This is an extension on the concepts presented in "A Day In Limbo," condensed and, hopefully, polished a bit.
The Late Birds’ Call
He releases the beige pillow clutched to his breast and prepares for productivity.
He slurps porridge while late birds sleep.
The traffic oozes.
His cubicle leers.
Colorful propaganda peers over his flickering monitor.
The paper stack moves from one beige tray to the other without challenge.
His coworkers congregate to drink flat sodas and argue candidates in their cubicles.
The peanut butter sandwich clots his mouth.
He gags silently.
Time slithers by.
No colorful propaganda urges at the polls.
The beige ballot warmly instructs him in how to properly fill a circle.
The evening newscaster reports the election went as anticipated: a landslide win.
He chose correctly; he won the game.
The propaganda worked.
He makes a choice.
He calls Zoe.
The numbers are familiar as he dials.
She wears a fluffy yellow pullover with an embroidered sparrow, the colors radiating.
They huddle together as colors and shapes dance seductively on the silver screen.
The film’s din fades to distant thrumming.
He feels alive.
His mind seethes.
He tries to pluck up the courage.
He walks Zoe to her glossy, crimson car, his mind churning like butter.
There is a moment’s throbbing pause; his burning gut screams to dare it.
She pecks him abruptly, breaking his paralyzation.
Her colors fade.
Home seems empty.
Outside, he hears the late birds’ call.
He clutches the beige pillow tight to his breast and dreams of choosing.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
A Day in Limbo
I'm very pleased with how this came out. It was written as something to include in the college's New Tricks 2011 magazine, as well as something to potentially read aloud.
A Day in Limbo
A man awakens.
The sun shines brightly in his eyes.
He lets go of the beige pillow he had held to his breast.
He eats breakfast.
He takes a hot shower and dresses.
He prepares for another day of work sitting in a sterile, beige cubicle.
He feels comfortable.
The weather is calm and mild today.
Lawn mowers growl and beige birds chirp as he gets into his sedan.
He works easily.
None of his duties really challenge him.
The paper stack moves from one beige tray to the other without issue.
It’s lunch time.
He unpacks his PJ sandwich and water.
A beige-shirted coworker chats about the weather, sports, and his favorite candidate.
Work is over.
He punches out at five to vote.
The beige ballot warmly instructs him how to properly fill in a circle.
He returns home.
He sits at the television with beer.
He sips the beige liquid and sees his candidate lost by a landslide.
He’s feeling lonesome.
He decides to take Sam out tonight.
He picks up the beige receiver and invites Sam to the local cinema.
Sam arrives late.
The two hurry in to get seats.
The flashing images cast twisted shadows across the beige seats that surround them.
It’s soon over.
He can’t recall much on second thought.
The two leave the beige-brick theater and walk to Sam’s car together.
His blood boils.
He tries to pluck up the courage.
He is suddenly pecked on the cheek and Sam’s beige car rumbles off.
He walks inside.
The evening has crept into his home.
He undresses and crawls into bed, hugging the beige pillow to his breast.
A Day in Limbo
A man awakens.
The sun shines brightly in his eyes.
He lets go of the beige pillow he had held to his breast.
He eats breakfast.
He takes a hot shower and dresses.
He prepares for another day of work sitting in a sterile, beige cubicle.
He feels comfortable.
The weather is calm and mild today.
Lawn mowers growl and beige birds chirp as he gets into his sedan.
He works easily.
None of his duties really challenge him.
The paper stack moves from one beige tray to the other without issue.
It’s lunch time.
He unpacks his PJ sandwich and water.
A beige-shirted coworker chats about the weather, sports, and his favorite candidate.
Work is over.
He punches out at five to vote.
The beige ballot warmly instructs him how to properly fill in a circle.
He returns home.
He sits at the television with beer.
He sips the beige liquid and sees his candidate lost by a landslide.
He’s feeling lonesome.
He decides to take Sam out tonight.
He picks up the beige receiver and invites Sam to the local cinema.
Sam arrives late.
The two hurry in to get seats.
The flashing images cast twisted shadows across the beige seats that surround them.
It’s soon over.
He can’t recall much on second thought.
The two leave the beige-brick theater and walk to Sam’s car together.
His blood boils.
He tries to pluck up the courage.
He is suddenly pecked on the cheek and Sam’s beige car rumbles off.
He walks inside.
The evening has crept into his home.
He undresses and crawls into bed, hugging the beige pillow to his breast.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Belial Lake
This story has been roughly in my mind for some time, but I finally sat down and wrote it this past weekend. I rather like how it turned out. This is the first draft.
Belial Lake
The evening air was fresh and the glittering water called. The young man obeyed and brought his boat to the water. He had struggled and sweat for hours, preparing the rigging. It took still longer to drag the boat to shore. Now finally the moment of launch had arrived.
His parents had given him the sailboat, proud and untried. It was much like his father’s. He would sometimes watch his father sailing on the lake, the wind raising a forceful hand to draw the vessel up and over wave after cresting wave. His father would beam when he returned to shore, glistening and used, but satisfied. The young man longed to feel that same satisfaction, to ride inviting waters, to feel his gut lurch as he crested a great wave.
It wasn’t just his father. All his friends had their own sailboats, and each had tried their hand at sailing. Some went off and sailed alone on distant ponds; some cruised together on the same lake, driven by the same gale that drew them forcefully along through the slapping, slurping water. He had spent his life bound to the shores: hearing, watching, but never experiencing. He yearned to change that.
Of course his parents didn’t think he was ready. His father would smile and shake his head as he spoke of rigging sails and riding waves. Then he would touch the young man’s shoulder knowingly and reassure him that it would be the best experience of his life, when he was ready. It made his chest burn indignantly as he was told to be patient, that he would know when the time was right. He was sure that time was now.
He would fantasize at night of finally sailing. “Where no man had gone before,” he would imagine. He pictured himself riding a sleek spacecraft through the void of space, delving deep into the universe, to the very core of creation. He wanted the chance to experience that journey. It was a voyage, a quest, even. He was the valiant knight, nothing without his great steed. He was leather-clad rebel, alone without his chopper. Every hero needed one, and Voyager was his.
He had taken great care in selecting the first waters he would sail. Some were public lakes, large and crowded, full of sharp debris and surrounded by nosey on-lookers. Others were small and unused, green and foul with stagnation. He wanted his first time to be on the perfect lake, and at last he had found it. It seemed so pure, so perfect. He doubted anyone had thought to sail here before, and it was distant enough that no-one would jeer and stare as he sailed for his first time. He was immediately swooned by its siren’s call. No lake before had stirred him so, and it was this resolution that drove him to risk everything for this brief chance to sail.
The sun had begun to sink, giving the rippling lake a crimson hue as he grasped the boat tightly and thrust its bow forward. He felt exhilarated as it slid effortlessly from the rocky shore and into the welcoming waters. It all felt so right. He climbed up into the cockpit and curled his fingers about the mast as he secured the rigging. The lines were tight and the main sail was drawn and ready. Manning a paddle, he guided the boat along, hoping for a breeze to rise and push him on.
