Up past the forestry station along an empty stretch of highway, O.D. pushed hard against a rising headwind. He felt the resistance of the air against his body, the whoosh of wet wheels on slick pavement, the hypnotic draw of the blushing horizon. His breath wheezed in rhythm to the clink of the bike chain, the spattering rain drumming along in broken time to an old radio song that muttered in his head.
“Well, I dreamed I saw the silver… space ships flying… in the yellow haze… of the sun…
A gray ache gripped his tired bones but he forced the pedals harder, slippery feet on edge, legs wide apart to avoid knocking his knees against the intruding bag that dangled awkwardly from the handlebars. It’d been a while since he’d brought anything back that appeared useful but now was the time and he imagined they’d be pleased, especially Jemma.
“There were children crying… and colors flying… all around the chosen… ones.”
He was a piano of a man, his six foot six frame suffocating the rail-thin bike that creaked and wobbled under him. A plastic garbage bag bloomed over his wide shoulders – a poor man’s raincoat; it whipped and popped like snapping fingers against the wind. Gray beard gathered like wool along the upper ridge of his cheekbones, infringed heavily, swept down his moon face and bottomed out in a heavy hornet’s nest tangle ten inches below his jaw. His bright gray eyes - - round as saucers - - focused on the crowded rows of black trees that fenced the highway, millions of giant palings left pounded in the earth by industrious absent gods.
“All in a dream… all… in a dream…”
O.D. worked the words, wondered what was real, what was nightmare, wondered what had happened previous to this day’s passing, the time before, years of dim memories impenetrable, the future down the road like the setting sun, glowing in and out of view above an uncertain sky.
The folks at Haven House tended to step aside when O.D. wandered the aisles of the store picking through recycled goods. He seemed harmless enough, but his polished stare would send some skittering in another direction. Some of the staff huddled and whispered in conference when he passed, talked openly when he left.
I heard he went crazy when his wife and boy left him, got heavy into hallucinogens… nah, nah, word was he encountered strange flying objects one time, yoo-who, coo-coo! no, no, I heard he snapped and killed his wife and her lover, buried them somewhere…no, listen, Otis Digby was a good man, private that’s all… nope, here’s the truth, the guy’s a serial killer, I mean shit, look at him…
Few cars passed. On the slick curve, O.D. saw it, the pale blue fabric hanging from the shrub. He stopped and wiped water from his washed up face. He waited for a lone lazy truck to pass, bent to tinker with the front wheel and when the truck evaporated like a ghost in the distant mist, stepped from the bike and made his way across the long weeded burm. Overhead, rigid trees rose like thin pins poking against the lowering sky. The blue rag tucked against the dark camouflage; below it, a tangled dent hugged the ground and punched into dead limbs as if a low animal had burrowed through. O.D. scanned the empty highway once more and then knifed the bike through the wet shrub and disappeared, digested whole in one quick swallow by the waiting forest.
He came to the clearing two hundred yards in, a conclusion of trees uprooted from the earth. It formed a secluded backdrop against the surrounding forest. In the center, a worn card table with bent knees listed precariously. It was covered with a red and white banner from a big-box discount store, the Target logo prominently bulls-eyed on top. Dull rain tapped along the surface, overfilled a white vase containing wilted sunflowers. Propped next to it, a framed picture of a smiling young couple.
Two bodies - - one male and one female - - reclined, roped to yellowed kitchen chairs in front of the table. They tilted in the mud, a magician’s trick gone badly. The young male was crudely tied - - a diagonal plank - - his neck secured to the back of one chair by thin ribbon, ankles below the mud, a battered suitcase sinking in the mud beside him. The naked woman was seated, her breasts glossy smooth and featureless, a rag of wet plastered hair atop her head. The rain ran in rivulets down their bodies, pooled around them in wide puddles.
“Brought something Jemma,” O.D. said and advanced on the female.
He emptied the bag he’d been carrying. It contained a few items of fabric - assorted clothing, long sleeve shirts, a couple of suit coats, pants and one yellow dress.
“I’d hoped to have found a new wig, something nice for the journey. No such luck.”
He studied the confounding sky.
“It’s time don’t you think?” he said, gently laying out the dress.
“All in a dream… all… in a dream…”
The rain fell harder, pattering to a soft hush. Distant thunder boomed like war cannon. A few birds flew. The mannequins, bleached and lifeless, said nothing, only stared into a sunless world.
They waited.
Jul 28, 2012
May 2, 2012
Las Cruces
Smith sat quietly inside the stagecoach, thumbing the rotating cylinder. Bullets had been flying. When the coach stopped, the guard riding shotgun had dropped to the ground, heavy like a sack of barley seed, a hole through his throat.
