Storms
The boy peered out his living room window, watching the sky morph in color and shape. As he had walked home from school the sky had been a bright, clear blue but the dark clouds had gathered quickly, following him down the sidewalk to his house. The boy leaned in toward the window till his nose touched the glass. Storm clouds and the setting sun gave everything outside an eerie, orange glow.
A loud sigh filled the room. The boy looked to his mother as she turned over and buried her head deeper in the couch cushions. She was asleep and unaware. She had always been the type that preferred a glass of wine and a long afternoon nap over the nagging responsibilities of a kid, a house, a life.
A flash of lightning drew the boy’s attention back to the window. The rain began to fall slowly, a sprinkling haze. The wind picked up and the boy watched as the neighbor’s empty trash can rolled and tumbled down the road. Then without warning the sky opened and torrents of rain crashed down. The rain blew sideways beating against the window pane in an unending percussive beat.
Headlights pulled into the driveway, shining through the window and momentarily blinding the boy. He blinked rapidly and involuntarily leapt to his a feet, a surge of adrenaline pulsing through his veins. He quickly made his way to the small, dull-yellow kitchen.
The front door slammed and in an instant the boy had secured himself in the cabinet under the sink. It was a small space and his legs tangled with cleaning products and the cold, wet sink pipes. The boy could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears and he took a few deep breaths to calm himself.
It began as a muffled disagreement, a small skirmish whose accusations were drowned out by the pouring rain. But then the shouting began. It grew louder till screaming words cut through all other noise.
The boy could only make out a few words and phrases that reverberated off the walls but he couldn’t seem to understand what was actually being said. To him every shout felt like a sharp stab ripping through his stomach. He wrapped his arms around his middle tightly, attempting to protect his insides from the onslaught of words.
Soon the screaming was accompanied by a scuffle of violence. The boy winced at the noise of something large and metallic crashing to the ground. Next came the sound of breaking glass or perhaps it was ceramic? Maybe it was the blue lamp that sat on the end table or was it a window?
The boy decided it must have been a window because the sounds of the storm felt suddenly more intimate. He swore the howling wind was whipping right outside his thin cupboard door. His mother’s unintelligible sobs were mixing with the sound of the beating rain. Something, most likely a fist, banged against the wall and the vibration traveled all the way to the boy’s hiding place.
The boy squeezed his eyes shut. He wrapped his arms around his legs and drew them in closer to his chest. He could feel a small insect crawling up the side of his leg but he didn’t dare make a move to swipe it away. No, the boy sat completely still and waited for it to stop.
He knew it would stop eventually.
It always stopped eventually.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Brian Sabin
A mother sits crying on the front steps of her once quiet suburban home. Traffic screams past without so much as a passing glace from the drivers. Had anyone paid enough attention they would have seen the horrific state of the woman's clothes and emotions. She killed her husband today. Just a few moments ago.
Less than a half hour ago, when she arrived home from work, she came in to find a nearly demolished interior. The lamp lay broken next to an overturned television whose screen was blank and cracked but still projected the sounds of the Oprah Winfrey Show. Her first instinct was panic. She didn't know if the children were safe. Their father—her husband—was recently laid off from work, so he should have been home to supervise them.
A commotion from the back room instilled fear but an unselfish courage all the same as she raced to the room to investigate the sound. To her dismay, she walked in on her husband who had just finished killing their children. An instant rage overcame the woman but fear for her own life caused her to flee. As she ran for the garage—husband now in quick pursuit—he managed to tackle her and a struggle ensued. He clamped his hands around her throat which is when she realized that she might not make it through this encounter alive. Her only chance was to raise her knee into his groin and hope for the shot of a lifetime. Fortunately for her, she landed a perfect strike and he grimaced as he rolled off of her.
She then made her way to the garage—scraped and bloody—to her son's pile of baseball equipment where she was able to take his aluminum bat, walk back out to her still reeling husband, and proceed to bludgeon him to death. For ten minutes she continued to swing until she could no longer lift the Louisville Slugger over her head--he'd been dead for nine of the ten minute beating.