Everything had come to this moment of breathless excitement as his vessel rocked gently on the water. He could feel the air moving on his skin, the small hairs prickling with excitement at the gentle touch. He was sure that the wind would rise to take him. He had, after all, taken great care in selecting the time and place. The forecast had promised strong gusts, and he stood tall, waited eagerly for them to begin.
It took some minutes for him to realize that the promised winds weren’t coming. In defiance of the truth, he paddled frantically, insisting in his mind that there were winds, that he merely imagined the sails as hanging empty and flaccid. Perhaps he hadn’t set up the rigging right? No, he was certain all was well. He shifted his weight excitedly in his paddling, mindless to the danger. He had insisted that his first time would be without a life vest. Those things were for the weak that couldn’t swim.
Without warning, he felt a jolt as the boat struck a rock on his starboard side. The mast and sails pitched in the opposite direction, and he instinctively leaned with it. Before he realized what was happening, he found himself capsized and spluttering in the cold water. How much warmer it had looked from shore! As he clutched the bow for support, he felt suddenly alarmed. The sun had fallen further and the once-crystalline depths now seemed murky and unknown. Swallowing his pride, he did his best to flutter-kick his precious boat to shore, but to no avail. The mainsail must have been snagged by some skeleton tree, grasping for support from the watery abyss. He felt exhaustion building in his muscles and paused to rest, merely hugging his vessel to remain afloat.
As the air about him grew steadily chiller, he realized that he would have to abandon his treasure. He couldn’t read Voyager’s inverted stencils under the shadowy surface, but felt that his quest had indeed gone quite backwards from what he had anticipated. As he swam with slow, mournful strokes to shore, he contemplated how he would explain the mistake to his father. It didn’t take much internal debate to decide not to mention it. His father would likely assume he had stored the boat elsewhere, or perhaps he wouldn’t even notice it missing from the shed. The thought did little to comfort the young man as he crawled to shore, feeling the rocks biting at his knees, and turned around to gaze at the shadowy outline of Voyager amongst the watery void.
It would be some time, he realized with a disheartening fall of his stomach, before he would have the opportunity to attempt to retrieve the boat. He may even be unable to do so without enlisting help, but that would require explaining why the boat was in the lake to begin with. Even if he did manage to retrieve it, he was sure that there would be significant damage to the mast and sails. Perhaps it would be stolen by the time he returned. No, he was sure that it would still be there. No one else ever sailed on this lake, so who would see it? He would have to deal with retrieval and repairs when the time came. For now, he knew that he had a long and wearying journey home.
As he turned his back to the mocking ripples of the water, he pondered whether his experience had diminished his lust. After a moment, he decided it had not. If anything, he felt all the more driven to sail correctly, to prove that he could, if to no-one but himself. He anticipated that there would be many more such experiences in the future, but he accepted that possibility. Surely the elation when the wind drove him over an elegantly-cresting wave would be worth all the hassle in the end. With that hope to warm his chilled body and raise his doused spirits, he trudged off towards home.
Belial Lake
The evening air was fresh and the glittering water called. The young man obeyed and brought his boat to the water. He had struggled and sweat for hours, preparing the rigging. It took still longer to drag the boat to shore. Now finally the moment of launch had arrived.
His parents had given him the sailboat, proud and untried. It was much like his father’s. He would sometimes watch his father sailing on the lake, the wind raising a forceful hand to draw the vessel up and over wave after cresting wave. His father would beam when he returned to shore, glistening and used, but satisfied. The young man longed to feel that same satisfaction, to ride inviting waters, to feel his gut lurch as he crested a great wave.
It wasn’t just his father. All his friends had their own sailboats, and each had tried their hand at sailing. Some went off and sailed alone on distant ponds; some cruised together on the same lake, driven by the same gale that drew them forcefully along through the slapping, slurping water. He had spent his life bound to the shores: hearing, watching, but never experiencing. He yearned to change that.
Of course his parents didn’t think he was ready. His father would smile and shake his head as he spoke of rigging sails and riding waves. Then he would touch the young man’s shoulder knowingly and reassure him that it would be the best experience of his life, when he was ready. It made his chest burn indignantly as he was told to be patient, that he would know when the time was right. He was sure that time was now.
He would fantasize at night of finally sailing. “Where no man had gone before,” he would imagine. He pictured himself riding a sleek spacecraft through the void of space, delving deep into the universe, to the very core of creation. He wanted the chance to experience that journey. It was a voyage, a quest, even. He was the valiant knight, nothing without his great steed. He was leather-clad rebel, alone without his chopper. Every hero needed one, and Voyager was his.
He had taken great care in selecting the first waters he would sail. Some were public lakes, large and crowded, full of sharp debris and surrounded by nosey on-lookers. Others were small and unused, green and foul with stagnation. He wanted his first time to be on the perfect lake, and at last he had found it. It seemed so pure, so perfect. He doubted anyone had thought to sail here before, and it was distant enough that no-one would jeer and stare as he sailed for his first time. He was immediately swooned by its siren’s call. No lake before had stirred him so, and it was this resolution that drove him to risk everything for this brief chance to sail.
The sun had begun to sink, giving the rippling lake a crimson hue as he grasped the boat tightly and thrust its bow forward. He felt exhilarated as it slid effortlessly from the rocky shore and into the welcoming waters. It all felt so right. He climbed up into the cockpit and curled his fingers about the mast as he secured the rigging. The lines were tight and the main sail was drawn and ready. Manning a paddle, he guided the boat along, hoping for a breeze to rise and push him on.
Everything had come to this moment of breathless excitement as his vessel rocked gently on the water. He could feel the air moving on his skin, the small hairs prickling with excitement at the gentle touch. He was sure that the wind would rise to take him. He had, after all, taken great care in selecting the time and place. The forecast had promised strong gusts, and he stood tall, waited eagerly for them to begin.
It took some minutes for him to realize that the promised winds weren’t coming. In defiance of the truth, he paddled frantically, insisting in his mind that there were winds, that he merely imagined the sails as hanging empty and flaccid. Perhaps he hadn’t set up the rigging right? No, he was certain all was well. He shifted his weight excitedly in his paddling, mindless to the danger. He had insisted that his first time would be without a life vest. Those things were for the weak that couldn’t swim.
Without warning, he felt a jolt as the boat struck a rock on his starboard side. The mast and sails pitched in the opposite direction, and he instinctively leaned with it. Before he realized what was happening, he found himself capsized and spluttering in the cold water. How much warmer it had looked from shore! As he clutched the bow for support, he felt suddenly alarmed. The sun had fallen further and the once-crystalline depths now seemed murky and unknown. Swallowing his pride, he did his best to flutter-kick his precious boat to shore, but to no avail. The mainsail must have been snagged by some skeleton tree, grasping for support from the watery abyss. He felt exhaustion building in his muscles and paused to rest, merely hugging his vessel to remain afloat.