“Everybody out,” one of the riders had shouted.
Smith was thinking about a simple premise his Pa had taught back on the farm.
“Size up the situation. Figure out the possibilities. Take your best shot.”
Smith and his wife Millie had worked hard, scraped the land bare for the meager return the parched ground had been willing to release. It was never enough. His Millie deserved better. Now, after losing the farm and his Pa, they were headed south.
“I said, everybody out.”
Smith gave Millie a nod, then calmly stepped from the stage. Without hesitation, he flashed the gun and fired four shots, his steady hand as sure as the truth. The three riders tumbled from their vaulting horses.
The stagecoach driver, Hank Barrett sat gravely wounded on the carriage deck.
“You saved us son,” he whispered. “The bank too.” He rubbed a slow hand along the silver strong box. “Over ten thousand dollars worth I’d say.”
Smith rotated the cylinder; there were two cartridges left. He thought about his Pa’s words as he put one through Barrett’s left eye. He turned to Millie who looked out at him through the coach window, a beatific smile crossing her face.
“Darlin’,” he asked. “Would you like to see Mexico?”
“Everybody out,” one of the riders had shouted.
Smith was thinking about a simple premise his Pa had taught back on the farm.
“Size up the situation. Figure out the possibilities. Take your best shot.”
Smith and his wife Millie had worked hard, scraped the land bare for the meager return the parched ground had been willing to release. It was never enough. His Millie deserved better. Now, after losing the farm and his Pa, they were headed south.
“I said, everybody out.”
Smith gave Millie a nod, then calmly stepped from the stage. Without hesitation, he flashed the gun and fired four shots, his steady hand as sure as the truth. The three riders tumbled from their vaulting horses.
The stagecoach driver, Hank Barrett sat gravely wounded on the carriage deck.
“You saved us son,” he whispered. “The bank too.” He rubbed a slow hand along the silver strong box. “Over ten thousand dollars worth I’d say.”
Smith rotated the cylinder; there were two cartridges left. He thought about his Pa’s words as he put one through Barrett’s left eye. He turned to Millie who looked out at him through the coach window, a beatific smile crossing her face.
“Darlin’,” he asked. “Would you like to see Mexico?”
Dec 5, 2011
Themes
Theme: Darkness Before Light
Dark Side of the Moon
The moon was full, glazed, the size of the world. He watched it eye him through the transom in his living room. A lover’s moon or the dead’s marker? he pondered. The latter he was sure. What was the moon after all but a lifeless, airless place. An ancient pebble drifting down the dark void.
The living room lit a deathly blue. Ice cold breaths smoked from his mouth in ghastly white plumes. He stretched his withered legs, curled long fingers around the armrest of his recliner. He squeezed nails into it, the leather splitting under his grip. Blood iced through his veins, surging hotter as he let the dark overtake him. He stared into the moon’s disfigured face. After dark, there is hope for light, he mused. Light entertainment perhaps and chuckled at the thought. Dark and light. Life and death; his awakening to another. I am the dark of the moon, he said out loud. He almost screamed.
There was a segment of cloud crossing the moon now, a blue gray veil, moving and boiling like a spider’s nest. The cloud looked like Jesus, the face hung deathly white, a ragged beard tormented the chin. His eyes narrowed. The winds swirled. The taxi would arrive soon. There were dinner plans tonight. He would insist the cabbie join him. The jesus face changed. The beard dipped like a tornado funnel, a pointed devil’s beard. A grin cut his face.
Theme: The ‘Golden’ Rule
Golden Boy
The fields ran by, flashing on the glass screen like an old-time movie reel. Ripples of prairie wheat and corn, a two second frame of crooked farm road, a six second frame of dirt brown field… then another… and another… a zoom in of a giant silo and cows standing still… then back to the moving picture - a new theme introduced this time – sunflower yellow fields. While we watched, we took in the drone – that sound of rubber on the road humming below - a certain hum that allowed our eyes to drop heavy, pulling us down helplessly into easy sleep. The sun reflected on the windows, the ghosts of three boys and a girl revealed, propped against the doors and pillows; on the radio, a crooner’s thin hypnotic voice attempted to infiltrate our back seat reverie.
The car shuddered as passing big rigs shoved and shouldered us, like over-sized bullies pushing down school hallways, plowing weaker bodies into lockers. With light fading, dad silenced the radio and piped his mantra again, something he’d repeated every few miles or so. “Anybody see it yet?”
I didn’t want to miss it… to be the first to pick out the Golden Boy on the horizon, the sun glinting off its golden torch, signifying we were almost home. Eyes wide open, I jockeyed for position on the seat, cheek against the glass. Shit, no sibling was going to beat me out of seeing it first.
