The Criminal In The Palace
a noir story for a lazy sunday afternoon by jake kilroy.
The city had the grave sighs of a heavy smoker. Dirty, warm breaths coursed through the alleyways, and sunlight was hours away from doing its best magic trick of making church seem like a way out. Funerals should be held at night, Arlo Beckett figured as he passed the cemetery he'd love to not call home by the end of all this.
It was late, but it was an early late. The grifters were out, but the ones to really fear were still causing trouble before they started doing something worse.
Beckett crossed the empty street and moved into the scattered crowd of well-dressed men and exotically dressed women. He came to the stairs and made sure to hit every clank as he went down. This wasn't a time for a sneak attack. This was a time to let the locals know there was someone here without a thing to hide. Beckett even wore his gun a little closer to the front.
With a left turn, he was swallowed by the red and purple lights that gave the snug passage an nightmarish underwater quality. He passed brutes and bruisers, but they left him alone. He had the grandiose aura of a man who knew something they didn't, and that was more intimidating than a gun this late and this close.
And then he was in the club.
The lobby was beautiful and busy, as chorus girls lined up for the side entrances and the hounds looked for an entrance themselves. Becket didn't bother looking left or right, as there remained a good chance one or two of the chorus girls were looking to string him up.
So he moved through the drapes, and the heavens opened up to him. It was a heck of a scene, with each tier lower and closer to the dance floor, where several couples slow danced. Most of the orchestra was drinking whatever they had off to the side with just a few of them still playing music, led by a trumpeter in a blue suit.
Beckett came to a man with a trim suit and a pencil-thin mustache and handed him a few bills.
"I want privacy," Beckett said.
"This won't buy you total privacy."
"Give me what I paid for then."
"Certainly, sir. Right this way."
The host pocketed the money and strolled down the stairs with grace. A bribe could do that to a man's posture, especially if he saw them enough to expect them from even the sleaziest gentlemen. They came to a booth off to the side, circled by other booths, but this one had a higher back to it.
Beckett removed his hat and trench coat and then sat down.
"Is Delphine singing tonight?"
"Ms. Young may or may not be performing later this evening. She is recovering from a nasty cold."
"Swell. Could you tell her an old friend is here to see her?"
"Ms. Young has plenty of old friends. She will see you if she sees you."
"Tell her the man who still owes her a car is here."
The host's eyebrows raised slightly, which, given the man's quiet but furious demeanor, gave away more than it should've.
"I'll see if she's available," he replied before floating back up the stairs.
Beckett flagged down a drink girl and ordered something destructive.
A woman dressed to kill in reds and blacks came down the stairs with a glare that gave away every emotion in a swift cocktail of eyes. A cigarette dangled from her fingers, and she came to the table to throw herself down and waste no time with forlorn greetings.
"Well, well, well, old Arloadofshit Beckett, I never figured you'd be a ghost that'd come to haunt these halls."
"Even dead men need a way to pass the time, Del."
"Oh," she purred, "should I add a touch of sympathy to this lipstick?"
"I wouldn't. You look too good as it is."
"Why, my goodness," she cooed, salting a fake southern accent, "it seems like The Devil let you out for good behavior."
"Wouldn't say that," he said, each word indifferent, before taking a sip of his drink.
"What would you say?" came the sultry response with a lean.
"I'd say you look better than I remember and your new man owes."
The glitter washed out of her eyes in a blink, as she sat back in the booth.
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"If there's anybody who knows what I'm talking about, it's me," he growled with a sense of restraint, "and that haunted house you called a lover."
"You know this is his club, right?"
"No kidding," he said with a light passing through him. "And here I was, thinking it was all a coincidence that I came here."
"If you were a smart man, you'd pay a doctor to sew your mouth shut. It gets you in trouble."
"And it gets me out of trouble too as I recall. I'd like to think it was part of the reason you helped me out last time."
"You say another word, and I'll make sure you can't even crawl out of here."
"Darling, if you think I'd beg for my life, then you don't know where I'm living these days."
"That bad?"
"The junkie one pad over at least has a rug."
"Well, you can sleep well tonight on your bed of rat shit that it warms my heart to know you're a few days away from dying of starvation."
"Ah, honey, I got enough corn for winter at least," he said with a sharp grin and a shake of his glass of gold.
She looked over toward the stage as the song came to an end and the room applauded. Beckett lit a cigarette and clapped.
Her head rolled back to Beckett, and she beat him bloody with her eyes.
"Where the fuck is my car?"
"At the bottom of the river."
She nodded and bit her lip.