As the air about him grew steadily chiller, he realized that he would have to abandon his treasure. He couldn’t read Voyager’s inverted stencils under the shadowy surface, but felt that his quest had indeed gone quite backwards from what he had anticipated. As he swam with slow, mournful strokes to shore, he contemplated how he would explain the mistake to his father. It didn’t take much internal debate to decide not to mention it. His father would likely assume he had stored the boat elsewhere, or perhaps he wouldn’t even notice it missing from the shed. The thought did little to comfort the young man as he crawled to shore, feeling the rocks biting at his knees, and turned around to gaze at the shadowy outline of Voyager amongst the watery void.
It would be some time, he realized with a disheartening fall of his stomach, before he would have the opportunity to attempt to retrieve the boat. He may even be unable to do so without enlisting help, but that would require explaining why the boat was in the lake to begin with. Even if he did manage to retrieve it, he was sure that there would be significant damage to the mast and sails. Perhaps it would be stolen by the time he returned. No, he was sure that it would still be there. No one else ever sailed on this lake, so who would see it? He would have to deal with retrieval and repairs when the time came. For now, he knew that he had a long and wearying journey home.
As he turned his back to the mocking ripples of the water, he pondered whether his experience had diminished his lust. After a moment, he decided it had not. If anything, he felt all the more driven to sail correctly, to prove that he could, if to no-one but himself. He anticipated that there would be many more such experiences in the future, but he accepted that possibility. Surely the elation when the wind drove him over an elegantly-cresting wave would be worth all the hassle in the end. With that hope to warm his chilled body and raise his doused spirits, he trudged off towards home.
To The Sculptor
I wrote this poem last weekend, based on sudden inspiration. As is often the case with me, I write with little revision and don't got back to change much. Free-form, of course, because I didn't want to spend more than an hour with this.
To The Sculptor
This reflection bewilders me.
I see your fingerprints on my flesh,
The ridges of your hands in my limbs.
Were they always so clear?
I was once soft,
Any flaws unknown and unthought.
If only you had been a better artist,
I may have been a better sculpture.
Had you but softer hands,
My form would be smoother.
Had you but altered the mixture,
I would have dried stronger.
Had you but added more clay,
I would have stood taller.
Yet had you added none,
I would have never begun.
I notice the cracks in my form,
The chips on my features,
But were these your marks?
Are you to blame?
They formed without your aid,
Time sculpting freely,
Without your artistic care,
Without your dedication to perfection.
Sometimes I long for the days,
When I was just soft clay,
Easily molded under your hands,
Willing to take the form you sought.
Now I am formed, but can I change?
Can the statue sculpt itself?
Is hardened clay unmalleable,
Or may it be wetted?
Surely I must try.
Now that I see,
Ignoring the flaws makes me the worse for having them.
But what if I cannot?
What if time has cured me?
Can I still blame my sculptor?
And then I wonder,
When I sit, ready to mold,
And I form a figure from mere clay,
What will my sculpture think of me?
To The Sculptor
This reflection bewilders me.
I see your fingerprints on my flesh,
The ridges of your hands in my limbs.
Were they always so clear?
I was once soft,
Any flaws unknown and unthought.
If only you had been a better artist,
I may have been a better sculpture.
Had you but softer hands,
My form would be smoother.
Had you but altered the mixture,
I would have dried stronger.
Had you but added more clay,
I would have stood taller.
Yet had you added none,
I would have never begun.
I notice the cracks in my form,
The chips on my features,
But were these your marks?
Are you to blame?
They formed without your aid,
Time sculpting freely,
Without your artistic care,
Without your dedication to perfection.
Sometimes I long for the days,
When I was just soft clay,
Easily molded under your hands,
Willing to take the form you sought.
Now I am formed, but can I change?
Can the statue sculpt itself?
Is hardened clay unmalleable,
Or may it be wetted?
Surely I must try.
Now that I see,
Ignoring the flaws makes me the worse for having them.
But what if I cannot?
What if time has cured me?
Can I still blame my sculptor?
And then I wonder,
When I sit, ready to mold,
And I form a figure from mere clay,
What will my sculpture think of me?
Saturday, May 1, 2010
The Breadwinner
Right, so this is a draft. I really, really need to go back and make some major changes. Unlike poetry, where I can just sit down and write out what I had in mind for the poem, short stories take longer and it is more difficult to maintain internal cohesion. This is my first attempt at realistic fiction--that is, fiction not set in a fantasy setting.
The Breadwinner
The hours of moving were down to this final box. He clasped the cardboard egg crate as though it were a child. But this particular parcel didn’t contain hopes for the future, but rather memorabilia of the past. The trophies, certificates, medals, and pictures served to keep the warm emotions associated with them alive in his mind. It’s not as though such memories could ever fade, and yet he was burdened by the box. He struggled, clutching it to his breast, as if reluctant to ever to let go.
The boxes and bags had left a maze through what had seemed a very roomy den when empty. He knew just the place for the contents of his box, though navigating the journey was no simple task. With his vision obscured by the bulk of the box and his back bent under the weight of its contents, he silently prayed not to stumble over a coffee table or put his foot through a crate of china. He thought again how ridiculous it was that the family owned so much junk. He regretted not insisting that all the silly trifles, dragged along because someone “couldn’t possibly part with them,” be auctioned off with the threadbare furniture, or maybe simply left in the previous house. Let them be worries for the new owners to deal with.
Finally, he arrived at the perfect shelf for the contents of his box. He arranged the trophies and plaques along the shelf, creating a timeline from his earliest in the junior softball team to his latest from the war. He propped open the photo albums to his proudest moments. It took some nit-picking to arrange everything. Finally, he took a step back and proudly gazed at the display. There was no room for any pictures of his family. He left those at the bottom of the box. He’d find someplace for that other stuff later.
A shout broke his thoughts.
“Joe! Joe, hon, could you come here?”
Unburdened, he easily navigated through the precarious piles of junk and into the adjoining kitchen. His wife stood level with a low-hanging telephone, her brown hand still resting on the receiver. She looked up from a scrawled note as he entered.
“Talked to the principal’s secretary: said he’s free in about a half-hour,” she quickly explained. “Pretty lucky. Maybe Izzy’ll be able to start school tomorrow.”
“Maybe,” he ventured absently. “May want a few days to settle, though. We’ll see what the principal says.”
“Hey, thought I’d start something for supper. Found the frozen food. Figured we’d have a Banquet.” She grinned ironically. “Mind stopping by the store for some bread?”
“Yeah, sure. No problem,” he replied, smirking to hide his weariness.
Mary chuckled and stretched up to peck him on the cheek.
“Find a razor. I’m kissing a cactus.”
“Love you too, Mary,” he chuckled.
His mind was already wandering to the tedium of travelling across town to the school, and with only a soggy pie to welcome him home. At least he could anticipate a fresh loaf of bread to liven up the gummy pot pie. He set his mind on a warm loaf of Italian. The thought lifted some of the deep exhaustion from his body and mind.
