I need to put my hands somewhere, she thought, and looking at him added, so I won’t keep reaching out for you. For in the throng, her fingers intermittently fumbled through air for some tangible piece of him- the cusp of his jacket, the solid flesh of his warm, pulsing hand- to reassure herself she hadn’t been abandoned.
She was disappointed by her cowardice. She’d been so certain he made her stronger.
A couple walked between them, widening the divide and her stomach fell. She felt she was on the verge of a panic attack, could sense the hollow dread unfurling in her chest, and knew it was her own fault. Every choice she had made with regard to him was a mistake. She wondered where her rational mind had gone.
Fretfully she happened to look up and in a gap of mingling forms, he caught her eye. Caught it, held her gaze, transmitted calm and possibly pride in her direction. “Smile” he mouthed.
She beamed, her muddied vision beginning to clear.
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Monday, April 23, 2012
Friday, January 20, 2012
Gimme Fiction: Snippet- Comfort
He rapped lightly, already turning the knob, made his way through the semi-darkness through the familiar room. Adrift in the queen-sized bed, curled on her side her form shook and trembled. She was beyond conversation, the covers crumpled in the ferocity of her hysterical grip, one corner of the coverlet stuffed between her teeth to muffle the sobs. He thought of calling out, even opened his lips to speak. Below his gaze she gasped as if drowning.
Not knowing what else to do he laid down alongside her. He moved in close and felt her sink her back gratefully against his chest though the deluge continued. He put his arm around her, protecting the breakdown. Warm tears sprinkled his hand. He pressed his mouth to her head. Her hair smelled of citrus and soap.
She cried for a long while, sometimes with curses and anger, sometimes with hushed mourning. Throughout, he held on and kept quiet. He worried that words would wound her more. When it seemed she was winding down he brushed his knuckles against her clammy cheek. She stopped breathing then and held her breath longer than he thought she should have been able to and then as suddenly expelled the compressed air and with it the tension in her shoulders. She went limp against him- worn out, body and soul.
He gathered the liberated linens, unfurled them and pulled them up over her. From the corners of her eyes, through long dark lashes she warily watched him. He separated a few teary strands of hair from her face, hooked them behind her ear. Her eyelids fluttered and fell. Again he laid with her wrapping himself around her as much as he dared. Her hand rose to rest gently on his forearm. He kissed the edge of her shoulder before dropping his head to the pillow.
In the dark he listened for her breathing to calm, strained to tell if she was crying again or resting. He imagined he could make out the sound of her eyelashes gently scratching against her skin, flickering as she dreamed. What did she dream of? What monsters visited her in sleep- what joys, if any? He couldn’t recall if he had ever seen her smile and mean it.
She was decimated, this thing in his arms, stripped of peace, love, sanity- fragile yet tenacious. Put in her place, he wasn’t sure he could fight the savage darkness that seemed to be always reaching for her. His thumb glided along the path from her clavicle to the cleft of her bosom. She stirred and in sleep her breath whispered his name.
“I‘m here,” he whispered in return.
Not knowing what else to do he laid down alongside her. He moved in close and felt her sink her back gratefully against his chest though the deluge continued. He put his arm around her, protecting the breakdown. Warm tears sprinkled his hand. He pressed his mouth to her head. Her hair smelled of citrus and soap.
She cried for a long while, sometimes with curses and anger, sometimes with hushed mourning. Throughout, he held on and kept quiet. He worried that words would wound her more. When it seemed she was winding down he brushed his knuckles against her clammy cheek. She stopped breathing then and held her breath longer than he thought she should have been able to and then as suddenly expelled the compressed air and with it the tension in her shoulders. She went limp against him- worn out, body and soul.
He gathered the liberated linens, unfurled them and pulled them up over her. From the corners of her eyes, through long dark lashes she warily watched him. He separated a few teary strands of hair from her face, hooked them behind her ear. Her eyelids fluttered and fell. Again he laid with her wrapping himself around her as much as he dared. Her hand rose to rest gently on his forearm. He kissed the edge of her shoulder before dropping his head to the pillow.
In the dark he listened for her breathing to calm, strained to tell if she was crying again or resting. He imagined he could make out the sound of her eyelashes gently scratching against her skin, flickering as she dreamed. What did she dream of? What monsters visited her in sleep- what joys, if any? He couldn’t recall if he had ever seen her smile and mean it.
She was decimated, this thing in his arms, stripped of peace, love, sanity- fragile yet tenacious. Put in her place, he wasn’t sure he could fight the savage darkness that seemed to be always reaching for her. His thumb glided along the path from her clavicle to the cleft of her bosom. She stirred and in sleep her breath whispered his name.
“I‘m here,” he whispered in return.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Gimme Fiction: Safety Glass
“At least it was a clean cut,” he said to himself, leisurely scanning the space before him. Shards of broken glass crunched beneath his scuffed black loafers as he transferred his weight from one swollen foot to the other. He held his left hand out before him, palm downward while with the right he pinched at his nose, unsuccessfully stifling the mucous within.
The pollen seemed to get thicker every year and with each passing year it overstayed its welcome by a few more weeks, languidly drifting here and there, feigning the motions of departure but staying on through the already uncomfortable summer months. He could have sworn that only a few years before, once spring had eased its way into summer he had been able to breathe simply and without thought or aggravation, but no more. Maybe he was just idealizing the past. He sniggered at himself. “Been watching way too many daytime talk shows to come up with a phrase like that, pal.”
Beyond the edge of his well-worn shoes, partially mixed with the sprinkles of silvery glass, spatters of blood had welled up in glistening puddles. He stared intently at the blobs, willing them to rumble with unseen life, to converge into a mass of extraterrestrial ooze; but they lay dormant, thinning and drying by the minute, the liquid crimson scabbing to crispy black.
He heard sirens in the distance and though of T.V. cops, quick-witted and hard-boiled with finely manicured fingertips slapping the cuffs on some stereotype hoodlum. They showed the muck on television- the filth and newspaper raggedness of two-room slums- but you could never smell it. That always bugged the hell out of him. It was always helpful to know what a place smelled like.