He lay on the ground, white t-shirt soaked crimson, and she walked to the front of the house, half-dazed, thinking about her dead children as well as the revenge she took on the man who took them from her. Sitting on the front steps crying, traffic screams past without so much as a passing glace from the drivers.
Less than a half hour ago, when she arrived home from work, she came in to find a nearly demolished interior. The lamp lay broken next to an overturned television whose screen was blank and cracked but still projected the sounds of the Oprah Winfrey Show. Her first instinct was panic. She didn't know if the children were safe. Their father—her husband—was recently laid off from work, so he should have been home to supervise them.
A commotion from the back room instilled fear but an unselfish courage all the same as she raced to the room to investigate the sound. To her dismay, she walked in on her husband who had just finished killing their children. An instant rage overcame the woman but fear for her own life caused her to flee. As she ran for the garage—husband now in quick pursuit—he managed to tackle her and a struggle ensued. He clamped his hands around her throat which is when she realized that she might not make it through this encounter alive. Her only chance was to raise her knee into his groin and hope for the shot of a lifetime. Fortunately for her, she landed a perfect strike and he grimaced as he rolled off of her.
She then made her way to the garage—scraped and bloody—to her son's pile of baseball equipment where she was able to take his aluminum bat, walk back out to her still reeling husband, and proceed to bludgeon him to death. For ten minutes she continued to swing until she could no longer lift the Louisville Slugger over her head--he'd been dead for nine of the ten minute beating.
He lay on the ground, white t-shirt soaked crimson, and she walked to the front of the house, half-dazed, thinking about her dead children as well as the revenge she took on the man who took them from her. Sitting on the front steps crying, traffic screams past without so much as a passing glace from the drivers.
Maria Paxos
Solitude
Well it’s another sleepless night for the young woman. By young, I mean a thirty something divorcee trying to hold on to youth as humanly possible. Every time she closes her eyes, all she sees is his face. This face of his has definitely gotten her into trouble. What on earth was she thinking? Did she think that a much younger man would be the answer to her lonely nights? She suffered a marriage with someone who treated her more like a roommate instead of a soul mate. This young man showed her more passion and zest for life then she knew how to handle. She liked the excitement the risk she was taking was worth the price she was later going to pay. Oh and she certainly was feeling that pain now, it’s been over a month and yet there he is in every thought, taunting her. He put an end to the love affair simply stating that he was way in over his head and that this relationship couldn’t possibly go anywhere. YES, he is correct but why wasn’t it her, the older more mature adult to make this decision? Instead she fluttered around like a little school girl thinking that perhaps this could work. Well why not, it works for Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher and they appear to be happier than most Hollywood couples? That’s it she rips the comforter off of her and gets up swiftly out of the bed. She needs to go outside to catch some fresh air, the cool early autumn night may help calm her nerves. Just wearing cotton pajamas and a t-shirt she takes a seat on her porch steps. She closes her eyes gently, takes a deep belly breath in, pauses and slowly begins to exhale. Her eyes open but have become misty from the autumn chill in the air. She is thinking that this may validate her to just start crying uncontrollably but she may not stop till daybreak. Just then she looks to the night sky and notices that some whimsical clouds break away and there in all its luminous wonder is the moon. It is a harvest moon, it has a shade of blue, she cannot peel her eyes away from its beauty. How amazing, how the sight of something so beautiful can literally take our breath away in an instant. She thinks for a minute who else might be out at this time of night, gazing into the same mesmerizing moon, perhaps also contemplating life’s greatest mysteries? Through the clouds a hawk makes his way dancing through the night sky without a care in the world. The bird is free floating and living for the moment, not worrying about what may come tomorrow. How silly is it that this woman is worrying about something that she chose to partake in. She knew what the circumstances would be but yet continued to follow her heart. Correct, she followed her heart because up until recently she was over-thinking her decisions and not enjoying herself. It probably wasn’t the right decision but oh well she took it anyway. What is life without risk anyway? Perhaps this was just another chapter to be added to the book of lessons titled “What not to do with a handsome man who has nothing to offer but his great body and witty charm”. A wild delirious type of laughter begins to rage out of her. Was she really losing sleep over such a petty little game called lust? Deep down it does leave a little sting and from time to time when she looks back it will make her question “Why did I think that was a good idea”? The end result is this, it is better to fall flat on your face and feel the earth below you, rather than wonder why you didn’t just tie your damn shoe laces and play it safe from the beginning. She takes in another deep breath in and releases a smooth exhale. She picks herself up off the cold porch and starts to head back into the house. She turns to take one last look at the moon and it is gone, hiding again amongst the clouds. It served its purpose for the evening, now it is up to her to be at peace with her decisions. She smiles and turns to go into the warm house and into bed. Hopefully this is just what she needed to rest her mind and body, at least for tonight.