He hadn’t yet had a good chance to reacquaint himself with the town. He had taken a peek down the walk after tolerating the chatter of the overly enthusiastic realtor when he first examined the house, but the neighborhood was unfamiliar. He hoped it would be home for good. He was fed up with all the moves, the repeated dredging up of the familiarity of home just as it was beginning to take root, the never being around quite long enough to make any true friends. Surely Isaac felt it more than any of them. Teenagers weren’t as welcoming to newcomers. Maybe he’d fit in better here, where he belonged. Mary had been excited at the chance to return to their roots.
“What about David?” he had asked, surprised.
“What about him? I have you, now.” Her words had charmed him into agreeing. Now that he was here, he could feel an inevitable encounter looming.
The day was warm and dry, but fresh: a fine change from the unfamiliar scent that haunted the new, old home, charged with the tang of cardboard boxes and disturbed dust. He found vigor returning to his step as his exhaustion evaporated in the sunlight. It was good to have the chance to walk, unshackled. He was on an errand, but yet he felt momentarily free.
He turned left at the yellowed boulevard, towards the distant monolith of a high school, a great, brick cube, above all but the rusty grain elevator, which towered over the town like a headstone. Likely, the elevator had once been the beating heart of the town’s economy, but the trains had left with the rains. Most would have avoided the place, but Joe had always thought the arid climate ensured that only the strong survived. The rain was scarce, but that made it all the more glorious.
He passed by the park with its squad of pine trees, holding the last remnants of the previous rain in their prickly needles as they stood awaiting the next, stalwart, patient. He remembered sitting under those trees as a soft drizzle filled the air with the rich smell of life. He had known Mary, but only pitied her from a distance. He shared the pine with another girl, one with eyes black as a thunderhead and pink lips like a flower blooming in the brown grass after a shower.
He suddenly found himself standing before the high school, gazing up past the three flagpoles declaring country, state, and tribe to a certain window, from which he recalled always having gazed down, dreaming of freedom and glory. He saluted the aluminum shafts, then stepped up to the front doors. They opened with little effort, no longer the impenetrable barriers between himself and freedom. Now he had other shackles.
It was a short climb to the principal’s office, a place he once dreaded, but with which he’d always found himself all too familiar. He noted the telltale scuff marks marring the polished shine of the waxy linoleum, stretching up and down the halls past formations of lockers and stern classroom doors decorated with colorful graffiti.
The woman seated behind the secretary’s desk was too young to trigger any memories of being ushered past under her disapproving glare, and so he ventured a friendly greeting. She returned it warmly and asked his name.
“Joe Baker. Here to get my kid registered.”
She nodded and offered him a stack of papers and a pen.
“Mister Circling Crow will see you soon.”
“Wait. David Circling Crow?”
“Yep. You know him, or something?”
“I knew him.” Without offering more, Joe snatched up the papers and dropped into a padded seat. He imagined he could feel the secretary’s inquisitive gaze on him, but he only frowned down on the forms. Her curiosity was still evident when he rose, returned the papers, and was told to go on in. He muttered a thank-you and entered the heavy office door.
The tall, lean man positioned behind the polished oaken desk rose quickly at the sight of Joe. He nudged his long, black braid back with a sinewy arm, suit sleeves hiding the tattoos, and grinned broadly. A dark mole stood out on his upper lip. Once, Joe would have given a friendly ribbing over the mark. That was before the lean man’s allegiances were obscured.
“Joe! Hah, I didn’t believe it!” The mark glared towards him like an insect eye, contrasting with the broad, polished grin it was embedded above.
“Yeah. Hey, David.” His lack of enthusiasm was lost on the lean man as the he stepped around the table and gave Joe a jovial slap on the back, now laughing with delight.
“Want your kid enrolled, huh? Hah, knew you could do it! Who’s the gal?” There was another firm thump, this time on his shoulder, before he maneuvered to make the gesture more difficult. That grin never faded. That mark never blinked. Joe was silent for a moment before murmuring his reply.
“Mary.” He spoke it slowly and carefully, anticipating. The lean man peered closely at Joe, his heavy eyebrows meeting.
“…Mary? You mean--?”
“His name’s Isaac. He needs to be enrolled.”
“Isaac.” The slim man fell silent for a lingering moment, his thoughts mirrored through the shifting of his long face. “What’s he like?”
“Good kid. Wants to join the Army.”
“Like his father,” the lean man grunted bitterly. “He shouldn’t, you know. Worst thing you ever did.”
“That’s the worst? I’m not doing too bad, then. Wanna hear how Mary is?”
“Wanna hear how Beth is?” the lean man returned quickly. Joe felt heat rise in his forehead as the lean man continued with a dirty smirk. “Had three kids. Had a blast making ‘em, too.”
“You son of a--!” Joe took a menacing step forward, balling his thick fists. David held his ground, his voice seething, but calm.
“Watch it, bro. You came to me.”
“Really didn’t figure you’d make anything of yourself.”
“Could say the same about you, except I was right.” This final jab was the breaking point. Joe could feel his temples pounding and raised his knuckles, the lean man doing likewise. The air seemed suddenly thick as the two squared off like bulls.
Without warning, the office door burst open and a slight, short student hurried in. Taking little notice of the two, she slapped a slip of paper down on the large desk.
“Announcements!” she chirped, and, as quickly, darted from the room.
The two men glared at one another, but the stifling atmosphere that filled the room seemed to have slipped out the opened door. After some moments of silence, David cleared his throat and spoke in a collected tone.
“Who am I to deny an old friend? Happy to have your kid enrolled. Thanks for stopping by.” The lean man slid into his chair behind the desk and waved Joe off with a dismissive flick of his wrist. The mark on his upper lip seemed to glower up at Joe.
Joe bit his tongue and strode briskly from the room without another word. He didn’t pause for the secretary with her cowed stare. His mind was reeling as he shoved through the front doors and out into the scorching sun.
He stood at attention on the prickly lawn outside the school building, his burning gaze directed up at the three flags that whipped and snapped in the gusts of arid wind. It was some moments before he was able to collect himself enough to continue on his way, his fingers still balled into tight fists at his sides.
Blinded by his churning emotions, he didn’t take notice of his surroundings until he found himself standing before the general store. Its quaint, Old West appearance drew memories of a youth inspired by stories of shootouts, the good gunman with the white hat soundly defeating the evil outlaw with the black hat. He grunted with bitter irony at the thought and strode up the age-bowed steps and through the rusty-hinged door. A tarnished brass bell tinkled overhead as he entered. With some relief, he noted the check-out counter was abandoned. He walked without pause towards the bakery counter in the back. There had been a time when he had visited the counter frequently, anticipating the relaxing, homey aroma of freshly-baked bread or the soothing simplicity of crisp flavor. It wasn’t freedom, it was domestic contentment, but boy it smelled good. He felt a longing tickle in his belly as he arrived, only to be greeted by a handwritten sign with a smiling face at the bottom, sitting amongst nothing but crumbs.