Theme: Renewal
I Have A Confession To Make
It’s that time of month again and I’ve got a confession to make. The old man’s made it clear that we’ve all gotta go today. Shit, it’s not even Sunday. He says it’s a sort of “divine intervention” moment, a time to expel guilt, renew the spirit, and wipe the deep stains from our souls. Sounds to me like we’re changing our underwear. I don’t know what he’s done to feel guilty… other than to yell and falsely accuse me!!! of punching my little brother when he, asshole!!! started it!!
Anyway, this confessing thing is quite embarrassing and trusting a complete stranger with your most intimate failings is sheer lunacy. I, for one, will opt to blatantly lie. And I’ll use my trusty routine of standards too: lied, swore, had bad thoughts. Through the grate, I see Father Farrell sitting there in the dark. He’s young and might give me a pass. Looks like he’s writing stuff down. Maybe he wants to be a novelist someday, perhaps write a ‘tell-all’ book to rival the Bible… hehe! Shit… is that blasphemy? Fuck, that’s a mortal sin I bet. God I’m doomed.
Little brother insisted I go first. Fine. He’ll get his. He’s going to say the same bullshit I’m going to lie about and Father’s going to see he’s shitting him and hopefully call him on it. Then we’ll see if there’s such a thing as “divine intervention” … or righteous punishment for telling Pop on me.
Theme: Heavy Man, Heavy
Gun Play
In the cafeteria, the shooter takes out Mr. Hollis. BAM! … BAMBAM!… a ruler smacking a table and Hollis hits the wall and disappears down, like the floor just opened under him. The guy – it’s Billy Krazik - turns and aims at Jamie Stockwell, sitting there calmly as if he’s in the play or something and he takes two to the head. He rocks a little, then sits still. The fuck moves forward, looking right at me, our eyes lock and he points the gun… I peer down the black hole, see Krazik’s chewed red fingernail twitch slightly to the left as he fires off a barrage of shots. BAM! … BAMBAMBAM!… tables splinter and scatter behind me; there are heavy thumps and screams and I blink uncontrollably, a deranged twist creasing my face.
And then there’s Colby, backpack in hand, crossing the floor. He strides in quick purposeful steps. He looks insane. Parallel to Krazik, light as a ghost, I don’t think he sees it coming.
I’m woven in a cocoon. On the soundless floor, I watch bodies twitch. Heads cover. Krazik’s moved into the hallways. My chest weighs heavy, bubbling pink. Colby has nothing to say, his eyes vacant, surprised. Earlier this morning he boasted he’d brought his old man’s Glock to school… just to show it off you understand. Colby was cool… just playing … but well… Krazik’s crazy and he decided to swipe it and play the heavy… for real. He plays it well.
Dark Side of the Moon
The moon was full, glazed, the size of the world. He watched it eye him through the transom in his living room. A lover’s moon or the dead’s marker? he pondered. The latter he was sure. What was the moon after all but a lifeless, airless place. An ancient pebble drifting down the dark void.
The living room lit a deathly blue. Ice cold breaths smoked from his mouth in ghastly white plumes. He stretched his withered legs, curled long fingers around the armrest of his recliner. He squeezed nails into it, the leather splitting under his grip. Blood iced through his veins, surging hotter as he let the dark overtake him. He stared into the moon’s disfigured face. After dark, there is hope for light, he mused. Light entertainment perhaps and chuckled at the thought. Dark and light. Life and death; his awakening to another. I am the dark of the moon, he said out loud. He almost screamed.
There was a segment of cloud crossing the moon now, a blue gray veil, moving and boiling like a spider’s nest. The cloud looked like Jesus, the face hung deathly white, a ragged beard tormented the chin. His eyes narrowed. The winds swirled. The taxi would arrive soon. There were dinner plans tonight. He would insist the cabbie join him. The jesus face changed. The beard dipped like a tornado funnel, a pointed devil’s beard. A grin cut his face.
Theme: The ‘Golden’ Rule
Golden Boy
The fields ran by, flashing on the glass screen like an old-time movie reel. Ripples of prairie wheat and corn, a two second frame of crooked farm road, a six second frame of dirt brown field… then another… and another… a zoom in of a giant silo and cows standing still… then back to the moving picture - a new theme introduced this time – sunflower yellow fields. While we watched, we took in the drone – that sound of rubber on the road humming below - a certain hum that allowed our eyes to drop heavy, pulling us down helplessly into easy sleep. The sun reflected on the windows, the ghosts of three boys and a girl revealed, propped against the doors and pillows; on the radio, a crooner’s thin hypnotic voice attempted to infiltrate our back seat reverie.