Shutting his mouth tight, he pressed the tip of his tongue against the roof of his mouth and attempted a sort of suction to pull the mucous from his nose and down through the back of this throat. After a few frustrating tries he gave up, wishing he’d left well enough alone. Now, a phantom formation of phlegm gurgled in his esophagus and he longed for a bottle of soda to clear it out.
Shifting his agitated stance from standing to squatting, he reached out and picked up one of the more sizeable pieces of glass. The edge of the shard was tipped with blood and the dagger feel of the thing in his palm sent a jolt of squeamish electricity to the middle of his vertebrae. It shook him.
“What the hell is a ‘blue-blood’ anyway?” he asked himself as his mind wandered to fight off the inner chill. “Never in my life have I seen blue blood. They say oxygen turns it red, but well, how do they know? Can’t see it without it getting exposed to oxygen, now can they?”
“Concentrate, buddy-boy. Concentrate.” Creakily he resumed his standing position and looked straight ahead. Brown eyes stared back at him. They’d lost their interest, the unblinking eyes, and the whites of them had gone pearly- no, better say milky. Pearly implies hardness and that wouldn’t be right for those eyes. You knew those eyes were made from tissue, malleable and squishy.
He hadn’t meant to think ‘squishy’. In truth, he’d tried not to think it, but it came anyway and then he had images of late night ‘B’ pictures, low in budget but high in laughable gore. Somehow in real life, gore wasn’t nearly so entertaining.
A flutter of a breeze dislodged a section of yellow hair and sent it scampering across the face to which the brown eye belonged. A torn empty paper cup clip-clopped across the ground beside it. Still the eyes did not blink.
Scratching at the wrinkles embedded in his forehead, he moved forward to circle the woman. Running shoes sheltered her feet and black sweat pants had protected her knees from road rash as he body had crashed to the ground. Perhaps a foot away her sinister waxen looking features were posed in a heart-wrenching yelp of terror.
Coming up close to the severed head he bent once more, leaning in to the bloody opening from which, he imagined, her trachea might have whistled had the breeze grown stronger. “At least it was a clean cut,” he said again, this time aloud.
“Christ almighty! What a way to go,” came a boisterous addendum from a member of the crowd gathered on the too green lawns of the suburban street.
Barely hiding a snarl of contempt for the speaker, he rose a final time, staggering slightly in the effort. As he did, he looked up the street where a few yards away the white truck, Safety Auto Glass lacquered to its side, sat like its driver, simpering and small in the wake of the accident.
He shook his head, sniffled and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Funny thing, the glass coming dislodged and flying backwards like that at just the right speed and at just the right angle,” he thought to himself as he meandered up the street away from the shiny vans of the newshounds.
Without needing to turn around he knew that the body was now swarmed with photographers and forensics kids; and probably a good many bugs, too, some invisible and others merely microscopic. He winced at the vision popping up in his mind and turned for a final scan of the scene.
He sighed heavily, the realization almost more than he could bear. She’d seen it coming.
The pollen seemed to get thicker every year and with each passing year it overstayed its welcome by a few more weeks, languidly drifting here and there, feigning the motions of departure but staying on through the already uncomfortable summer months. He could have sworn that only a few years before, once spring had eased its way into summer he had been able to breathe simply and without thought or aggravation, but no more. Maybe he was just idealizing the past. He sniggered at himself. “Been watching way too many daytime talk shows to come up with a phrase like that, pal.”
Beyond the edge of his well-worn shoes, partially mixed with the sprinkles of silvery glass, spatters of blood had welled up in glistening puddles. He stared intently at the blobs, willing them to rumble with unseen life, to converge into a mass of extraterrestrial ooze; but they lay dormant, thinning and drying by the minute, the liquid crimson scabbing to crispy black.
He heard sirens in the distance and though of T.V. cops, quick-witted and hard-boiled with finely manicured fingertips slapping the cuffs on some stereotype hoodlum. They showed the muck on television- the filth and newspaper raggedness of two-room slums- but you could never smell it. That always bugged the hell out of him. It was always helpful to know what a place smelled like.
Shutting his mouth tight, he pressed the tip of his tongue against the roof of his mouth and attempted a sort of suction to pull the mucous from his nose and down through the back of this throat. After a few frustrating tries he gave up, wishing he’d left well enough alone. Now, a phantom formation of phlegm gurgled in his esophagus and he longed for a bottle of soda to clear it out.
Shifting his agitated stance from standing to squatting, he reached out and picked up one of the more sizeable pieces of glass. The edge of the shard was tipped with blood and the dagger feel of the thing in his palm sent a jolt of squeamish electricity to the middle of his vertebrae. It shook him.
“What the hell is a ‘blue-blood’ anyway?” he asked himself as his mind wandered to fight off the inner chill. “Never in my life have I seen blue blood. They say oxygen turns it red, but well, how do they know? Can’t see it without it getting exposed to oxygen, now can they?”
“Concentrate, buddy-boy. Concentrate.” Creakily he resumed his standing position and looked straight ahead. Brown eyes stared back at him. They’d lost their interest, the unblinking eyes, and the whites of them had gone pearly- no, better say milky. Pearly implies hardness and that wouldn’t be right for those eyes. You knew those eyes were made from tissue, malleable and squishy.
He hadn’t meant to think ‘squishy’. In truth, he’d tried not to think it, but it came anyway and then he had images of late night ‘B’ pictures, low in budget but high in laughable gore. Somehow in real life, gore wasn’t nearly so entertaining.
A flutter of a breeze dislodged a section of yellow hair and sent it scampering across the face to which the brown eye belonged. A torn empty paper cup clip-clopped across the ground beside it. Still the eyes did not blink.
Scratching at the wrinkles embedded in his forehead, he moved forward to circle the woman. Running shoes sheltered her feet and black sweat pants had protected her knees from road rash as he body had crashed to the ground. Perhaps a foot away her sinister waxen looking features were posed in a heart-wrenching yelp of terror.
Coming up close to the severed head he bent once more, leaning in to the bloody opening from which, he imagined, her trachea might have whistled had the breeze grown stronger. “At least it was a clean cut,” he said again, this time aloud.
“Christ almighty! What a way to go,” came a boisterous addendum from a member of the crowd gathered on the too green lawns of the suburban street.
Barely hiding a snarl of contempt for the speaker, he rose a final time, staggering slightly in the effort. As he did, he looked up the street where a few yards away the white truck, Safety Auto Glass lacquered to its side, sat like its driver, simpering and small in the wake of the accident.