“Ask about our discount loaves!”
He prowled the aisles in search of an attendant. The sound of muffled laughter drew him to a half-opened door marked “office.” Glancing inside, he saw a desk cluttered with paperwork, empty Coke cans, and bubblegum wrappers. A young woman with close-cropped black hair and a tight yellow t-shirt that was two sizes too small sat on the edge of the table, chattering into a cell phone. She made no sign of noticing him, so he gave a loud, gravely cough, which caused her to jump in surprise and glance a narrow shoulder.
“Crap! Customer. Sorry, Ellie.” She snapped the phone shut and turned to face Joe. He gazed with wonder at the eyes, dark as storm clouds, and the small lips that puckered out like a pink flower against her tanned skin. The resemblance was so startling, he grunted out the name before he could catch himself.
“Beth?” The moment after speaking it, he noticed the discrepancy. No, not Beth. The smoothness of her flesh was marred by a single, dark mark on her upper lip.
The young woman frowned warily and eyed him with apparent distrust.
“Uh, no. Vikki. Beth’s my—Can I help you?”
“I’m sorry, it’s just that you look so much like—“He paused, the words catching. “I… saw the sign at the bakery counter.”
“Oh, yeah,” she grunted, waving her cell phone, “Guess the baker’s sick, or something. Been gone for two days, so we don’t got nothing.”
He stared at her in silence, both drawn and repulsed. She shifted under his gaze and diverted her eyes.
“Was there something else?”
Joe hesitated a moment before responding.
“No. That was all.”
He lingered, imagining this girl, or one almost like her, sitting beneath a pine. He could envision her fond smile, the beckoning tilt of her neck. The young woman’s wary tone cut through his fantasies.
“Need help finding the door?”
“No, I got it. Thanks.” He turned away at last, though her figure lingered in his mind as he exited the store and turned towards home.
“All outta bread,” he muttered as he entered through the side door. His eyes fell on the weary-faded form of his wife as she crouched, peering into the oven. Her hand was cupped to her brow as if in exasperation, holding back long, woody brown locks.
“Looks about done. Call Izzy down,” she said absently, her thick form still bent.
He paused at the foot of the carpeted steps and drew in a breath to call. The sharp ring of the telephone interrupted him.
“I’ll get it,” he called, plucking up the yellowed receiver. “Hello? Hello, sir. Yes, sir. Sir? Oh, no, sir. Ah. Okay. Goodbye, sir.”
He dropped the receiver back into its holster and stared at the phone, frowning.
“Active duty?” Mary leaned against the wall, neck craned to gaze up at him. Concern wrinkled her brow.
“Yeah. Hoped it’d take longer. Said I got about a week.”
“So soon?” A frown weighed her lips. If they had ever been pink, the color had drained long ago. “Gonna tell Izzy?”
“Probably after supper, or something.”
“Get him enrolled?”
“Yeah. I think he’ll be okay.”
“Why wouldn’t he be?” She gave him a quizzing glance. Her eyes weren’t gray; they were brown, like her hair. There was no variety in her color.
“It was David. He’s principal now.”
“Was he trouble?” She searched his face, her own stern as iron.
“When wasn’t he?” he grunted in a flat tone.
A small, amused grin played on her lips, and she gave him a quick embrace.
“Supper’s about ready.”
“I’ll get him in a second.”
Joe made his way towards the steps, but broke off to approach his shelf. He dipped a hand down into a box set nearby and pulled out a large, silver-framed photograph. He stared into it at himself and his wife, a young child drawing away from him and clinging to his mother’s thigh. He glanced up to the shelf, considered for a moment, and then replaced a picture of himself grinning triumphantly before a squad of uniformed men with the portrait photograph. He began to take down the assorted medals, trophies, and certificates off the shelf, replacing them with similar photographs to the centerpiece silver-framed one. Each successive shot showed another year cut into the face of the two adults, while the child was a little taller each time, and a little more centered between the two. The final photograph he placed on the shelf was more casual, with the two men linking arms and grinning jovially as his wife sat between them with an amusedly exasperated half-grin. A smile played on his lips for a thoughtful moment before returning to the stairs.
He ascended the steps and poked his head into the first room at the head. “New Divide” played from a custom-modified stereo and Joe paused some moments to listen as he leaned against the doorjamb, watching the young man hide the room’s ugly wood paneling with posters of Linkin Park and Revenge of the Fallen. He was lean and quickly becoming tall. He didn’t have his mother’s mousy hair, or his father’s dark mark.
Isaac turned to rummage through a box of albums, but paused as he saw Joe. He nudged down the volume and raised his dark eyebrows inquisitively.
“Supper’s ready. Your mom made pot pies.”
“Oh, yay,” the young man muttered in monotone as he snapped off the stereo. Joe grinned in spite of himself. “Can’t wait to get settled,” Isaac continued, stacking some albums on a shelf. “What’s the school like?”
“Like always. You’ll get along fine.” He paused a moment before venturing nonchalantly, “Met a rude girl at the general store. Name’s Vikki. Watch out for bratty girls like that.”
“Probably not my type, anyhow,” Isaac said absently, stepping back to scan his music shelf before turning about. “Well, we gonna eat, or what?”
Joe chuckled and draped an arm over the young man’s shoulders. They descended together.
Pale pot pies sat before each of the three chairs around the round table. Mary was already seated, poking a fork at the soggy crust of her pie with a look of distaste. She looked up as the two arrived and smirked wryly.
“Here we go—a terrible, cheap meal to break in the dining room.”
The two chuckled and took their places. They look up their cutlery and were about to begin when Mary interrupted in a droll tone.
“Hon, let’s not begin before we say grace over this gourmet supper.”
The family linked hands as Joe intoned with irony.
“Our Father, who art in Heaven—“
A deep rumble interrupted him and he glanced up to a window. Outside, the sky had grown dark and rain pattered against the window. He continued in spite of the interrupting thunder.
“—Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us—”
Another growl shook the house and the family was framed by a silvery flash of lightening.
“—Amen,” he concluded.
The Breadwinner
The hours of moving were down to this final box. He clasped the cardboard egg crate as though it were a child. But this particular parcel didn’t contain hopes for the future, but rather memorabilia of the past. The trophies, certificates, medals, and pictures served to keep the warm emotions associated with them alive in his mind. It’s not as though such memories could ever fade, and yet he was burdened by the box. He struggled, clutching it to his breast, as if reluctant to ever to let go.
The boxes and bags had left a maze through what had seemed a very roomy den when empty. He knew just the place for the contents of his box, though navigating the journey was no simple task. With his vision obscured by the bulk of the box and his back bent under the weight of its contents, he silently prayed not to stumble over a coffee table or put his foot through a crate of china. He thought again how ridiculous it was that the family owned so much junk. He regretted not insisting that all the silly trifles, dragged along because someone “couldn’t possibly part with them,” be auctioned off with the threadbare furniture, or maybe simply left in the previous house. Let them be worries for the new owners to deal with.