The car shuddered as passing big rigs shoved and shouldered us, like over-sized bullies pushing down school hallways, plowing weaker bodies into lockers. With light fading, dad silenced the radio and piped his mantra again, something he’d repeated every few miles or so. “Anybody see it yet?”
I didn’t want to miss it… to be the first to pick out the Golden Boy on the horizon, the sun glinting off its golden torch, signifying we were almost home. Eyes wide open, I jockeyed for position on the seat, cheek against the glass. Shit, no sibling was going to beat me out of seeing it first.
Theme: Renewal
I Have A Confession To Make
It’s that time of month again and I’ve got a confession to make. The old man’s made it clear that we’ve all gotta go today. Shit, it’s not even Sunday. He says it’s a sort of “divine intervention” moment, a time to expel guilt, renew the spirit, and wipe the deep stains from our souls. Sounds to me like we’re changing our underwear. I don’t know what he’s done to feel guilty… other than to yell and falsely accuse me!!! of punching my little brother when he, asshole!!! started it!!
Anyway, this confessing thing is quite embarrassing and trusting a complete stranger with your most intimate failings is sheer lunacy. I, for one, will opt to blatantly lie. And I’ll use my trusty routine of standards too: lied, swore, had bad thoughts. Through the grate, I see Father Farrell sitting there in the dark. He’s young and might give me a pass. Looks like he’s writing stuff down. Maybe he wants to be a novelist someday, perhaps write a ‘tell-all’ book to rival the Bible… hehe! Shit… is that blasphemy? Fuck, that’s a mortal sin I bet. God I’m doomed.
Little brother insisted I go first. Fine. He’ll get his. He’s going to say the same bullshit I’m going to lie about and Father’s going to see he’s shitting him and hopefully call him on it. Then we’ll see if there’s such a thing as “divine intervention” … or righteous punishment for telling Pop on me.
Theme: Heavy Man, Heavy
Gun Play
In the cafeteria, the shooter takes out Mr. Hollis. BAM! … BAMBAM!… a ruler smacking a table and Hollis hits the wall and disappears down, like the floor just opened under him. The guy – it’s Billy Krazik - turns and aims at Jamie Stockwell, sitting there calmly as if he’s in the play or something and he takes two to the head. He rocks a little, then sits still. The fuck moves forward, looking right at me, our eyes lock and he points the gun… I peer down the black hole, see Krazik’s chewed red fingernail twitch slightly to the left as he fires off a barrage of shots. BAM! … BAMBAMBAM!… tables splinter and scatter behind me; there are heavy thumps and screams and I blink uncontrollably, a deranged twist creasing my face.
And then there’s Colby, backpack in hand, crossing the floor. He strides in quick purposeful steps. He looks insane. Parallel to Krazik, light as a ghost, I don’t think he sees it coming.
I’m woven in a cocoon. On the soundless floor, I watch bodies twitch. Heads cover. Krazik’s moved into the hallways. My chest weighs heavy, bubbling pink. Colby has nothing to say, his eyes vacant, surprised. Earlier this morning he boasted he’d brought his old man’s Glock to school… just to show it off you understand. Colby was cool… just playing … but well… Krazik’s crazy and he decided to swipe it and play the heavy… for real. He plays it well.
Aug 24, 2011
The Attraction
He’d passed the same attraction three days running. Down the leafy back road, just off the golf course and up around the bend, it waited patiently for him like an old friend ready for play. The monument of snapped limbs and discarded brush stacked high, a rambling golden pyre, bone-dry, quivering like an expectant lover. He had hoped running would alleviate the burning need, create another game with less to lose. He slowed to a trot as the mind game caught hold; a glowing ember of it circled - wanted to touch with one strike of a match, one finger-flick of a clean cigarette - lightly crackling “you’re it.” Later, from his spot on the hill, he watched it run and play, quietly glowing hot and bright, pleased with what it had started.
It was faint at first, like a distant train whistle calling from somewhere along the darkening horizon, but now the sound was louder. It was not a whistle but the blare of wailing sirens and he relaxed a bit. The sirens smothered his pounding heart with a blanket of relief like of cool rain and he licked his dry lips.
“It will be alright,” he whimpered, almost collapsing. He turned to leave and his eye caught a glimpse of something that did drop him to his knees: a surging wall of orange flame boiling through a row of trees that kissed along a ridge of large homes hugging the golf course. “What have you done?” it said.
The first engine arrived and a fireman heavy with gear stumbled from the side railing. He was shouting instruction to the other firemen as they scrambled from the vehicle, serpentine hoses uncoiling over the road like spilled guts from some reddened beast. On the hill he watched them play, mesmerized as flames took the first two houses. They flowered, a hushing sound like marshmallows to the flame. “It’s just a game,” he whispered, his face shiny, angelic. “We can stop anytime.”