Well it’s another sleepless night for the young woman. By young, I mean a thirty something divorcee trying to hold on to youth as humanly possible. Every time she closes her eyes, all she sees is his face. This face of his has definitely gotten her into trouble. What on earth was she thinking? Did she think that a much younger man would be the answer to her lonely nights? She suffered a marriage with someone who treated her more like a roommate instead of a soul mate. This young man showed her more passion and zest for life then she knew how to handle. She liked the excitement the risk she was taking was worth the price she was later going to pay. Oh and she certainly was feeling that pain now, it’s been over a month and yet there he is in every thought, taunting her. He put an end to the love affair simply stating that he was way in over his head and that this relationship couldn’t possibly go anywhere. YES, he is correct but why wasn’t it her, the older more mature adult to make this decision? Instead she fluttered around like a little school girl thinking that perhaps this could work. Well why not, it works for Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher and they appear to be happier than most Hollywood couples? That’s it she rips the comforter off of her and gets up swiftly out of the bed. She needs to go outside to catch some fresh air, the cool early autumn night may help calm her nerves. Just wearing cotton pajamas and a t-shirt she takes a seat on her porch steps. She closes her eyes gently, takes a deep belly breath in, pauses and slowly begins to exhale. Her eyes open but have become misty from the autumn chill in the air. She is thinking that this may validate her to just start crying uncontrollably but she may not stop till daybreak. Just then she looks to the night sky and notices that some whimsical clouds break away and there in all its luminous wonder is the moon. It is a harvest moon, it has a shade of blue, she cannot peel her eyes away from its beauty. How amazing, how the sight of something so beautiful can literally take our breath away in an instant. She thinks for a minute who else might be out at this time of night, gazing into the same mesmerizing moon, perhaps also contemplating life’s greatest mysteries? Through the clouds a hawk makes his way dancing through the night sky without a care in the world. The bird is free floating and living for the moment, not worrying about what may come tomorrow. How silly is it that this woman is worrying about something that she chose to partake in. She knew what the circumstances would be but yet continued to follow her heart. Correct, she followed her heart because up until recently she was over-thinking her decisions and not enjoying herself. It probably wasn’t the right decision but oh well she took it anyway. What is life without risk anyway? Perhaps this was just another chapter to be added to the book of lessons titled “What not to do with a handsome man who has nothing to offer but his great body and witty charm”. A wild delirious type of laughter begins to rage out of her. Was she really losing sleep over such a petty little game called lust? Deep down it does leave a little sting and from time to time when she looks back it will make her question “Why did I think that was a good idea”? The end result is this, it is better to fall flat on your face and feel the earth below you, rather than wonder why you didn’t just tie your damn shoe laces and play it safe from the beginning. She takes in another deep breath in and releases a smooth exhale. She picks herself up off the cold porch and starts to head back into the house. She turns to take one last look at the moon and it is gone, hiding again amongst the clouds. It served its purpose for the evening, now it is up to her to be at peace with her decisions. She smiles and turns to go into the warm house and into bed. Hopefully this is just what she needed to rest her mind and body, at least for tonight.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Alexis Pope
Coughing Up Petals
The little girl, blonde ringlets and all, walked up to the small tree. This tree, bare except for a few thinly spread leaves, was exactly five years old today. It had been growing in the space between an abandoned playground and a neighborhood street in desperate need of a fresh asphalt job. The little girl had watched this tree grow from infanthood to its present stature. Lately she had lain in her bed at night wondering about death, and also what it would be like to drive a blade into the tree’s barky flesh. The blonde girl tightened her grip around a hatchet she was hiding behind her back in her right hand. Playfully running her left fingertips along the hem of her pleated skirt, she stood directly in front of this tree and was a threat to the life it had just begun to enjoy. The tree, in fear for its life and finding itself in a quite stationary position, had little time to think of a plan of defense. On his fifth birthday this tree was already experiencing a potentially tragic situation.