He shook his head, sniffled and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Funny thing, the glass coming dislodged and flying backwards like that at just the right speed and at just the right angle,” he thought to himself as he meandered up the street away from the shiny vans of the newshounds.
Without needing to turn around he knew that the body was now swarmed with photographers and forensics kids; and probably a good many bugs, too, some invisible and others merely microscopic. He winced at the vision popping up in his mind and turned for a final scan of the scene.
He sighed heavily, the realization almost more than he could bear. She’d seen it coming.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Gimme Fiction: Snippet- Sunshine
I never could break the habit of rising with the sun. A hint of daylight and I’m like a sunflower, at attention and looking toward the horizon. There’s a quiet then, a dearth of human activity that I postulate didn’t exist a century ago. People used to need the dawn for motivation; now they need Starbucks or a breakfast burrito.
I can almost believe in the demise of civilization at 7:00 am on a Saturday morning- the streets and strip malls as vacant as an apocalyptic movie set. The world is eerie, vivid, static without the underlying buzz of voices and motors, the soft rubber tread of an overpriced sneaker on the concrete sidewalk. It gives me the heebie-jeebies. As alone as I like to be, a Saturday morning in a city suburb is taking solitude a few steps too far. Maybe it’s a leftover unease from watching Time Enough At Last as a child, but I feel better knowing the others are out there, even if they aren’t invited to knock on my door.
Do I have a point? I can’t seem to recall just now. I may only ramble a while but you’ll have to follow along if you want to know where I was intending on finishing.
Did I mention the “shudders”? No, not “shutters”- shudders. You know, the intrinsic quivering as your mind tells your body something’s amiss. The shudders are a sort of a faint blue with purple in the middle. For me it always starts in the shoulders. They set in about six months ago, a few days before the crash. I didn’t have much concert with them before that. Ferocity takes the lead over fear after you’ve been alone a certain amount of time. I suppose that’d be what the psychs call a defense mechanism.
I don’t need them, but they come.
My mother, she loved flowers- especially black-eyed susans. They looked like her. Her halo wasn’t gold though, more pearlescent. People gravitated to her, told her things, expected her to help them. They liked to make her laugh. I don’t think they even knew why. I’ve never met anyone else who appeared so untainted. I saw her drunk once- was that an adventure! What’s strange is that even melancholy couldn’t dim her radiance. It came from her soul, I think and couldn’t be quashed by mortal trials. It takes sunshine to breed shadows.
The morning was quiet, as I said. Normal, the sky a mild slate with a stretched cotton ball look to the clouds. As I recall, the air was a trifle brisk in accordance with the season. I can’t remember any particular scent. A prairie dog with his black beady eyes was staring from a burrow edging the groundcover.
There wasn’t a rumble or even a tremble. There was nothing. Nothing and then this heat- like getting in your car after it’s been sitting in a parking lot for a couple of hours in August- only this was world-sized. Stifling and comforting at the same time. That’s why it didn’t worry me, to begin with.
It was only later when the heat lasted but the sun died, that I started wonder. All those beautiful flowers wilting, their areolas folding in on themselves like they were hiding from what was to come.
I can almost believe in the demise of civilization at 7:00 am on a Saturday morning- the streets and strip malls as vacant as an apocalyptic movie set. The world is eerie, vivid, static without the underlying buzz of voices and motors, the soft rubber tread of an overpriced sneaker on the concrete sidewalk. It gives me the heebie-jeebies. As alone as I like to be, a Saturday morning in a city suburb is taking solitude a few steps too far. Maybe it’s a leftover unease from watching Time Enough At Last as a child, but I feel better knowing the others are out there, even if they aren’t invited to knock on my door.
Do I have a point? I can’t seem to recall just now. I may only ramble a while but you’ll have to follow along if you want to know where I was intending on finishing.
Did I mention the “shudders”? No, not “shutters”- shudders. You know, the intrinsic quivering as your mind tells your body something’s amiss. The shudders are a sort of a faint blue with purple in the middle. For me it always starts in the shoulders. They set in about six months ago, a few days before the crash. I didn’t have much concert with them before that. Ferocity takes the lead over fear after you’ve been alone a certain amount of time. I suppose that’d be what the psychs call a defense mechanism.
I don’t need them, but they come.
My mother, she loved flowers- especially black-eyed susans. They looked like her. Her halo wasn’t gold though, more pearlescent. People gravitated to her, told her things, expected her to help them. They liked to make her laugh. I don’t think they even knew why. I’ve never met anyone else who appeared so untainted. I saw her drunk once- was that an adventure! What’s strange is that even melancholy couldn’t dim her radiance. It came from her soul, I think and couldn’t be quashed by mortal trials. It takes sunshine to breed shadows.
The morning was quiet, as I said. Normal, the sky a mild slate with a stretched cotton ball look to the clouds. As I recall, the air was a trifle brisk in accordance with the season. I can’t remember any particular scent. A prairie dog with his black beady eyes was staring from a burrow edging the groundcover.
There wasn’t a rumble or even a tremble. There was nothing. Nothing and then this heat- like getting in your car after it’s been sitting in a parking lot for a couple of hours in August- only this was world-sized. Stifling and comforting at the same time. That’s why it didn’t worry me, to begin with.
It was only later when the heat lasted but the sun died, that I started wonder. All those beautiful flowers wilting, their areolas folding in on themselves like they were hiding from what was to come.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Gimme Fiction: Another Snippet
He rapped lightly, already turning the knob, made his way through the semi-darkness through the familiar room. Adrift in the queen-sized bed, curled on her side her form shook and trembled. She was beyond conversation, the covers crumpled in the ferocity of her hysterical grip, one corner of the coverlet stuffed between her teeth to muffle the sobs. He thought of calling out, even opened his lips to speak. Below his gaze she gasped as if drowning.
Not knowing what else to do he laid down alongside her. He moved in close and felt her sink her back gratefully against his chest though the deluge continued. He put his arm around her, protecting the breakdown. Warm tears sprinkled his hand. He pressed his mouth to her head. Her hair smelled of citrus and soap.