When he was very young, it spoke to him, drew him like moth to flame. His mother had seen it in him too - this calling - had noticed how his eyes would light as they stared blankly into the blazing fireplace. In church she encouraged him to light a votive candle for lost souls and the dearly departed. She believed it was goodness he saw, some guiding light, the flame a source of warmth and comfort. She was wrong. His father, mean and drunk, saw it exactly as it was. “You’re it,” he said, flicking a flaming match toward him while playing on the floor with his older brother, Davey. “Oh you’re it alright,” he said and laughed between pulls of the bottle and drags on the hand-rolled smoke. It was a contemptuous laugh, malicious. But it was quickly silenced the first time the boy - quick as a viper - snatched the lit match as it bounced off his chest. His eyes widened as he felt the sting of the flame, then an overwhelming sadness as it quickly extinguished, the burn searing his palm. He didn’t mind; he liked it… this new game. “Fire’s a motherfucker… a beast,” his father said, holding the shaky cigarette up close to eyes. He lightly blew on the smoldering orange ember. “It’s like you. It’s tricky.” His eyes faltered, then drowsily dropped down upon him. “Unplanned,” he mumbled. “Unplanned and tricky. That’s it.” The boy didn’t understand all the things his father said but he trusted the man knew what he spoke of. He and Davey rolled and played about on the floor, dumping plastic soldiers and Tinker toys into their father’s stained fireman’s helmet. Crinkled matches lay scattered about the carpet, as black and as brittle as torched bodies.
He started setting fires when he was eleven. The attraction was a rough clearing out in the old dump near Rollins Swamp. It seemed a safe place to play, with so much ready to burn, so much smoldering there just beneath the surface of discarded trash. It was a game - “I’m it… you’re it” he’d say - and flick matches one by one from the long matchbox, each one tumbling, some flaming out, others burning bright as they landed in a scratch of bramble and oily boxes. They quickly caught on. He heard the voice in the crackle - his father’s voice - a soft whisper at first that would detonate into a terrifying roar. “YOU’RE IT!” it boomed.
He controlled the fires at first, kept them small but the day came when the winds seemed to shift out of nowhere, the world opened wide and he was confronted with the beast. It stood before him, alive, taunting and unstable. He was not afraid. He was terrified. It ran around him, leering, its fiery tongue lolling and whispering around his ears. It quickly turned and rolled toward the swamp, like some living creature eager for water to soothe it, to cool it. He followed and waited. Instead of water, it found fuel to feed. The dry bramble swamp exploded and it consumed everything, its gaping maw, red and hot.
He had run then, somehow escaped through the thicket, excited and horrified, sprawling flat in a ditch as the fire engines screamed past down the smoke-choked road. As the last truck flared by, he glanced up in time to see his father riding the top of the engine’s cab, saw the terrified look as their eyes locked. He never saw him again. Outmatched and trapped in the swamp, his father and three other firemen were consumed by the monster’s fury.
There was no other consequence; the origin of the fire blamed on conditions at the dump, on shifting weather, an unfortunate and horrible accident the papers said. After that, he ran in a futile attempt to outrun what had happened. Then in his mid-teens, he started running with the fire, hoping it might grow tired of the game and burn itself out on its own. But it circled… circled and chased him. Always.
The fireman stood frozen. The blaze towered above him, the heat an open oven wrinkling the air. It had taken hold everywhere, jumped the street to the left of the golf course, rolling like a wave toward the opposite curb. Smoke churned between the remaining houses, hugged the gravel in a low thick fog as orange spikes flickered and peeked through like demon eyes in the night. He felt his partner then - Conrad - at his side grabbing his arm; he was shouting, barely audible through his mask over the roar.
“We gotta go… go now!”
For a moment, he thought he might faint. His vision blurred and he felt disorientated as if falling down a funneling dark tunnel. He thought he heard Conrad again but the voice was different, familiar.
And he knew.
The voice was high above him, on the hill somewhere, his brother’s voice screaming, screaming. He turned to look but all he saw was Conrad’s face wet and pleading, the beast rising behind him.
“We gotta go Davey,” he shouted. “We gotta go… NOW!”
It was faint at first, like a distant train whistle calling from somewhere along the darkening horizon, but now the sound was louder. It was not a whistle but the blare of wailing sirens and he relaxed a bit. The sirens smothered his pounding heart with a blanket of relief like of cool rain and he licked his dry lips.
“It will be alright,” he whimpered, almost collapsing. He turned to leave and his eye caught a glimpse of something that did drop him to his knees: a surging wall of orange flame boiling through a row of trees that kissed along a ridge of large homes hugging the golf course. “What have you done?” it said.