The tree decided to reach deep, down into the earth. His roots ached as he gathered energy from the rich soil and allowed it to run up his trunk and stretch through to the tips of his branches. Suddenly the tree began to grow at an incredibly alarming rate. The little girl clenched the arm of the hatchet, with both fear and amazement. This was not ordinary. She had never seen anything like this before. Neither had the tree, and he’d seen a lot (especially late at night in the playground, mostly between horny teenagers, but that’s another story).
His branches spread out before her. Creating a constellation of deep green leaves in the air above her head. Flowers began to blossom from a previously flowerless tree. Petals of rich color: red, pink, yellow, orange, purple, even aquamarine. Now that’s cool! His blossoming flowers were much more than ordinary. They formed into shapes. Now, not your average flower shape, but actual images of for-real things: lollipops (the girl loved these tasty treats), underpants (she was also familiar with these), bicycles (she was pretty into hers), coffee mugs (she preferred hot chocolate), and other pretty spectacular shapes, but I could go on forever so I will restrain myself.
Now the tree became pretty exhausted during this process. He could no longer manifest these outrageous blossoms. He stopped. With any strength he had left, he hoped. He hoped that the little blonde girl would not heave the hatchet into his trunk. Investing every inch of bark and root to hold his position long enough for the little girl to retreat. The girl stood very still. Staring at the tree, an icy gray tear appeared at the corner of her eye. The tree’s petals, feeling her pain, began to fall around her shoulders. They fell in waves and the shapes melted off the branches, broken into singular entities. The petals’ colors were glowing, illuminated by the earth’s raw energy. The blonde girl’s mouth was slightly ajar and one lone petal fell onto her plump young tongue. It tasted of fresh fruit, the tree’s life became one with her saliva, and she swallowed.
Suddenly she felt a warm, tingling from within her belly. The tree watched as her skin, once pale, was consumed by an all-encompassing blush. Then brown hues took the place of pink. Her feet began to grow: long and espresso-colored. They broke through the grass and into the soil. She was taking root. The hatchet fell from her hands, as her fingertips became branches. All over her body bark grew from her flesh. Her eyes, mouth, and nose became divots in her trunk’s surface. The hatchet’s wooden arm dug into the ground as well, silver flowers sprouted from its blade. The girl’s thoughts about life and death disappeared. Her body began breathing sunlight and she dug deeper into the rich earth. Her blonde hair turned to green leaves. The tree’s birthday wish came true. He now had a partner to share his life with. The girl, now tree-girl, was also happy. Instead of destruction she was the very image of life.
The little girl, blonde ringlets and all, walked up to the small tree. This tree, bare except for a few thinly spread leaves, was exactly five years old today. It had been growing in the space between an abandoned playground and a neighborhood street in desperate need of a fresh asphalt job. The little girl had watched this tree grow from infanthood to its present stature. Lately she had lain in her bed at night wondering about death, and also what it would be like to drive a blade into the tree’s barky flesh. The blonde girl tightened her grip around a hatchet she was hiding behind her back in her right hand. Playfully running her left fingertips along the hem of her pleated skirt, she stood directly in front of this tree and was a threat to the life it had just begun to enjoy. The tree, in fear for its life and finding itself in a quite stationary position, had little time to think of a plan of defense. On his fifth birthday this tree was already experiencing a potentially tragic situation.