She cried for a long while, sometimes with curses and anger, sometimes with hushed mourning. Throughout, he held on and kept quiet. He worried that words would wound her more. When it seemed she was winding down he brushed his knuckles against her clammy cheek. She stopped breathing then and held her breath longer than he thought she should have been able to and then as suddenly expelled the compressed air and with it the tension in her shoulders. She went limp against him- worn out, body and soul.
He gathered the liberated linens, unfurled them and pulled them up over her. From the corners of her eyes, through long dark lashes she warily watched him. He separated a few teary strands of hair from her face, hooked them behind her ear. Her eyelids fluttered and fell. Again he laid with her wrapping himself around her as much as he dared. Her hand rose to rest gently on his forearm. He kissed the edge of her shoulder before dropping his head to the pillow.
In the dark he listened for her breathing to calm, strained to tell if she was crying again or resting. He imagined he could make out the sound of her eyelashes gently scratching against her skin, flickering as she dreamed. What did she dream of? What monsters visited her in sleep- what joys, if any? He couldn’t recall if he had ever seen her smile and mean it.
She was decimated, this thing in his arms, stripped of peace, love, sanity- fragile yet tenacious. Put in her place, he wasn’t sure he could fight the savage darkness that seemed to be always reaching for her. His thumb glided along the path from her clavicle to the cleft of her bosom. She stirred and in sleep her breath whispered his name.
“You’re safe,” he whispered in return. “I’m here.”
Not knowing what else to do he laid down alongside her. He moved in close and felt her sink her back gratefully against his chest though the deluge continued. He put his arm around her, protecting the breakdown. Warm tears sprinkled his hand. He pressed his mouth to her head. Her hair smelled of citrus and soap.
She cried for a long while, sometimes with curses and anger, sometimes with hushed mourning. Throughout, he held on and kept quiet. He worried that words would wound her more. When it seemed she was winding down he brushed his knuckles against her clammy cheek. She stopped breathing then and held her breath longer than he thought she should have been able to and then as suddenly expelled the compressed air and with it the tension in her shoulders. She went limp against him- worn out, body and soul.
He gathered the liberated linens, unfurled them and pulled them up over her. From the corners of her eyes, through long dark lashes she warily watched him. He separated a few teary strands of hair from her face, hooked them behind her ear. Her eyelids fluttered and fell. Again he laid with her wrapping himself around her as much as he dared. Her hand rose to rest gently on his forearm. He kissed the edge of her shoulder before dropping his head to the pillow.
In the dark he listened for her breathing to calm, strained to tell if she was crying again or resting. He imagined he could make out the sound of her eyelashes gently scratching against her skin, flickering as she dreamed. What did she dream of? What monsters visited her in sleep- what joys, if any? He couldn’t recall if he had ever seen her smile and mean it.
She was decimated, this thing in his arms, stripped of peace, love, sanity- fragile yet tenacious. Put in her place, he wasn’t sure he could fight the savage darkness that seemed to be always reaching for her. His thumb glided along the path from her clavicle to the cleft of her bosom. She stirred and in sleep her breath whispered his name.
“You’re safe,” he whispered in return. “I’m here.”
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Gimme Fiction: Driven
The darkness was full-bodied, pervasive and hovering, absorbing the shadows cast by the fog-enveloped street lamps as the car slipped through the unusually still and jarringly silent city. Occasional muffled splashing from the tires grinding along the asphalt mingled with the mechanical drone of the taxi’s engine, reminding her that the world remained and that she was a part of it. The driver was reticent, apathetically speeding around black corners into blacker streets, the nuances of each turn mapped in his brain, springing forth not as memory but as instinct.
Romilly reached in to her purse, the mellowed leather soft against her hand as she pulled her cell phone from it. A quick push of a button and the phone blinked to life, the lime green display popping out salutations, time and battery level. The latter bar was full, though the reception indicator revealed the car to be moving out of the city limits. Grimly she noted there were no telling beeps, no unheard messages or missed calls. She let the phone fall back to the protective cradle of her bag.
Soon the car was far past the highway, chasing down the storm, the headlamps a pair of fireflies in the chthonic landscape. She had forgotten this weather, the warm emptiness of it, air transmuting to electricity, water spurting in substantial puddles from the sky- condensed and fluid, storing up all the heat that the trip from atmosphere to ground causes, impenetrable valleys of low-lying clouds veiling road and tree and world.
She leaned against the slick beige vinyl covered bench that was the taxi’s backseat. The man-made material squeaked with her repositioning, the high-pitched platicky sound piercing the unsuspecting silence. The driver looked at her in the mirror sneering, his wrinkled ashen face menacing beneath a tweed tam-o-shanter. She smiled in return, a faint self-conscious spreading of lips smeared mauve with makeup and teeth chalky dull and vaguely white. When he returned his gaze to the now unfamiliar path before him she stuck out her tongue. Impatient and immature, she knew, but could not restrict herself from the pleasure of it.
By the metallic musty smell she could tell he had turned on the heater. She wondered if he were actually cold or if he only ignited the inferno for his fares. She half wished she had the courage to demand he turn it off as the heat and odor combined were working to make her nauseous. Staying silent, she instead rested her head against the muggy windowpane and closed her eyes.
A slideshow of images leapt from her memory to the vacant waiting screen of shuttered eyelids. She was surprised to see a vision of herself first, as she had supposed herself to be eight years prior- slight and trim, hair cut to a trendy bob, funky clothes to match and luminous eager gray eyes. She longed for that girl- for her youth and passion and conviction.
The apparition faded just as she reached for it, morphed into a smaller, more fragile imitation of herself, a being like her but with the traits of another as well. The tiny being possessed a delicate charm and golden brown ringlets and its chubby ivory fingers reached out to grasp her. A startled small cry spurted from her lips. Indolently, her eyes still sealed, she wasted a moment’s reflection to hope the driver had missed her fleeting weakness. So long as he had no inkling of her private waking nightmare, she didn’t mind what else he might presume about her.
Forcefully she pushed aside the dream, refocusing on the tangible, trembling reality of the physical girl, her own daughter, nearly seven and tightly cocooned within the gossamer threads of Romilly’s own doubt, confusion and self-criticism. Mild, uncomplaining Sorcha, upon whom the mother had heaped with fervent loving weight, from work-worn cupped hands, hope upon hope upon expectation. She knew from her own experience this wasn’t fair but couldn’t conceive of another way to keep the girl strong. The car hit a bump and Romilly’s lids jerked open responsively.