The first engine arrived and a fireman heavy with gear stumbled from the side railing. He was shouting instruction to the other firemen as they scrambled from the vehicle, serpentine hoses uncoiling over the road like spilled guts from some reddened beast. On the hill he watched them play, mesmerized as flames took the first two houses. They flowered, a hushing sound like marshmallows to the flame. “It’s just a game,” he whispered, his face shiny, angelic. “We can stop anytime.”
When he was very young, it spoke to him, drew him like moth to flame. His mother had seen it in him too - this calling - had noticed how his eyes would light as they stared blankly into the blazing fireplace. In church she encouraged him to light a votive candle for lost souls and the dearly departed. She believed it was goodness he saw, some guiding light, the flame a source of warmth and comfort. She was wrong. His father, mean and drunk, saw it exactly as it was. “You’re it,” he said, flicking a flaming match toward him while playing on the floor with his older brother, Davey. “Oh you’re it alright,” he said and laughed between pulls of the bottle and drags on the hand-rolled smoke. It was a contemptuous laugh, malicious. But it was quickly silenced the first time the boy - quick as a viper - snatched the lit match as it bounced off his chest. His eyes widened as he felt the sting of the flame, then an overwhelming sadness as it quickly extinguished, the burn searing his palm. He didn’t mind; he liked it… this new game. “Fire’s a motherfucker… a beast,” his father said, holding the shaky cigarette up close to eyes. He lightly blew on the smoldering orange ember. “It’s like you. It’s tricky.” His eyes faltered, then drowsily dropped down upon him. “Unplanned,” he mumbled. “Unplanned and tricky. That’s it.” The boy didn’t understand all the things his father said but he trusted the man knew what he spoke of. He and Davey rolled and played about on the floor, dumping plastic soldiers and Tinker toys into their father’s stained fireman’s helmet. Crinkled matches lay scattered about the carpet, as black and as brittle as torched bodies.
He started setting fires when he was eleven. The attraction was a rough clearing out in the old dump near Rollins Swamp. It seemed a safe place to play, with so much ready to burn, so much smoldering there just beneath the surface of discarded trash. It was a game - “I’m it… you’re it” he’d say - and flick matches one by one from the long matchbox, each one tumbling, some flaming out, others burning bright as they landed in a scratch of bramble and oily boxes. They quickly caught on. He heard the voice in the crackle - his father’s voice - a soft whisper at first that would detonate into a terrifying roar. “YOU’RE IT!” it boomed.
He controlled the fires at first, kept them small but the day came when the winds seemed to shift out of nowhere, the world opened wide and he was confronted with the beast. It stood before him, alive, taunting and unstable. He was not afraid. He was terrified. It ran around him, leering, its fiery tongue lolling and whispering around his ears. It quickly turned and rolled toward the swamp, like some living creature eager for water to soothe it, to cool it. He followed and waited. Instead of water, it found fuel to feed. The dry bramble swamp exploded and it consumed everything, its gaping maw, red and hot.
He had run then, somehow escaped through the thicket, excited and horrified, sprawling flat in a ditch as the fire engines screamed past down the smoke-choked road. As the last truck flared by, he glanced up in time to see his father riding the top of the engine’s cab, saw the terrified look as their eyes locked. He never saw him again. Outmatched and trapped in the swamp, his father and three other firemen were consumed by the monster’s fury.
There was no other consequence; the origin of the fire blamed on conditions at the dump, on shifting weather, an unfortunate and horrible accident the papers said. After that, he ran in a futile attempt to outrun what had happened. Then in his mid-teens, he started running with the fire, hoping it might grow tired of the game and burn itself out on its own. But it circled… circled and chased him. Always.
The fireman stood frozen. The blaze towered above him, the heat an open oven wrinkling the air. It had taken hold everywhere, jumped the street to the left of the golf course, rolling like a wave toward the opposite curb. Smoke churned between the remaining houses, hugged the gravel in a low thick fog as orange spikes flickered and peeked through like demon eyes in the night. He felt his partner then - Conrad - at his side grabbing his arm; he was shouting, barely audible through his mask over the roar.
“We gotta go… go now!”
For a moment, he thought he might faint. His vision blurred and he felt disorientated as if falling down a funneling dark tunnel. He thought he heard Conrad again but the voice was different, familiar.
And he knew.
The voice was high above him, on the hill somewhere, his brother’s voice screaming, screaming. He turned to look but all he saw was Conrad’s face wet and pleading, the beast rising behind him.
“We gotta go Davey,” he shouted. “We gotta go… NOW!”
Aug 14, 2011
The Color of Warm and Cold
I exit the building onto River Avenue and flip my collar high around my ears, pulling my neck in like a turtle in his shell. The café is only half a block downstream but I’m a frozen fish when I arrive. At the counter, I order a large mocha house blend and wheat toast.