The tree decided to reach deep, down into the earth. His roots ached as he gathered energy from the rich soil and allowed it to run up his trunk and stretch through to the tips of his branches. Suddenly the tree began to grow at an incredibly alarming rate. The little girl clenched the arm of the hatchet, with both fear and amazement. This was not ordinary. She had never seen anything like this before. Neither had the tree, and he’d seen a lot (especially late at night in the playground, mostly between horny teenagers, but that’s another story).
His branches spread out before her. Creating a constellation of deep green leaves in the air above her head. Flowers began to blossom from a previously flowerless tree. Petals of rich color: red, pink, yellow, orange, purple, even aquamarine. Now that’s cool! His blossoming flowers were much more than ordinary. They formed into shapes. Now, not your average flower shape, but actual images of for-real things: lollipops (the girl loved these tasty treats), underpants (she was also familiar with these), bicycles (she was pretty into hers), coffee mugs (she preferred hot chocolate), and other pretty spectacular shapes, but I could go on forever so I will restrain myself.
Now the tree became pretty exhausted during this process. He could no longer manifest these outrageous blossoms. He stopped. With any strength he had left, he hoped. He hoped that the little blonde girl would not heave the hatchet into his trunk. Investing every inch of bark and root to hold his position long enough for the little girl to retreat. The girl stood very still. Staring at the tree, an icy gray tear appeared at the corner of her eye. The tree’s petals, feeling her pain, began to fall around her shoulders. They fell in waves and the shapes melted off the branches, broken into singular entities. The petals’ colors were glowing, illuminated by the earth’s raw energy. The blonde girl’s mouth was slightly ajar and one lone petal fell onto her plump young tongue. It tasted of fresh fruit, the tree’s life became one with her saliva, and she swallowed.
Suddenly she felt a warm, tingling from within her belly. The tree watched as her skin, once pale, was consumed by an all-encompassing blush. Then brown hues took the place of pink. Her feet began to grow: long and espresso-colored. They broke through the grass and into the soil. She was taking root. The hatchet fell from her hands, as her fingertips became branches. All over her body bark grew from her flesh. Her eyes, mouth, and nose became divots in her trunk’s surface. The hatchet’s wooden arm dug into the ground as well, silver flowers sprouted from its blade. The girl’s thoughts about life and death disappeared. Her body began breathing sunlight and she dug deeper into the rich earth. Her blonde hair turned to green leaves. The tree’s birthday wish came true. He now had a partner to share his life with. The girl, now tree-girl, was also happy. Instead of destruction she was the very image of life.
Joshua Friedt
The Girl with the Ridiculous Sweatband
My favorite song is “Purple Rain,” but not the version made famous by Prince. I prefer an alternative version I heard back in middle school, it’s edgier and has some amazing guitar riffs, it’s such an awesome song. As I ride my motorcycle down along the beach front I happen to hear that particular version, which I haven’t heard in at least a decade. As I pass the corner made famous by a local celebrity, I see a group of girls running. The girls are dressed in typical athletic attire; one of them is even wearing a ridiculous sweatband. Across the street I can hear the laughter of three surfer dudes exiting a surf shop, boards and wax in hand. As I complete my turn around the corner to continue my journey home, I can still hear that song playing, drifting in the warm, salty summer air. It’s almost as if it the song itself was following me, like it knew I loved it and didn’t want it to end. I pulled up into the white sand-covered driveway of my apartment complex; the song was still mysteriously playing. How could this be? No one appeared to be around, it was a very warm day and like most warm days, everyone was at the beach. Freaked out by my current thoughts, I hopped off my bike and bolted for my apartment, I couldn’t get there fast enough. Upon entering my chilly, yet comfortable living quarters, the song stopped playing. But, little did I know, this wasn’t my apartment. Something didn’t feel right, how could I have gone into the wrong apartment, I’ve lived in this complex for the past ten years. As I began to get lost in my thoughts I realized I couldn’t hear. I attempted to figure out what was happening, bright flashes of white light began to encircle me. The events that were occurring didn’t add up. “Sweet Jesus,” I thought to myself, “have I lost my mind?” I tried to scream for help, but I had no idea if any noise was escaping because I couldn’t hear… utter silence, deafening silence. Outside, I ran around and spun in circles, still no one to be found, but the girl with the ridiculous sweatband. I weakly and feverishly uttered words so I could ask what was happening. The girl replied, “You struck me with your motorcycle. As my body flailed in the air my head collided with the road, killing me instantly.” I then asked her, “How is this possible? If you’re dead, why can I see you?” With much hesitation she replied, “You also died in the accident.” As I came to the realization that I, Justin Andrew Mahoney was dead, no longer to exist in the world, “Purple Rain” began to play once more; warm, glowing whiteness engulfed our bodies.