Not so very long now. Despite the somber dark beyond the window, she knew from the feel, the slackening pace of the vehicle, the bends and dips of the lane that they were drawing nearer her destination. Destiny. She shook her head as if doing so would break her thoughts free from her mind and liberate them to less restrictive paths. “Stop doing that,” the stentorian voice in her head demanded. ‘Stop thinking those things.”
Once again she readjusted her position in the car, coercing her sluggish posture to atone for its laziness with painful, rigid uprightness. Grown stiff and mildly sore she flexed her fingers, savoring the cracks and pops that tingled in the crooks of her joints. She scratched an itch at her sallow brown brow, wondering how the mechanism that controlled her trains of thought could continue on its haphazard way while her physical self was so worn down that even her toes were beginning to fall asleep.
What she wanted most was to be able to study his face, to read the shades and creases around his hazel eyes and laughing lips (did they still laugh so freely?), to read his intentions like soggy herbal tea leaves and at last know her future. There had been a time when her prospects had been in her own hands and she had made the choices she’d believed rational, reasonable and propitious. She had found however, that sensible choices could be dull, could suck the marrow, the sensuality from life. A little spontaneity, this excursion, for instance, was required to remind her what life was… or might have been.
“Bollocks,” she said half aloud.
“What was that?” asked the cabbie, tilting his ear toward her.
Romilly frowned bashfully and assumed her most professional tone. “Turn in at the first right, just round the next hill. It’s sort of hidden. Easy to miss in this weather. Look carefully.”
He grunted in response, his capped head nodding curtly, but he slowed the car and inclined his form closer to the windshield, clearly taking her recommendation as good counsel.
The house, as they approached, had a mien of long vacancy, cold and broken as she sometimes supposed herself to be. No lamps flickered from the windows, no other cars idled in the drive.
“Are you sure?” the cabbie asked reluctantly as she handed him his fare and made to exit the car.
In answer, she stepped out onto the mud and gravel, slamming the door behind. Then, heels precariously grasping for foundation, she tottered to the porch. Car and driver grumbled back out in to the night.
After a prolonged intake of the moist air she forced a deliberate smile to her lips. The pose felt strained and her cheeks ached as a result. As she tried to convince herself it was merely fatigue she experienced a twinge beneath her rib cage as though her heart had briefly choked on something. “Nerves,“ she muttered as she stared in to the vast darkness and waited.
Romilly reached in to her purse, the mellowed leather soft against her hand as she pulled her cell phone from it. A quick push of a button and the phone blinked to life, the lime green display popping out salutations, time and battery level. The latter bar was full, though the reception indicator revealed the car to be moving out of the city limits. Grimly she noted there were no telling beeps, no unheard messages or missed calls. She let the phone fall back to the protective cradle of her bag.
Soon the car was far past the highway, chasing down the storm, the headlamps a pair of fireflies in the chthonic landscape. She had forgotten this weather, the warm emptiness of it, air transmuting to electricity, water spurting in substantial puddles from the sky- condensed and fluid, storing up all the heat that the trip from atmosphere to ground causes, impenetrable valleys of low-lying clouds veiling road and tree and world.
She leaned against the slick beige vinyl covered bench that was the taxi’s backseat. The man-made material squeaked with her repositioning, the high-pitched platicky sound piercing the unsuspecting silence. The driver looked at her in the mirror sneering, his wrinkled ashen face menacing beneath a tweed tam-o-shanter. She smiled in return, a faint self-conscious spreading of lips smeared mauve with makeup and teeth chalky dull and vaguely white. When he returned his gaze to the now unfamiliar path before him she stuck out her tongue. Impatient and immature, she knew, but could not restrict herself from the pleasure of it.
By the metallic musty smell she could tell he had turned on the heater. She wondered if he were actually cold or if he only ignited the inferno for his fares. She half wished she had the courage to demand he turn it off as the heat and odor combined were working to make her nauseous. Staying silent, she instead rested her head against the muggy windowpane and closed her eyes.
A slideshow of images leapt from her memory to the vacant waiting screen of shuttered eyelids. She was surprised to see a vision of herself first, as she had supposed herself to be eight years prior- slight and trim, hair cut to a trendy bob, funky clothes to match and luminous eager gray eyes. She longed for that girl- for her youth and passion and conviction.
The apparition faded just as she reached for it, morphed into a smaller, more fragile imitation of herself, a being like her but with the traits of another as well. The tiny being possessed a delicate charm and golden brown ringlets and its chubby ivory fingers reached out to grasp her. A startled small cry spurted from her lips. Indolently, her eyes still sealed, she wasted a moment’s reflection to hope the driver had missed her fleeting weakness. So long as he had no inkling of her private waking nightmare, she didn’t mind what else he might presume about her.
Forcefully she pushed aside the dream, refocusing on the tangible, trembling reality of the physical girl, her own daughter, nearly seven and tightly cocooned within the gossamer threads of Romilly’s own doubt, confusion and self-criticism. Mild, uncomplaining Sorcha, upon whom the mother had heaped with fervent loving weight, from work-worn cupped hands, hope upon hope upon expectation. She knew from her own experience this wasn’t fair but couldn’t conceive of another way to keep the girl strong. The car hit a bump and Romilly’s lids jerked open responsively.
Not so very long now. Despite the somber dark beyond the window, she knew from the feel, the slackening pace of the vehicle, the bends and dips of the lane that they were drawing nearer her destination. Destiny. She shook her head as if doing so would break her thoughts free from her mind and liberate them to less restrictive paths. “Stop doing that,” the stentorian voice in her head demanded. ‘Stop thinking those things.”
Once again she readjusted her position in the car, coercing her sluggish posture to atone for its laziness with painful, rigid uprightness. Grown stiff and mildly sore she flexed her fingers, savoring the cracks and pops that tingled in the crooks of her joints. She scratched an itch at her sallow brown brow, wondering how the mechanism that controlled her trains of thought could continue on its haphazard way while her physical self was so worn down that even her toes were beginning to fall asleep.