Finally, he arrived at the perfect shelf for the contents of his box. He arranged the trophies and plaques along the shelf, creating a timeline from his earliest in the junior softball team to his latest from the war. He propped open the photo albums to his proudest moments. It took some nit-picking to arrange everything. Finally, he took a step back and proudly gazed at the display. There was no room for any pictures of his family. He left those at the bottom of the box. He’d find someplace for that other stuff later.
A shout broke his thoughts.
“Joe! Joe, hon, could you come here?”
Unburdened, he easily navigated through the precarious piles of junk and into the adjoining kitchen. His wife stood level with a low-hanging telephone, her brown hand still resting on the receiver. She looked up from a scrawled note as he entered.
“Talked to the principal’s secretary: said he’s free in about a half-hour,” she quickly explained. “Pretty lucky. Maybe Izzy’ll be able to start school tomorrow.”
“Maybe,” he ventured absently. “May want a few days to settle, though. We’ll see what the principal says.”
“Hey, thought I’d start something for supper. Found the frozen food. Figured we’d have a Banquet.” She grinned ironically. “Mind stopping by the store for some bread?”
“Yeah, sure. No problem,” he replied, smirking to hide his weariness.
Mary chuckled and stretched up to peck him on the cheek.
“Find a razor. I’m kissing a cactus.”
“Love you too, Mary,” he chuckled.
His mind was already wandering to the tedium of travelling across town to the school, and with only a soggy pie to welcome him home. At least he could anticipate a fresh loaf of bread to liven up the gummy pot pie. He set his mind on a warm loaf of Italian. The thought lifted some of the deep exhaustion from his body and mind.
He hadn’t yet had a good chance to reacquaint himself with the town. He had taken a peek down the walk after tolerating the chatter of the overly enthusiastic realtor when he first examined the house, but the neighborhood was unfamiliar. He hoped it would be home for good. He was fed up with all the moves, the repeated dredging up of the familiarity of home just as it was beginning to take root, the never being around quite long enough to make any true friends. Surely Isaac felt it more than any of them. Teenagers weren’t as welcoming to newcomers. Maybe he’d fit in better here, where he belonged. Mary had been excited at the chance to return to their roots.
“What about David?” he had asked, surprised.
“What about him? I have you, now.” Her words had charmed him into agreeing. Now that he was here, he could feel an inevitable encounter looming.
The day was warm and dry, but fresh: a fine change from the unfamiliar scent that haunted the new, old home, charged with the tang of cardboard boxes and disturbed dust. He found vigor returning to his step as his exhaustion evaporated in the sunlight. It was good to have the chance to walk, unshackled. He was on an errand, but yet he felt momentarily free.
He turned left at the yellowed boulevard, towards the distant monolith of a high school, a great, brick cube, above all but the rusty grain elevator, which towered over the town like a headstone. Likely, the elevator had once been the beating heart of the town’s economy, but the trains had left with the rains. Most would have avoided the place, but Joe had always thought the arid climate ensured that only the strong survived. The rain was scarce, but that made it all the more glorious.
He passed by the park with its squad of pine trees, holding the last remnants of the previous rain in their prickly needles as they stood awaiting the next, stalwart, patient. He remembered sitting under those trees as a soft drizzle filled the air with the rich smell of life. He had known Mary, but only pitied her from a distance. He shared the pine with another girl, one with eyes black as a thunderhead and pink lips like a flower blooming in the brown grass after a shower.
He suddenly found himself standing before the high school, gazing up past the three flagpoles declaring country, state, and tribe to a certain window, from which he recalled always having gazed down, dreaming of freedom and glory. He saluted the aluminum shafts, then stepped up to the front doors. They opened with little effort, no longer the impenetrable barriers between himself and freedom. Now he had other shackles.
It was a short climb to the principal’s office, a place he once dreaded, but with which he’d always found himself all too familiar. He noted the telltale scuff marks marring the polished shine of the waxy linoleum, stretching up and down the halls past formations of lockers and stern classroom doors decorated with colorful graffiti.
The woman seated behind the secretary’s desk was too young to trigger any memories of being ushered past under her disapproving glare, and so he ventured a friendly greeting. She returned it warmly and asked his name.
“Joe Baker. Here to get my kid registered.”
She nodded and offered him a stack of papers and a pen.
“Mister Circling Crow will see you soon.”
“Wait. David Circling Crow?”
“Yep. You know him, or something?”
“I knew him.” Without offering more, Joe snatched up the papers and dropped into a padded seat. He imagined he could feel the secretary’s inquisitive gaze on him, but he only frowned down on the forms. Her curiosity was still evident when he rose, returned the papers, and was told to go on in. He muttered a thank-you and entered the heavy office door.
The tall, lean man positioned behind the polished oaken desk rose quickly at the sight of Joe. He nudged his long, black braid back with a sinewy arm, suit sleeves hiding the tattoos, and grinned broadly. A dark mole stood out on his upper lip. Once, Joe would have given a friendly ribbing over the mark. That was before the lean man’s allegiances were obscured.
“Joe! Hah, I didn’t believe it!” The mark glared towards him like an insect eye, contrasting with the broad, polished grin it was embedded above.
“Yeah. Hey, David.” His lack of enthusiasm was lost on the lean man as the he stepped around the table and gave Joe a jovial slap on the back, now laughing with delight.
“Want your kid enrolled, huh? Hah, knew you could do it! Who’s the gal?” There was another firm thump, this time on his shoulder, before he maneuvered to make the gesture more difficult. That grin never faded. That mark never blinked. Joe was silent for a moment before murmuring his reply.
“Mary.” He spoke it slowly and carefully, anticipating. The lean man peered closely at Joe, his heavy eyebrows meeting.
“…Mary? You mean--?”
“His name’s Isaac. He needs to be enrolled.”
“Isaac.” The slim man fell silent for a lingering moment, his thoughts mirrored through the shifting of his long face. “What’s he like?”
“Good kid. Wants to join the Army.”
“Like his father,” the lean man grunted bitterly. “He shouldn’t, you know. Worst thing you ever did.”
“That’s the worst? I’m not doing too bad, then. Wanna hear how Mary is?”
“Wanna hear how Beth is?” the lean man returned quickly. Joe felt heat rise in his forehead as the lean man continued with a dirty smirk. “Had three kids. Had a blast making ‘em, too.”
“You son of a--!” Joe took a menacing step forward, balling his thick fists. David held his ground, his voice seething, but calm.
“Watch it, bro. You came to me.”
“Really didn’t figure you’d make anything of yourself.”
“Could say the same about you, except I was right.” This final jab was the breaking point. Joe could feel his temples pounding and raised his knuckles, the lean man doing likewise. The air seemed suddenly thick as the two squared off like bulls.
Without warning, the office door burst open and a slight, short student hurried in. Taking little notice of the two, she slapped a slip of paper down on the large desk.