My favorite song is “Purple Rain,” but not the version made famous by Prince. I prefer an alternative version I heard back in middle school, it’s edgier and has some amazing guitar riffs, it’s such an awesome song. As I ride my motorcycle down along the beach front I happen to hear that particular version, which I haven’t heard in at least a decade. As I pass the corner made famous by a local celebrity, I see a group of girls running. The girls are dressed in typical athletic attire; one of them is even wearing a ridiculous sweatband. Across the street I can hear the laughter of three surfer dudes exiting a surf shop, boards and wax in hand. As I complete my turn around the corner to continue my journey home, I can still hear that song playing, drifting in the warm, salty summer air. It’s almost as if it the song itself was following me, like it knew I loved it and didn’t want it to end. I pulled up into the white sand-covered driveway of my apartment complex; the song was still mysteriously playing. How could this be? No one appeared to be around, it was a very warm day and like most warm days, everyone was at the beach. Freaked out by my current thoughts, I hopped off my bike and bolted for my apartment, I couldn’t get there fast enough. Upon entering my chilly, yet comfortable living quarters, the song stopped playing. But, little did I know, this wasn’t my apartment. Something didn’t feel right, how could I have gone into the wrong apartment, I’ve lived in this complex for the past ten years. As I began to get lost in my thoughts I realized I couldn’t hear. I attempted to figure out what was happening, bright flashes of white light began to encircle me. The events that were occurring didn’t add up. “Sweet Jesus,” I thought to myself, “have I lost my mind?” I tried to scream for help, but I had no idea if any noise was escaping because I couldn’t hear… utter silence, deafening silence. Outside, I ran around and spun in circles, still no one to be found, but the girl with the ridiculous sweatband. I weakly and feverishly uttered words so I could ask what was happening. The girl replied, “You struck me with your motorcycle. As my body flailed in the air my head collided with the road, killing me instantly.” I then asked her, “How is this possible? If you’re dead, why can I see you?” With much hesitation she replied, “You also died in the accident.” As I came to the realization that I, Justin Andrew Mahoney was dead, no longer to exist in the world, “Purple Rain” began to play once more; warm, glowing whiteness engulfed our bodies.
Michelle Sinsky
The Edge of the Park
As soon as the coin slipped into her pocket, she made a quick and pointed pivot with her heel and continued down the street. She took an unhurried drag from her cigarette, putting the pocketed hand into reverse and fixing her hair with the flat of her hand, just as she imagined it to look were someone strolling alongside her with a large mirror.
The park ahead presented itself like a mirage behind a hill, though under her feet she knew it to be completely flat. She felt the sudden impulse to duck, to shrug into her jacket and disappear, to bolt; she stuffed this down as securely as the coin, but it turned in her pocket nervously.
"Hey!” A whistle from the car parked some spaces behind made her straighten and at once the smile returned to her face. She walked towards the playground. It was early in the evening for this but the day was bright, still; traceless of the town’s frequent overcast.