What she wanted most was to be able to study his face, to read the shades and creases around his hazel eyes and laughing lips (did they still laugh so freely?), to read his intentions like soggy herbal tea leaves and at last know her future. There had been a time when her prospects had been in her own hands and she had made the choices she’d believed rational, reasonable and propitious. She had found however, that sensible choices could be dull, could suck the marrow, the sensuality from life. A little spontaneity, this excursion, for instance, was required to remind her what life was… or might have been.
“Bollocks,” she said half aloud.
“What was that?” asked the cabbie, tilting his ear toward her.
Romilly frowned bashfully and assumed her most professional tone. “Turn in at the first right, just round the next hill. It’s sort of hidden. Easy to miss in this weather. Look carefully.”
He grunted in response, his capped head nodding curtly, but he slowed the car and inclined his form closer to the windshield, clearly taking her recommendation as good counsel.
The house, as they approached, had a mien of long vacancy, cold and broken as she sometimes supposed herself to be. No lamps flickered from the windows, no other cars idled in the drive.
“Are you sure?” the cabbie asked reluctantly as she handed him his fare and made to exit the car.
In answer, she stepped out onto the mud and gravel, slamming the door behind. Then, heels precariously grasping for foundation, she tottered to the porch. Car and driver grumbled back out in to the night.
After a prolonged intake of the moist air she forced a deliberate smile to her lips. The pose felt strained and her cheeks ached as a result. As she tried to convince herself it was merely fatigue she experienced a twinge beneath her rib cage as though her heart had briefly choked on something. “Nerves,“ she muttered as she stared in to the vast darkness and waited.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Gimme Fiction: Wedding
Her dress was of cheap muslin meant to be white, but so coarse it had adopted a jaundiced pallor nearly matching the all over sprinkling of dusty pale sprigs of once-upon-a-time colors of pink and yellow and green- a cheesecloth meadow. Her legs and arms, lightly tanned were bare save for freckles. The thought of air tripping along the gold-brown polka-dots caused a shiver in him. He wondered if he ought to have offered money for stockings.
Above the ample shelf of her bosom her powdered immigrant face smiled broad and flat amid a nimbus of hair the precise shade of a milk pumpkin freshly rent from it‘s umbilical vine. For a moment he thought he could smell the mildewed flesh, see the concave withering shell as it fell in on itself, age distorting it‘s form. His eyes drifted heavenward as his stomach began to churn.
Batting his eyelids against the heat of the afternoon sun he ran his hand through the short shorn dark fluff the army had accustomed him to. Beads of sweat were gathering at his temples like dew on grass. His hand fell away, tacky and tremulous. Soon the office would reopen.
Toward the rear of the car an excited chatter progressed. Veda and Augusta. The two women leaned against the bulging fender fanning themselves with floppy straw hats, gossiping just as if it were any other day. At his elbow, Lidell wheezed, a low whistling tunefully broadcasting from his ill-fitting dentures. “We’re in for it,” the older man offered.
Nodding agreement on the concise weather forecast but with secrets stowed deep in his chest that led his thoughts other directions, he almost smiled. Almost yelled. Almost ran, as they said, for the hills. Almost prayed to the, in his experience, unhearing God up above beyond the great burning blue sky, the gaseous sun, the frigid stars. He ground his molars with such force he thought he might permanently realign his jaw.
At last the man came, parking his faded black car, walking in the leisurely southern style across sidewalk, up steps, fumbling with keys at the door. “C’mon in, folks.” He grinned, magnanimous, comfortable, sagacious.
In gilt even letters, traced and painted with a nimble hand, an inner door read, Ernest K. Floyd, Justice of the Peace. Beyond this door was a room at once dull and bright- not festooned with even a shred of those items which sang of matrimony, no flowers or crepe paper, no rice, unless it was secreted in some drawer or cabinet- but aglow in premonitory light and heat from the bank of windows on one side. The jovial J.P. wedged himself behind a desk, pulling out ledger and receipt books. “Who’s for it, then?”
Augusta blushed, Lidell emitted a chuckle that could have passed for the beginning of a bronchial fit, both backing slightly to the rear. Firm, unembarrassed, Veda stepped up, her chubby dry fingers grasping her fiancé’s wrist as she went. He stood mute beside her as she rattled off answers that Ernest K. Floyd diligently copied down in the ledger.
Again his mind insisted on wandering. He thought of his wanting childhood, the dank gray nights of the war, the muddy shell-shocked days, the heady welcoming return, the utter quiet and blank faces as he tried to find employment, the distracting, boisterous presence of the woman beside him, ready to take him up, believing in her heart that she was doing him the favor, saving the lanky former private from a future of unwomaned loneliness.
In profile he looked at her full coral painted lips, thick soft shoulder, balloon breast beginning to perspire through over-taxed brassiere and off-white dress. His eyes strayed to her stomach, where he imagined he could see the flesh move, grow taught and begin to tear as the outline of a toe formed a hill that pushed out against stomach and dress, threatening to kick it’s way out of the womb.
The time had come. He took his place beside her, repeated the ritual words without a stumble, kissed the rough mouth offered to him which tasted of mint and chicory, felt a hand good-naturedly slap his back and told himself he’d kill her in her sleep if the baby that wasn’t his came out colored.
Above the ample shelf of her bosom her powdered immigrant face smiled broad and flat amid a nimbus of hair the precise shade of a milk pumpkin freshly rent from it‘s umbilical vine. For a moment he thought he could smell the mildewed flesh, see the concave withering shell as it fell in on itself, age distorting it‘s form. His eyes drifted heavenward as his stomach began to churn.
Batting his eyelids against the heat of the afternoon sun he ran his hand through the short shorn dark fluff the army had accustomed him to. Beads of sweat were gathering at his temples like dew on grass. His hand fell away, tacky and tremulous. Soon the office would reopen.
Toward the rear of the car an excited chatter progressed. Veda and Augusta. The two women leaned against the bulging fender fanning themselves with floppy straw hats, gossiping just as if it were any other day. At his elbow, Lidell wheezed, a low whistling tunefully broadcasting from his ill-fitting dentures. “We’re in for it,” the older man offered.