“To go please,” I tell the girl, “with extra butter and cream.”
She is shy and plump and moves like deliberate molasses. Her name is Chloe or Joni or something like that. She doesn’t wear a nametag and I can’t understand Mosca when he lays his bad English on her. Her straw-blond hair is short with a splendid slash of emerald veering across the one side. I imagine her an artist in the outside world. She wears pink glasses - ‘SW#6857 Pink Moment’ the paint chip sample book would reveal and wide rimmed. They frame beautifully warm eyes. I wonder if she knows how beautiful and warm they are or if anyone has ever told her that. ‘Burnt Sienna’, I’d say; a standard color but not standard for her by any means. She doesn’t look me directly in the eye, which tells me she may like me. Or maybe she is self-conscious about my eye, the left one that droops a bit. It’s just lazy, that’s all. I think she may find it rude to stare. She exudes a certain style, displays a confident palette; I can tell by the way she serves customers, efficient with a clean counter and orderly napkins and silverware.
Man, it’s snowing like a million angels exploded out there. The flakes are the size of downed feathers. The city plowed the streets yesterday and created huge snowdrifts along the walkways. There aren’t too many fools out in the cold. The ones that are, slip along in the narrow grooves that act as walkways. I damn near break my neck maneuvering the icy channel back to work and it’s not because I slipped. I’m laughing too hard. Up ahead, two approaching people have fallen. They stand again; the man and woman paw and grope each other for balance. They’re drunk as hell. Two steps and he is down. The woman bends and yells at him, expecting something impossible. He rises like a zombie, barely stable, and then it’s her turn. She falls straight-legged sideways like a tree in the forest. My eyes hurt. I shouldn’t laugh. I may be next. Tears freeze like clear glue on my face and I can’t see. I dab my eyes with the sleeve of my stiff overcoat. It leaves a glistening stain.
I enter the building and Claire is waiting at the bottom of the stairs. She’s leaving for an appointment. She’s decided to have a cigarette first. The most interesting thing about Claire is her hair. It’s jet black and shrouds around a white oval face, a little egg in a nest. It cascades in a pool, splashes over her shoulders. It’s quite beautiful really, even when it’s up.
“I wish we could run away,” she says, blowing smoke against the windowpane.
I nod and look at my feet. The snow melts around my shoes, bleeding an ever- spreading puddle.
Claire has a boyfriend. I’ve never met the guy. I never ask too many questions. I wonder what he doesn’t have that I possess. I wonder what she sees in me? She hasn’t said. I’m cool with that. I work in the paint department. I’m not that colorful. I’ve been there five years and I’m not even manager.
Claire’s a nice girl, smart and attractive in an ordinary way. She holds a safe managerial job - executive assistant. She’s been with the company for almost a year. We hang out a bit. Privately. She prefers it that way. We’ve never been intimate. I have seen her in a bathing suit though.
She lives in a two-story house on a decent street with shady trees. She rents the bottom floor suite. I wonder why the boyfriend of three years doesn’t live with her. The landlady, a Ukrainian woman occupies the upstairs and is particular to guests hanging about. “He’s a nice boy,” Claire says up the stairs and a door closes. She gives me a smirk.
It’s a blistering summer day, the kind where the humidity wears your skin out, squeezes your body like a wetsuit.
“I’m going to change,” she says. “Make yourself at home.”
Her apartment is ordinary with dark wood floors, a plain taupe carpet. The walls are a darker taupe and pictureless. She doesn’t entertain much of a color palette. A couch and chair look new, sleek black, straight from a CB2 catalog. The coffee table isn’t clear. It’s covered with travel magazines.
Claire exits her bedroom wearing a bikini. It is celadon green, though brighter, ‘SW#6705 High Strung’, I’d say. A saturated splash of yellow overtakes it. It shouts ‘SUMMER!’ It screams ‘you can fuck me!’ I love that color. I could give you its mixed color values. I want to paint my bedroom that exact color. I’ve never considered her like this. Her achromatic breasts sway freely inside the full halter and I see her hips dance, suggesting that I do something. She stands with her knees turned slightly inward and she bows as she wrestles her hair up into a ponytail. “God it’s hot out there, don’t you think?” She glances up sideways; a coy smile parts her lips.
“I wish we could run away. Go some place warmer, different. Away from here.”
She stares out onto the street. I wait.
“Would you go?”
I wonder if it’s a question or a request. The brown bag holding my toast is weightless. My coffee is cold mocha. Chloe is happy to give me a refill. The drunken couple has arrived and stopped in front of the door. Their arms rotate, pinwheel through the air. Stiff hands claw for purchase. They grasp at snowflakes, floating angel’s wings. Then they fall.