The boy on the swing set grew larger and the dirt sucked her heels square into the sod. Not that one. Her feet noted the resistance of the earth; her hands swung coolly and indifferently. A girl skipping rope was called away to supper and in the corner on the perimeter of the blacktop, two boys poked a dead frog with a stick.
She spotted a smaller one with a single piece of chalk by the bushes and walked over.
"What's your name?" She knelt and dropped her shoulders to his level.
"John." He dragged his chalk in directionless lines.
Her hair was dyed the color of baby powder, of communion linens, of textbook pages, of all things innocent and weightless. But her eyes were a hard black.
"Myra." She smiled and took her fingers away from her hair.
John took the outstretched hand and walked out to the car's open door. At the edge of the park the chalk fell earthward and broke.
As soon as the coin slipped into her pocket, she made a quick and pointed pivot with her heel and continued down the street. She took an unhurried drag from her cigarette, putting the pocketed hand into reverse and fixing her hair with the flat of her hand, just as she imagined it to look were someone strolling alongside her with a large mirror.
The park ahead presented itself like a mirage behind a hill, though under her feet she knew it to be completely flat. She felt the sudden impulse to duck, to shrug into her jacket and disappear, to bolt; she stuffed this down as securely as the coin, but it turned in her pocket nervously.
"Hey!” A whistle from the car parked some spaces behind made her straighten and at once the smile returned to her face. She walked towards the playground. It was early in the evening for this but the day was bright, still; traceless of the town’s frequent overcast.
The boy on the swing set grew larger and the dirt sucked her heels square into the sod. Not that one. Her feet noted the resistance of the earth; her hands swung coolly and indifferently. A girl skipping rope was called away to supper and in the corner on the perimeter of the blacktop, two boys poked a dead frog with a stick.
She spotted a smaller one with a single piece of chalk by the bushes and walked over.
"What's your name?" She knelt and dropped her shoulders to his level.
"John." He dragged his chalk in directionless lines.
Her hair was dyed the color of baby powder, of communion linens, of textbook pages, of all things innocent and weightless. But her eyes were a hard black.
"Myra." She smiled and took her fingers away from her hair.
John took the outstretched hand and walked out to the car's open door. At the edge of the park the chalk fell earthward and broke.
Rachel Stone
Dead Letters
Dim candlelight lit the hollow darkness, as I read the ardent letters from my mistress. Her beautiful, precise handwriting was like calligraphy on the page. She wrote to me of poetry and passion, and as I read her letters, I recalled our last meeting with great despair.
~
Arabella was stunning in her sensuous, aubergine dress. She inched toward me, her voluptuous hips swaying beneath the silk and crinoline. Her piercing gaze set my heart ablaze, and I wondered why I ever married my wife. Arabella had always won my sincerest affections. Her raven-black tresses fell down her chest and back, and they brushed against my neck as she leaned in to kiss me unabashedly. Without hesitation, I wrapped my hands around her perfectly cinched waist, feeling her curves under the loosened fabric of her bodice with my calloused hands, a low growl in my throat. Gently, my fingers traced the fine boning of her corset. Arabella’s lips rouged with my familiar, intense kisses. The air grew heavy; my knees weakened, just as they always did whenever Arabella was around.
“Henry,” She rasped suddenly, as if awakening from a trance.
“Yes?” I said, slowly kissing down her alabaster décolletage.
“We mustn’t do this,” She replied, pushing me away.
“Why?” I asked, not understanding. Emily and the children were away for the whole night, with my mother-in-law. There was no reason to discontinue.
Arabella looked away, her blue eyes turning gray with unspeakable sorrow. “I am terribly sorry,” She began. “I’ve met someone else.”
My head began to spin. This could not be happening. I would not lose the woman—only woman—I ever loved; it took a while for me to be able to think, let alone speak, but eventually I asked the one question that had been smoldering on my lips, like an over-seasoned curry:
“Whom?”
“Someone,” She sighed simply. Her lithe body was shaking now; clearly, this was not easy for her, either. “There is nothing you can offer me anymore. I don’t want to sneak around. I want a real family—a real husband.”