Nodding agreement on the concise weather forecast but with secrets stowed deep in his chest that led his thoughts other directions, he almost smiled. Almost yelled. Almost ran, as they said, for the hills. Almost prayed to the, in his experience, unhearing God up above beyond the great burning blue sky, the gaseous sun, the frigid stars. He ground his molars with such force he thought he might permanently realign his jaw.
At last the man came, parking his faded black car, walking in the leisurely southern style across sidewalk, up steps, fumbling with keys at the door. “C’mon in, folks.” He grinned, magnanimous, comfortable, sagacious.
In gilt even letters, traced and painted with a nimble hand, an inner door read, Ernest K. Floyd, Justice of the Peace. Beyond this door was a room at once dull and bright- not festooned with even a shred of those items which sang of matrimony, no flowers or crepe paper, no rice, unless it was secreted in some drawer or cabinet- but aglow in premonitory light and heat from the bank of windows on one side. The jovial J.P. wedged himself behind a desk, pulling out ledger and receipt books. “Who’s for it, then?”
Augusta blushed, Lidell emitted a chuckle that could have passed for the beginning of a bronchial fit, both backing slightly to the rear. Firm, unembarrassed, Veda stepped up, her chubby dry fingers grasping her fiancé’s wrist as she went. He stood mute beside her as she rattled off answers that Ernest K. Floyd diligently copied down in the ledger.
Again his mind insisted on wandering. He thought of his wanting childhood, the dank gray nights of the war, the muddy shell-shocked days, the heady welcoming return, the utter quiet and blank faces as he tried to find employment, the distracting, boisterous presence of the woman beside him, ready to take him up, believing in her heart that she was doing him the favor, saving the lanky former private from a future of unwomaned loneliness.
In profile he looked at her full coral painted lips, thick soft shoulder, balloon breast beginning to perspire through over-taxed brassiere and off-white dress. His eyes strayed to her stomach, where he imagined he could see the flesh move, grow taught and begin to tear as the outline of a toe formed a hill that pushed out against stomach and dress, threatening to kick it’s way out of the womb.
The time had come. He took his place beside her, repeated the ritual words without a stumble, kissed the rough mouth offered to him which tasted of mint and chicory, felt a hand good-naturedly slap his back and told himself he’d kill her in her sleep if the baby that wasn’t his came out colored.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Gimme Fiction: Interment
The thanks go by like pollen on a breeze, acknowledge only by a few whom, like allergy sufferers, are reflexively responsive. The remainder mull about, secretly wondering when manners will allow them their exodus to less selfless circumstances. Obliging disquiet flits through the room, grazing shoulders in haste as it searches for a candidate to shout “Goose!” at. The most probable nominee is Peter’s Aunt Hildy. With a lacquered surface, all gleaming black from pillbox hat to orthopedic shoes, she seems ready to rain tears and shatter eardrums if the opportunity presents itself. I suspect all she needs do is see me to let loose the floodgate.
I sidle back beyond the white beveled beam of the doorjamb. In a corner Gladys is fighting against rage and her four-year old mewling boy whose only awareness revolves around the procurement of sugar-laden goodies from the tauntingly overburdened table in the dining room. A sigh trembles from my chest as I commiserate with his honest, simple longing. I wish I could fill a plate and put it in his chubby hands.
Instead, I retreat further, turn a corner in to another room, seeking space. Contrary to accepted practice, a house full of people is no refuge for the mourning. Noise seems just to amplify the loss of the one person with whom you found peace; bodies standing stiff as corpses in solidarity reminding you that you stand alone.
Suffocating, stifled, I think “A breath of air,” and wander slyly out back to the kitchen, speculating that the door there may be unguarded. No such luck. Jon stands sentry, or seems to, though his hands are immersed in the flow from the tap and the rush of water should deafen his ears. Still he heeds, senses and pivots on loafered heels toward my hunch-backed cowardice.
His relaxed posture intimidates me, butt up against the counter edge, clammy hands wringing dry against a square of daisy-spotted cotton. A murmur of iron and soap tickles my nose hairs. We’ve never been close, this cousin and I, and now he means to be kind. I offer a short smile, chagrin tattooed on its surface.
“Need a break, huh?”
I nod slowly unwilling to speak, afraid to betray the gurgling lump clogging my airway. My eyesight trails along as he tosses the dishrag to the counter. Every small thing seems to captivate me today. My vision drifts back to find an opposite watchful gaze.
The withered skin on my lips is suddenly a treasure- a welcome distraction to grind between teeth, to chew and rip asunder the translucent flakes from the tender flesh below. I gnaw deliberately so as not to draw blood. More concern I don’t need.
Across the way, Jon shoves his hands in his pockets as though intent to ride out the duration of my silent stay, as though he intends to speak his mind. Desperate to convey that nothing needs to be said, I move toward him, put my hand out to pull open the cabinet nearest his head to retrieve a glass. I feel my muscles, my tendons, my skin tense so close to the warmth of another body whose focus is so deliberately upon me. With a blank mind I regulate my breathing, fill the glass with water and drink.
Jon shifts very little, his brown gaze shadowing my gestures. Out the window a lean Manx cat, the neighborhood scavenger stalks through the overgrown yellow lawn. I imagine I can feel the crunchy wheaten shafts cracking underfoot, scratching my legs. Casually I itch at the area behind my ear.
It’s only moments, a handful of seconds for all of this, but it feels like it drags on. I don’t know what to do to break the onslaught of dawdling time. Behind us at the passage to the dining room, a creak and the nervous clearing of a throat. “Jon. Oh, I hope I’m not interrupting, Sara. Um, Jon, I could use some help with the cooler. Its leaking all over the porch.”
“Marjorie, there are at least half a dozen people out there you could ask to help, so why don’t you go back out there and do that?” I can feel Jon’s head jut significantly in my direction. I look over in time to see Marjorie’s face disappear with an huffy frown.
"You shouldn't speak to her I like that," I remonstrate.
“She’s forever butting in.”
My chin dips to my collarbone and I set the glass in the sink. "That’s what family is for, I guess. You’re standing around here waiting your chance to butt in, aren’t you?”
Jon grins smugly. "The circumstances are a little different. I thought you might want to talk to someone.”
“No, not really,” I answer as frostily as I can.
He propels himself out of his recline, but leans in at my shoulder. The tarry fumes of myriad burned out cigarettes linger on his moist breath. “You can’t shut out everyone.”
