunging the room into darkness. Faint moonlight streamed in from the windows.

"Don’t ask what I wished for you all," he warned. "If I tell you it won’t come true!" Then he laughed, and reached for his first gift.

"Thank you Cheryl! I always wanted one of these."

"Your welcome."

"What next?" he wondered out loud.

"How about opening my gift?"

"Sure thing Sam."

There was the sound of tearing.

"All right!"

"I thought you’d like it."

Steward glanced around at the rest of his gifts. After a few seconds of thinking, he started opening one, cutting off the paper with a razor blade.

"Careful."

"Don’t worry," he replied, and spent the next half a minute cutting.

"Why don’t you turn on a light?" another guest suggested.

"Okay." Another match was struck, and the birthday candles were lit again.

"Hey, thanks! I could use this."

"I figured you could."

Stewart moved the razor blade towards the next gift, but it slipped from his fingers. He swore, then grabbed a few napkins to wipe the liquid off of his hands. He picked up the razor again--it had fallen next to the pliers and a pair of tin snips--and grabbed the present. A tearing noise filled the room, then stopped. Steward put the razor blade down, and picked up the tin snips, then the pliers. There were a few muffled snaps. Steward held his gift up to the light, and threw its wrapping onto the pile. The tools clattered to the table.

"Linda . . . it’s so nice of you to give me your heart," he whispered. "I like you too, but I’m already seeing someone."

A gust of wind came in through an open window, and blew out all but one of the candles. The room was still bathed in a faint light. This light reflected off the glassy eyes of each guest sitting around the table, and sparkled off their party hats. The blood that had splattered everywhere looked jet black, as did the gaping holes carved into the guests, who were sitting around the table. The pile of skin in the middle of the table was yellow, on the other hand. The organs lying next to the skin were many shades of brown and blue and red. The heart in his hand was almost black.

Stewart’s arm moved over to a tape recorder, and pushed the "play" button.

"That’s all right," a girl’s voice coming from it said. "We can still be friends."

"It was so nice of all of you to give me part of yourselves today . . . damn! I just told you my wish. Oh well, it’s already come true. One present left!"

As he picked up the razor blade, and moved to collect his final gift with a gleeful grin on his face, the wind blew out the last candle on the cake.

©2003 Ricky Pitaniello

Ricky Pitaniello is a sophomore in college and has been interested in horror for all his life. He has been writing horror fiction for the past four years.