Unspeaking Words Spoken

Lukos slammed from the cabin, the flames of the fire recoiling in response. Aeliana stared at the door, strong and permanent.

"Your tongue is sharp, daughter." Bekka emerged from her bedroom, eyes wary.

Aeliana crossed her arms. "You never discouraged it."

"Lukos is a good man."

"He was wrong."

"You were wrong."

Aeliana's heart sank. "What shall I do?"

"Find Esther."

"The diviner?"

"She knows the location of all of the words ever spake."

"Nonsense."

"Scribes tell of a magical place, rarely encountered, but tragic and beautiful." Bekka gave her child a shove. "It is your only hope."

Read more »

Tasting the Sun

Miles Snyder clicks on the email and frowns. "Sorry, Milo, but we need you in town over Christmas. Business is booming!" Miles sighs and closes the email. Shit. Being in town over the holidays means being in town for the company party.

Miles hates parties, hates having to blah blah blah his way through the buffet line, trying to recall the names of spouses, picking up a little of this and a little of that with dainty silver tongs, hoping to God he doesn't spill something or that his entire plate doesn't tip over with the weight of the pretty little hors d'oeuvres balanced thereon: Greasy olives. Cubes of cheese impaled upon frilled toothpicks. Pigs in a blanket. Stale croissants wrapped around thick slices of ham, a disgrace, he thinks, to the simple elegance of the croissant.

His mouth waters, as he recalls the trip he made to Paris, right after college. The hostels. The melamine bowls full of tepid cocoa. Crusty bread and marmalade. Apricots and coffee. Croissants that melted in his mouth.

Paris. Three months of good food, good wine and good painting.

He turns his attention to the spreadsheet on the monitor. But he can't deny that it's there: While he lines up numbers in a column, arranging them just so, getting them to agree to work together and paint a flattering, if not entirely accurate, picture of the company, it is there, in the background, thrumming: The blues and the oranges. The pinks and those lovely, lovely yellows. Miles loves color. Miles loves paint.

He gets along moderately well with numbers. But he's never actually tasted one.

Read more »

Missing

Stuart watches a boy with spiked-up hair enter the gallery with his parents. The father has a Nikon hanging from his neck. The mother carries an iPad. They arrange the boy in front of a suit of armor and snap pictures. As the father lowers his camera, the boy releases his pose. They study his image as they leave the gallery.

The world, Stuart thinks, perpetually posing for itself.

He listens to the banalities surrounding him. People striving so hard to sound intelligent to themselves and each other, walking past without acknowledging him. He tells himself he likes the invisibility.

Snippets of conversation weave around him like cigarette smoke.

“These big museums just bring in big artists…They don’t want to invest in small time…”

“When I lived in Munich in ’86…”

A puffed-up man reeking of mothballs queries his wife: “When does life become art?”

He hears a snicker and turns to his right. A beautiful woman stands there. Gorgeous red hair; bright green eyes; petite. He reaches for his crutches and pushes himself up: He doesn't want to waste her time.

He is surprised when she doesn't move. Normally, when he stands; when he reveals the part of himself that is missing, people quickly discard him. “When I was a boy, I dreamed of war.”

She nods and puts a cigarette into her mouth.

“Then I barely lived through it and the sheen of war fell away.”

“Why do you guard this room?”

“It's the one they gave me.” He eyes her. “I've heard the museum staff aren't very bright.”

She laughs and her eyes are merry.

“I wonder,” Stuart says, surprising himself, for when he lost his leg, he lost the easy confidence he used to possess, “if, a hundred years from now, the shattered remains of my leg will be on display in this museum. ” He paints an imaginary marquee in the air. “Effects of modern war.”

She takes a drag on the cigarette.

“Works better if you light it,” he says.

“I'm trying to quit. Besides, the guard will kick me out.”

He laughs. “Stress?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“The job?”

“You could say that.”

“Where do you work?”

“Here.”

“Oh, yeah?” He is pleased. “You new?”

“I've been here four years.”

“I've never seen you until today.”

“I'm the director.” She meets his eye and gives a laugh. “I'm holed up in my office most of the day.”

“I guess that means I'm fired.”

“No.” She extends a hand. “My name's Josie.”

“Stuart,” he says.

“I know who you are.” She feels herself blush.

A girl with oversized sunglasses walks in, nodding her head to the music being pumped into her ears. A woman sits on a bench and promptly falls asleep.

“God this is boring,” Josie says when the museum closes. She smiles. “Join me for dinner?”

And Stuart's life suddenly feels beautiful and new.

This piece, part of a larger story, was posted for this week's Write on Edge link.

Everlasting Love

His crossed arms answered her question before he spoke.  Of course it was no.  It would always be no.  He opened his mouth.  Spoke the one word. 

“Why?”  She felt her face redden.  “You make me feel like a child.”

“I don’t make you feel anything.”

She met his eye.  Crossed her own arms.  “About time you figured that out.”

“Oh, I figured that out years ago, Deb.  You make it obvious enough.”

“I do nothing of the sort.”