“Announcements!” she chirped, and, as quickly, darted from the room.
The two men glared at one another, but the stifling atmosphere that filled the room seemed to have slipped out the opened door. After some moments of silence, David cleared his throat and spoke in a collected tone.
“Who am I to deny an old friend? Happy to have your kid enrolled. Thanks for stopping by.” The lean man slid into his chair behind the desk and waved Joe off with a dismissive flick of his wrist. The mark on his upper lip seemed to glower up at Joe.
Joe bit his tongue and strode briskly from the room without another word. He didn’t pause for the secretary with her cowed stare. His mind was reeling as he shoved through the front doors and out into the scorching sun.
He stood at attention on the prickly lawn outside the school building, his burning gaze directed up at the three flags that whipped and snapped in the gusts of arid wind. It was some moments before he was able to collect himself enough to continue on his way, his fingers still balled into tight fists at his sides.
Blinded by his churning emotions, he didn’t take notice of his surroundings until he found himself standing before the general store. Its quaint, Old West appearance drew memories of a youth inspired by stories of shootouts, the good gunman with the white hat soundly defeating the evil outlaw with the black hat. He grunted with bitter irony at the thought and strode up the age-bowed steps and through the rusty-hinged door. A tarnished brass bell tinkled overhead as he entered. With some relief, he noted the check-out counter was abandoned. He walked without pause towards the bakery counter in the back. There had been a time when he had visited the counter frequently, anticipating the relaxing, homey aroma of freshly-baked bread or the soothing simplicity of crisp flavor. It wasn’t freedom, it was domestic contentment, but boy it smelled good. He felt a longing tickle in his belly as he arrived, only to be greeted by a handwritten sign with a smiling face at the bottom, sitting amongst nothing but crumbs.
“Ask about our discount loaves!”
He prowled the aisles in search of an attendant. The sound of muffled laughter drew him to a half-opened door marked “office.” Glancing inside, he saw a desk cluttered with paperwork, empty Coke cans, and bubblegum wrappers. A young woman with close-cropped black hair and a tight yellow t-shirt that was two sizes too small sat on the edge of the table, chattering into a cell phone. She made no sign of noticing him, so he gave a loud, gravely cough, which caused her to jump in surprise and glance a narrow shoulder.
“Crap! Customer. Sorry, Ellie.” She snapped the phone shut and turned to face Joe. He gazed with wonder at the eyes, dark as storm clouds, and the small lips that puckered out like a pink flower against her tanned skin. The resemblance was so startling, he grunted out the name before he could catch himself.
“Beth?” The moment after speaking it, he noticed the discrepancy. No, not Beth. The smoothness of her flesh was marred by a single, dark mark on her upper lip.
The young woman frowned warily and eyed him with apparent distrust.
“Uh, no. Vikki. Beth’s my—Can I help you?”
“I’m sorry, it’s just that you look so much like—“He paused, the words catching. “I… saw the sign at the bakery counter.”
“Oh, yeah,” she grunted, waving her cell phone, “Guess the baker’s sick, or something. Been gone for two days, so we don’t got nothing.”
He stared at her in silence, both drawn and repulsed. She shifted under his gaze and diverted her eyes.
“Was there something else?”
Joe hesitated a moment before responding.
“No. That was all.”
He lingered, imagining this girl, or one almost like her, sitting beneath a pine. He could envision her fond smile, the beckoning tilt of her neck. The young woman’s wary tone cut through his fantasies.
“Need help finding the door?”
“No, I got it. Thanks.” He turned away at last, though her figure lingered in his mind as he exited the store and turned towards home.
“All outta bread,” he muttered as he entered through the side door. His eyes fell on the weary-faded form of his wife as she crouched, peering into the oven. Her hand was cupped to her brow as if in exasperation, holding back long, woody brown locks.
“Looks about done. Call Izzy down,” she said absently, her thick form still bent.
He paused at the foot of the carpeted steps and drew in a breath to call. The sharp ring of the telephone interrupted him.
“I’ll get it,” he called, plucking up the yellowed receiver. “Hello? Hello, sir. Yes, sir. Sir? Oh, no, sir. Ah. Okay. Goodbye, sir.”
He dropped the receiver back into its holster and stared at the phone, frowning.
“Active duty?” Mary leaned against the wall, neck craned to gaze up at him. Concern wrinkled her brow.
“Yeah. Hoped it’d take longer. Said I got about a week.”
“So soon?” A frown weighed her lips. If they had ever been pink, the color had drained long ago. “Gonna tell Izzy?”
“Probably after supper, or something.”
“Get him enrolled?”
“Yeah. I think he’ll be okay.”
“Why wouldn’t he be?” She gave him a quizzing glance. Her eyes weren’t gray; they were brown, like her hair. There was no variety in her color.
“It was David. He’s principal now.”
“Was he trouble?” She searched his face, her own stern as iron.
“When wasn’t he?” he grunted in a flat tone.
A small, amused grin played on her lips, and she gave him a quick embrace.
“Supper’s about ready.”
“I’ll get him in a second.”
Joe made his way towards the steps, but broke off to approach his shelf. He dipped a hand down into a box set nearby and pulled out a large, silver-framed photograph. He stared into it at himself and his wife, a young child drawing away from him and clinging to his mother’s thigh. He glanced up to the shelf, considered for a moment, and then replaced a picture of himself grinning triumphantly before a squad of uniformed men with the portrait photograph. He began to take down the assorted medals, trophies, and certificates off the shelf, replacing them with similar photographs to the centerpiece silver-framed one. Each successive shot showed another year cut into the face of the two adults, while the child was a little taller each time, and a little more centered between the two. The final photograph he placed on the shelf was more casual, with the two men linking arms and grinning jovially as his wife sat between them with an amusedly exasperated half-grin. A smile played on his lips for a thoughtful moment before returning to the stairs.
He ascended the steps and poked his head into the first room at the head. “New Divide” played from a custom-modified stereo and Joe paused some moments to listen as he leaned against the doorjamb, watching the young man hide the room’s ugly wood paneling with posters of Linkin Park and Revenge of the Fallen. He was lean and quickly becoming tall. He didn’t have his mother’s mousy hair, or his father’s dark mark.
Isaac turned to rummage through a box of albums, but paused as he saw Joe. He nudged down the volume and raised his dark eyebrows inquisitively.
“Supper’s ready. Your mom made pot pies.”
“Oh, yay,” the young man muttered in monotone as he snapped off the stereo. Joe grinned in spite of himself. “Can’t wait to get settled,” Isaac continued, stacking some albums on a shelf. “What’s the school like?”
“Like always. You’ll get along fine.” He paused a moment before venturing nonchalantly, “Met a rude girl at the general store. Name’s Vikki. Watch out for bratty girls like that.”
“Probably not my type, anyhow,” Isaac said absently, stepping back to scan his music shelf before turning about. “Well, we gonna eat, or what?”