“I don’t have to let them all in, either,” I think. Outwardly I glare, daring him with arched brow to continue his sermon. Overawed, or more likely bored, Jon shuffles through the door without another word. I don’t know whether to spit or yell or take up the glass from the sink and throw it at the wall. I clench my jaw and suck in at my teeth.
It’s then that the tears seem most imminent, burning to spill and expose the deep lamentations echoing in the hole of my heart. All day the numb ache has been disguising the seeping memories but the hurt has grown so vast as to burst my chest. Like a novice drunk I hunch over the sink, arms at prayer, shoulders convulsing, ready to spew forth whatever it takes to feel well again.
The counter’s edge bites in to my elbows. As I rock back and forth the burnished steel of the sink sends flashes of ice along my forearms when my skin meets its lip. I try and I try. I grant subconscious permission for the volcano to erupt, but all that comes is a drizzle from my eyes, a miniature river of snot from my flat short nose.
Throwing the glass would have been better, I convince myself. So that’s what I do. With all the ferocity, the bitter useless anger that I can muster I hurl the thing at the wall. There’s a loud bonk, a crash, a splintering sound like shivering bells.
Through the doors they all file in, exclaiming. Peter’s Aunt Hildy goes wild, releasing all the noises and floods that I cannot. Hands and arms fly to her form, to placate, to console. She is inconsolable. Disgusted, I simply shake my head.
I sidle back beyond the white beveled beam of the doorjamb. In a corner Gladys is fighting against rage and her four-year old mewling boy whose only awareness revolves around the procurement of sugar-laden goodies from the tauntingly overburdened table in the dining room. A sigh trembles from my chest as I commiserate with his honest, simple longing. I wish I could fill a plate and put it in his chubby hands.
Instead, I retreat further, turn a corner in to another room, seeking space. Contrary to accepted practice, a house full of people is no refuge for the mourning. Noise seems just to amplify the loss of the one person with whom you found peace; bodies standing stiff as corpses in solidarity reminding you that you stand alone.
Suffocating, stifled, I think “A breath of air,” and wander slyly out back to the kitchen, speculating that the door there may be unguarded. No such luck. Jon stands sentry, or seems to, though his hands are immersed in the flow from the tap and the rush of water should deafen his ears. Still he heeds, senses and pivots on loafered heels toward my hunch-backed cowardice.
His relaxed posture intimidates me, butt up against the counter edge, clammy hands wringing dry against a square of daisy-spotted cotton. A murmur of iron and soap tickles my nose hairs. We’ve never been close, this cousin and I, and now he means to be kind. I offer a short smile, chagrin tattooed on its surface.
“Need a break, huh?”
I nod slowly unwilling to speak, afraid to betray the gurgling lump clogging my airway. My eyesight trails along as he tosses the dishrag to the counter. Every small thing seems to captivate me today. My vision drifts back to find an opposite watchful gaze.
The withered skin on my lips is suddenly a treasure- a welcome distraction to grind between teeth, to chew and rip asunder the translucent flakes from the tender flesh below. I gnaw deliberately so as not to draw blood. More concern I don’t need.
Across the way, Jon shoves his hands in his pockets as though intent to ride out the duration of my silent stay, as though he intends to speak his mind. Desperate to convey that nothing needs to be said, I move toward him, put my hand out to pull open the cabinet nearest his head to retrieve a glass. I feel my muscles, my tendons, my skin tense so close to the warmth of another body whose focus is so deliberately upon me. With a blank mind I regulate my breathing, fill the glass with water and drink.
Jon shifts very little, his brown gaze shadowing my gestures. Out the window a lean Manx cat, the neighborhood scavenger stalks through the overgrown yellow lawn. I imagine I can feel the crunchy wheaten shafts cracking underfoot, scratching my legs. Casually I itch at the area behind my ear.
It’s only moments, a handful of seconds for all of this, but it feels like it drags on. I don’t know what to do to break the onslaught of dawdling time. Behind us at the passage to the dining room, a creak and the nervous clearing of a throat. “Jon. Oh, I hope I’m not interrupting, Sara. Um, Jon, I could use some help with the cooler. Its leaking all over the porch.”
“Marjorie, there are at least half a dozen people out there you could ask to help, so why don’t you go back out there and do that?” I can feel Jon’s head jut significantly in my direction. I look over in time to see Marjorie’s face disappear with an huffy frown.
"You shouldn't speak to her I like that," I remonstrate.
“She’s forever butting in.”
My chin dips to my collarbone and I set the glass in the sink. "That’s what family is for, I guess. You’re standing around here waiting your chance to butt in, aren’t you?”
Jon grins smugly. "The circumstances are a little different. I thought you might want to talk to someone.”
“No, not really,” I answer as frostily as I can.
He propels himself out of his recline, but leans in at my shoulder. The tarry fumes of myriad burned out cigarettes linger on his moist breath. “You can’t shut out everyone.”
“I don’t have to let them all in, either,” I think. Outwardly I glare, daring him with arched brow to continue his sermon. Overawed, or more likely bored, Jon shuffles through the door without another word. I don’t know whether to spit or yell or take up the glass from the sink and throw it at the wall. I clench my jaw and suck in at my teeth.
It’s then that the tears seem most imminent, burning to spill and expose the deep lamentations echoing in the hole of my heart. All day the numb ache has been disguising the seeping memories but the hurt has grown so vast as to burst my chest. Like a novice drunk I hunch over the sink, arms at prayer, shoulders convulsing, ready to spew forth whatever it takes to feel well again.
The counter’s edge bites in to my elbows. As I rock back and forth the burnished steel of the sink sends flashes of ice along my forearms when my skin meets its lip. I try and I try. I grant subconscious permission for the volcano to erupt, but all that comes is a drizzle from my eyes, a miniature river of snot from my flat short nose.
Throwing the glass would have been better, I convince myself. So that’s what I do. With all the ferocity, the bitter useless anger that I can muster I hurl the thing at the wall. There’s a loud bonk, a crash, a splintering sound like shivering bells.
Through the doors they all file in, exclaiming. Peter’s Aunt Hildy goes wild, releasing all the noises and floods that I cannot. Hands and arms fly to her form, to placate, to console. She is inconsolable. Disgusted, I simply shake my head.
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