“Oh yeah?”  He gave her that lazy smile, revealing the tiny chip on his front tooth.  “You think I don’t see you looking around when you walk down the sidewalk, always three steps ahead of me?”

“You walk too slowly.”

“You would too, with one of these.”  He uncrossed his arm and jabbed a thumb at his cane hooked on the back of his chair.  He leaned forward.  “You have no idea, Deb.  None.  What it’s like to be old.”

She grinned.  “I don’t have to.  And neither do you.”  She looked out the window.  “They say Malibu is nice.” 

“I’m tired of moving.”

She whirled around.  “Moving’s an adventure!”

“We don’t move.  We run away.  As soon as someone starts to question, we pack up.  We can’t even see our own children, for God’s sake.”

“It upsets them.”

“It upsets me.”

 “Mrs. Dubinski asked me the other day why I married someone twice my age.”

“Did you tell her you’re my elder?”

She giggled.  “Didn’t want to give her a heart attack.”

He allowed himself a smile.  “This wasn’t the way I envisioned our marriage to be.  You were supposed to heal the sick.”

“Aging is a completely preventable disease.”

“What happens if someone gets hold of these pills?”

“I only made two.”  She held out her hand.  “One is all it takes.  I don’t want to be alone.”

The dog came up and nosed her in the crotch. 

She swatted at him.  “I hate your damn dog.”

He held out a hand. 

Her eyes widened.  “You mean it?”

He nodded.  He tucked the pill into his cheek and made a show of swallowing. 

She beamed.  “Tomorrow, you’ll be good as new.”

He smiled back.  “Malibu?”

She clapped her hands.  “Malibu.  Oh, I’ve got so much to do!”  She ran from the room, humming softly.

He extracted the pill from his cheek.  Fed it to the dog.

* * *

He woke to her screams.  “You fed the pill to the damn dog, Frederick?”

He grinned.  “Now you’ll never be alone.”  He eased himself up, reached for his cane.  “I want a divorce, Deb.”  He rose and shuffled into the kitchen and picked up the telephone to call his children.

This post was written in response to Write on Edge's prompt.

Broken

Largely, my sisters and I dismissed the authority of the babysitter.  She was a playmate.  She brought us treats.  We styled her hair and demanded that she style ours as well.  Finally, at the appointed hour, she gave us piggyback rides to bed and tucked us in and brought us water and let us go to the bathroom one final time.  Wearily, she clicked off the lights and left the room.

A few moments later, we sneaked out of bed and tiptoed back into the family room where we found her eating popsicles and watching TV.

Teasing each other was my sisters’ and my favorite occupation.  Three girls—not Irish twins, but rather Irish triplets—whirled into the family room and then down the stairs into the basement, chasing each other around the ping pong table, zipping past the wine rack and then back up the stairs and into the kitchen.  I paused to grab a wooden spoon from one of the drawers.


Read more »

Witness

Darkness settles around me.  The snow falls heavy and cold.  I long for the white blanket Grandmother knitted years ago.  People pass: people in fast cars coming home from work and heading into warm kitchens and soup bubbling upon the stove; people walking dogs that pause and sniff at me and occasionally even lift their legs.  Occasionally someone slows and glances at me. 

Mostly, I am ignored.

I am thin.  I am faded.  I am dull. 

Read more »

Fall's Promise

There’s a field of soybeans in the middle of the park where we walk.  The plants are yellowed and brown, with the seeds still attached.  In the middle of the field, there’s a patch of bright green grass where the soybeans refused to take hold.  The wind whips up and rustles the plants and their dried bones rattle in response.  Along the perimeter of the field, the wild plants are allowed to grow: goldenrod and pokeberry, its fruit bright purple and black.  I see white snakeroot and dense blazing star and green foxtail.

Tiny snakes cross our path; winding their bodies this way and that across the asphalt path, while wooly bears cross in a slower, steadier march.  A monarch butterfly rests upon a sprig of heath aster.  A white moth flits here then there, pausing only an instant at a plant before continuing on its way.

Read more »

Roses in December

“Roses for sale five dollars a bunch.”  The hand-lettered sign proclaims from his station across the street from the local train depot where weary travelers head to work in a blur of colors and odors.  He’s there still for the five o’clock rush, patient with his flowers, pacing off the cold, a steaming cup of coffee warming his hands.

Even on Sunday, he huddles beneath his beach umbrella as we cross the tracks late for church, cursing the signal lights and the candy cane arm that swings down before us.  A driver slows and waits by the side of the road for The Rose Man to dash up with a bouquet before speeding away at the last second.

I acknowledge The Rose Man with a nod of my head as the train blasts through.  He looks me in the eye; refuses my sympathy.  Thickened stems caress crumpled bills through fingerless gloves.  "Where can he find roses in December?" I ask as the candy cane arm lifts and we proceed to church, passing him again on the way after.  I put my hand to the glass, little fingerprints reaching out but not quite touching the lovely snowman as he sells his wares on a frosty December Sunday.

This was from a larger poem, written several years ago.  I edited it for this week's Write on Edge prompt.