Joe chuckled and draped an arm over the young man’s shoulders. They descended together.
Pale pot pies sat before each of the three chairs around the round table. Mary was already seated, poking a fork at the soggy crust of her pie with a look of distaste. She looked up as the two arrived and smirked wryly.
“Here we go—a terrible, cheap meal to break in the dining room.”
The two chuckled and took their places. They look up their cutlery and were about to begin when Mary interrupted in a droll tone.
“Hon, let’s not begin before we say grace over this gourmet supper.”
The family linked hands as Joe intoned with irony.
“Our Father, who art in Heaven—“
A deep rumble interrupted him and he glanced up to a window. Outside, the sky had grown dark and rain pattered against the window. He continued in spite of the interrupting thunder.
“—Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us—”
Another growl shook the house and the family was framed by a silvery flash of lightening.
“—Amen,” he concluded.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Flood Lake
This poem was written for a Modernism/Postmodernism class. The assignment was to create a Confessional poem. I rather liked it.
Flood Lake
When trapped in hell
There is little to do but fish.
What sin had we committed
To land us in this place?
The paradise of our parents
Was our personal inferno.
Thrust into a pre-digital wasteland,
Mutual boredom bridged our differences
Of past and complexion.
Net on my shoulder, rod over yours,
We traipsed past the forgotten cemetery,
Where babe and sage lay side-by-side,
To the tumultuous lake
That swallowed the park
Man had erected in its honor.
We made our seats amongst the boulders
Set to shore the foamy waters
Against the lonesome road.
We sat silent. All had been said
In the past three weeks
Sitting on those stones,
Catching flotsam.
We weren’t alone. An elderly man
Felt it wise to spend his dwindling moments
Prospecting for silver pike
In the murky depths.
We were prospecting for sirens.
We found entertainment
Somehow.
Time passed. The elderly man readied himself to leave.
I noted his proud, slimy catch with envy.
He walked up to you, selecting as
A shard of flint from a bed of quartz.
The break in monotony caught my attention.
You draw closer with a scowl and explain.
“Says I took his tackle. Dowallie; didn’t even.”
We scoff in unison as his compensationary jeep departs.
A thief in our midst? How absurd!
The rippling of the waves as they lap at our perches
Speeds the drawl of time. We wish the sun down.
There are fires to make. The rippling tranquility of the water
Can’t hold a candle
To a roaring blaze,
Hungry for nourishment,
Insatiable, but never ashamed.
The destruction enraptures us.
The fetid decay of the water,
Stinking of carcasses,
Only captivates us.
The elderly man returns.
With firm absolution, he apologizes
And hands you the fish.
He says his tackle was in the back.
Now we are three. It’s near supper.
Time to show our guest home.
I clutch the net that holds the fish,
You manage pole and bait.
A smirk sits tauntingly on your lips.
“Probably too heavy for you, anneh?”
I grin in response to mask my strain
And insist I’m more than sufficiently mighty.
With a shrug, you dash off ahead,
To the hunting lodge,
With its trophies,
Past the cemetery,
With its markers.
I watch you crest the hill
Each step burns in my arms
And my shoulders decry my pride.
The trek had never seemed so long.
As my frustration and shame build,
The fish, in all its hideousness,
Seems suddenly pathetic,
Wound in the net, gills gasping,
Its mouth gnawing out a silent plea.
Was it pity, or pride?
I claimed pity. It upheld my pride.
I went down by the waters,
And, with soothing words, let the creature free.
It lay limply near the shore,
Unaware of its opportunity.
Probably soon another carcass,
Rejected by its habitat
And thrust into the world above
To stink and fester amongst the stones.
It would be easy to retrieve it,
But, free of the burden of the gift
Presented to you, I found new fleetness of step
And hurried after.
Easy come easy go.
“How was the fish?”
A friend of the elder had asked you.
I filled with indignance as you conveyed
That you’d told the truth.
I’d set it free.
“He let Ned’s fish go? For shame!”
There was a thief in our midst.
But I’d never thought it was me.
Flood Lake
When trapped in hell
There is little to do but fish.
What sin had we committed
To land us in this place?
The paradise of our parents
Was our personal inferno.
Thrust into a pre-digital wasteland,
Mutual boredom bridged our differences
Of past and complexion.
Net on my shoulder, rod over yours,
We traipsed past the forgotten cemetery,
Where babe and sage lay side-by-side,
To the tumultuous lake
That swallowed the park
Man had erected in its honor.
We made our seats amongst the boulders
Set to shore the foamy waters
Against the lonesome road.
We sat silent. All had been said
In the past three weeks
Sitting on those stones,
Catching flotsam.
We weren’t alone. An elderly man
Felt it wise to spend his dwindling moments
Prospecting for silver pike
In the murky depths.
We were prospecting for sirens.
We found entertainment
Somehow.
Time passed. The elderly man readied himself to leave.
I noted his proud, slimy catch with envy.
He walked up to you, selecting as
A shard of flint from a bed of quartz.
The break in monotony caught my attention.
You draw closer with a scowl and explain.
“Says I took his tackle. Dowallie; didn’t even.”
We scoff in unison as his compensationary jeep departs.
A thief in our midst? How absurd!
The rippling of the waves as they lap at our perches
Speeds the drawl of time. We wish the sun down.
There are fires to make. The rippling tranquility of the water
Can’t hold a candle
To a roaring blaze,
Hungry for nourishment,
Insatiable, but never ashamed.
The destruction enraptures us.
The fetid decay of the water,
Stinking of carcasses,
Only captivates us.
The elderly man returns.
With firm absolution, he apologizes
And hands you the fish.
He says his tackle was in the back.
Now we are three. It’s near supper.
Time to show our guest home.
I clutch the net that holds the fish,
You manage pole and bait.
A smirk sits tauntingly on your lips.
“Probably too heavy for you, anneh?”
I grin in response to mask my strain
And insist I’m more than sufficiently mighty.
With a shrug, you dash off ahead,
To the hunting lodge,
With its trophies,
Past the cemetery,
With its markers.
I watch you crest the hill
Each step burns in my arms
And my shoulders decry my pride.
The trek had never seemed so long.
As my frustration and shame build,
The fish, in all its hideousness,
Seems suddenly pathetic,
Wound in the net, gills gasping,
Its mouth gnawing out a silent plea.
Was it pity, or pride?
I claimed pity. It upheld my pride.
I went down by the waters,
And, with soothing words, let the creature free.
It lay limply near the shore,
Unaware of its opportunity.
Probably soon another carcass,
Rejected by its habitat
And thrust into the world above
To stink and fester amongst the stones.
It would be easy to retrieve it,
But, free of the burden of the gift
Presented to you, I found new fleetness of step
And hurried after.
Easy come easy go.
“How was the fish?”
A friend of the elder had asked you.
I filled with indignance as you conveyed
That you’d told the truth.
I’d set it free.
“He let Ned’s fish go? For shame!”
There was a thief in our midst.
But I’d never thought it was me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)