Desperately, I wanted to protest, but she was right; my duty was to my wife, regardless of how much I wished otherwise. I knew this now.
“I still love you,” I said tenderly; the words fell from my lips like a hopeless prayer. I could feel my heart—a dead weight in my chest.
Arabella said nothing as she walked out the door, tears glistening from her rosy cheeks.
~
The last of Arabella’s letters felt like an albatross in my hands. I was a useless puzzle, for half of my pieces were missing. Without her, I would never be the same.
Numbly, I stared at her last letter, unsure of how to carry on. But then—on an impulse, I threw the letter into the fire, deciding that her letter’s ashes were better-suited to my memory of our last encounter.
The red-hot coals melted the fine stationary from the inside out, and I pretended to find salvation in the incinerated pieces.
I would never have another mistress.
~
Dim candlelight lit the hollow darkness, as I read the ardent letters from my mistress. Her beautiful, precise handwriting was like calligraphy on the page. She wrote to me of poetry and passion, and as I read her letters, I recalled our last meeting with great despair.
~
Arabella was stunning in her sensuous, aubergine dress. She inched toward me, her voluptuous hips swaying beneath the silk and crinoline. Her piercing gaze set my heart ablaze, and I wondered why I ever married my wife. Arabella had always won my sincerest affections. Her raven-black tresses fell down her chest and back, and they brushed against my neck as she leaned in to kiss me unabashedly. Without hesitation, I wrapped my hands around her perfectly cinched waist, feeling her curves under the loosened fabric of her bodice with my calloused hands, a low growl in my throat. Gently, my fingers traced the fine boning of her corset. Arabella’s lips rouged with my familiar, intense kisses. The air grew heavy; my knees weakened, just as they always did whenever Arabella was around.
“Henry,” She rasped suddenly, as if awakening from a trance.
“Yes?” I said, slowly kissing down her alabaster décolletage.
“We mustn’t do this,” She replied, pushing me away.
“Why?” I asked, not understanding. Emily and the children were away for the whole night, with my mother-in-law. There was no reason to discontinue.
Arabella looked away, her blue eyes turning gray with unspeakable sorrow. “I am terribly sorry,” She began. “I’ve met someone else.”
My head began to spin. This could not be happening. I would not lose the woman—only woman—I ever loved; it took a while for me to be able to think, let alone speak, but eventually I asked the one question that had been smoldering on my lips, like an over-seasoned curry:
“Whom?”
“Someone,” She sighed simply. Her lithe body was shaking now; clearly, this was not easy for her, either. “There is nothing you can offer me anymore. I don’t want to sneak around. I want a real family—a real husband.”
Desperately, I wanted to protest, but she was right; my duty was to my wife, regardless of how much I wished otherwise. I knew this now.
“I still love you,” I said tenderly; the words fell from my lips like a hopeless prayer. I could feel my heart—a dead weight in my chest.
Arabella said nothing as she walked out the door, tears glistening from her rosy cheeks.
~
The last of Arabella’s letters felt like an albatross in my hands. I was a useless puzzle, for half of my pieces were missing. Without her, I would never be the same.
Numbly, I stared at her last letter, unsure of how to carry on. But then—on an impulse, I threw the letter into the fire, deciding that her letter’s ashes were better-suited to my memory of our last encounter.
The red-hot coals melted the fine stationary from the inside out, and I pretended to find salvation in the incinerated pieces.
I would never have another mistress.
~
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
About Me
- Bob
- I write short stories and essays. I have published well over one hundred stories, essays, and flash fictions or nonfictions in magazines or anthologies, as well as a novel, Jack's Universe, three collections of stories, Private Acts, Killers & Others, and Not a Jot or a Tittle, and two chapbooks of flash fiction, Shutterbug and Dragon Box. I grew up in a military family, so I'm not from anywhere in particular except probably Akron, where I've lived for forty years. Before I came here, I never lived anywhere longer than three years.