“To go please,” I tell the girl, “with extra butter and cream.”
She is shy and plump and moves like deliberate molasses. Her name is Chloe or Joni or something like that. She doesn’t wear a nametag and I can’t understand Mosca when he lays his bad English on her. Her straw-blond hair is short with a splendid slash of emerald veering across the one side. I imagine her an artist in the outside world. She wears pink glasses - ‘SW#6857 Pink Moment’ the paint chip sample book would reveal and wide rimmed. They frame beautifully warm eyes. I wonder if she knows how beautiful and warm they are or if anyone has ever told her that. ‘Burnt Sienna’, I’d say; a standard color but not standard for her by any means. She doesn’t look me directly in the eye, which tells me she may like me. Or maybe she is self-conscious about my eye, the left one that droops a bit. It’s just lazy, that’s all. I think she may find it rude to stare. She exudes a certain style, displays a confident palette; I can tell by the way she serves customers, efficient with a clean counter and orderly napkins and silverware.
Man, it’s snowing like a million angels exploded out there. The flakes are the size of downed feathers. The city plowed the streets yesterday and created huge snowdrifts along the walkways. There aren’t too many fools out in the cold. The ones that are, slip along in the narrow grooves that act as walkways. I damn near break my neck maneuvering the icy channel back to work and it’s not because I slipped. I’m laughing too hard. Up ahead, two approaching people have fallen. They stand again; the man and woman paw and grope each other for balance. They’re drunk as hell. Two steps and he is down. The woman bends and yells at him, expecting something impossible. He rises like a zombie, barely stable, and then it’s her turn. She falls straight-legged sideways like a tree in the forest. My eyes hurt. I shouldn’t laugh. I may be next. Tears freeze like clear glue on my face and I can’t see. I dab my eyes with the sleeve of my stiff overcoat. It leaves a glistening stain.
I enter the building and Claire is waiting at the bottom of the stairs. She’s leaving for an appointment. She’s decided to have a cigarette first. The most interesting thing about Claire is her hair. It’s jet black and shrouds around a white oval face, a little egg in a nest. It cascades in a pool, splashes over her shoulders. It’s quite beautiful really, even when it’s up.
“I wish we could run away,” she says, blowing smoke against the windowpane.
I nod and look at my feet. The snow melts around my shoes, bleeding an ever- spreading puddle.
Claire has a boyfriend. I’ve never met the guy. I never ask too many questions. I wonder what he doesn’t have that I possess. I wonder what she sees in me? She hasn’t said. I’m cool with that. I work in the paint department. I’m not that colorful. I’ve been there five years and I’m not even manager.
Claire’s a nice girl, smart and attractive in an ordinary way. She holds a safe managerial job - executive assistant. She’s been with the company for almost a year. We hang out a bit. Privately. She prefers it that way. We’ve never been intimate. I have seen her in a bathing suit though.
She lives in a two-story house on a decent street with shady trees. She rents the bottom floor suite. I wonder why the boyfriend of three years doesn’t live with her. The landlady, a Ukrainian woman occupies the upstairs and is particular to guests hanging about. “He’s a nice boy,” Claire says up the stairs and a door closes. She gives me a smirk.
It’s a blistering summer day, the kind where the humidity wears your skin out, squeezes your body like a wetsuit.
“I’m going to change,” she says. “Make yourself at home.”
Her apartment is ordinary with dark wood floors, a plain taupe carpet. The walls are a darker taupe and pictureless. She doesn’t entertain much of a color palette. A couch and chair look new, sleek black, straight from a CB2 catalog. The coffee table isn’t clear. It’s covered with travel magazines.
Claire exits her bedroom wearing a bikini. It is celadon green, though brighter, ‘SW#6705 High Strung’, I’d say. A saturated splash of yellow overtakes it. It shouts ‘SUMMER!’ It screams ‘you can fuck me!’ I love that color. I could give you its mixed color values. I want to paint my bedroom that exact color. I’ve never considered her like this. Her achromatic breasts sway freely inside the full halter and I see her hips dance, suggesting that I do something. She stands with her knees turned slightly inward and she bows as she wrestles her hair up into a ponytail. “God it’s hot out there, don’t you think?” She glances up sideways; a coy smile parts her lips.
“I wish we could run away. Go some place warmer, different. Away from here.”
She stares out onto the street. I wait.
“Would you go?”
I wonder if it’s a question or a request. The brown bag holding my toast is weightless. My coffee is cold mocha. Chloe is happy to give me a refill. The drunken couple has arrived and stopped in front of the door. Their arms rotate, pinwheel through the air. Stiff hands claw for purchase. They grasp at snowflakes, floating angel’s wings. Then they fall.
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