"Will I ever see it again?"
Beckett shrugged.
"Can you swim?"
The curtains of her eyes went up, and she flicked her cigarette at him. Beckett swiped it away, picked it up, and stuck into the candle in the center of the table.
"You've gotten fast," he remarked with a glint of joy tucked in his lids.
"You want to see fast? If I tell him you're here, he'll have the entire orchestra beat you to death in front of all these people in a matter of minutes."
"Well, I could at least outrun the tuba player."
"I'd say you had a death wish, but I can't imagine you having the drive to make a wish of any kind."
Beckett leaned in.
"Del, I haven't seen you in two years, and up until a few minutes ago, I'm pretty sure you thought I was dead. The truth is I was close to it, a few times actually. And now I'm here drinking this overpriced scotch and smoking in a gorgeous suit that I stole. You really think I give a good goddamn fuck about you thinking I'm not motivated as a person?"
Delphine turned toward the stage as the orchestra returned in full. Beckett snapped his fingers. She looked at him without any sense of interest.
"I'm a criminal, Del. The only honest job I've ever worked in my life was at my uncle's bakery when I was 14, and even then, I stole bread to sell to junkies."
Her eyebrow raised, but not even her cheeks moved. Beckett resettled himself and gritted his teeth. He was over the pleasantries that came with a charming return from the dead.
"But now I'm here, and I've got a long way to go before I can get my head fully off the chopping block. So it starts here, it starts now, and it starts with that fat fuck you've been rolling around with for money because it sure as shit ain't looks. He looks like a tank, and I bet he fucks like it too. Now, go tell him that I've got people holding strings over my pathetic puppet life, and they want their money right the fuck now."
Delphine could've been watching paint dry, and she would've had the same expression. She shrugged and stood up. Beckett seemed pleased with himself, but she came to the outside of the table to stand at it and lean into him.
"If you thought I was getting up to do what you said," she told him, "you obviously haven't seen where I'm living these days. I'm a queen here, Arlo, and you're something the cat dragged in before we fed that cat to the serfs."
Beckett hated what he was hearing, but he was loving how she was saying it.
"Get me my car from the bottom of that river and polish it until it looks like you got a decent job just to pay for it and drive it off the lot to me. Or, hey, better yet," she said in a near whisper, "steal me a new one."
Her eyes raised, as she noticed one of the bouncers watching them talk from above.
"Don't worry, I'll make sure this one's on the house," she crooned and then slapped his drink into his lap.
Beckett was stunned.
"You look good though," she said finally and then headed up the stairs as slow as she could, knowing the men were watching her.
Beckett flagged down the drink girl and considered next steps.
Showing posts with label Short Stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Short Stories. Show all posts
Sunday, June 2, 2013
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
If I Wrote Old Movies: Volume III
If I Wrote Old Movies: Volume III
by jake kilroy.
“Darling, this is too much red wine,” she said, holding out her glass.
“Is there such a thing?” he said with the sly raise of his brow and the twist of his mouth.
Her laughter fluttered like butterfly wings, and then she drank the maroon sea from her glass.
“How is it that we haven’t stayed in on a Saturday all year?” she asked, looking about the room of gold and white.
“The year is barely even a quarter of the way through.”
“Yes, yes, it’s the longest new year’s party we’ve ever attended, I’m sure.”
He stood at the window, warmly surveying the city, as his wife settled into her lounge chair with a silky exhale.
There was a polite knock at the sitting room door and their butler entered.
“Mr. Harrington has arrived,” the old servant said with a bow.
“Oh, good, good. Show him in,” the man said, waving his hand.
A young man entered with his right hand outstretched.
“Charles!” the woman said, gleefully pulling herself up.
“Hello, Uncle William,” the young man Charles said, shaking the man’s hand before moving towards the woman. “And, Charlotte, you dazzling spectacle, you look like fireworks as always.”
“Too much make-up?” Charlotte remarked lightly, as she and her fur coat swallowed Charles in an adoring hug.
“Don’t start her up and then leave her with me, you scoundrel,” William laughed, pulling a long sip at his wine glass.
“Sorry, uncle,” Charles said, pouring himself a brandy immediately. “The women I meet with are hourly, so I’m used to not wasting time.”
“Why, you delicious savage,” Charlotte crooned. “Where have you been hiding?”
“Somewhere between the lower east side avenues,” Charles said, sinking the dark liquor of his glass. “They have marvelous bars down there, complete with easy women and hard men.”
“My boy, it sounds like quite a life you lead in the slums,” William said.
“Oh, it’s something alright, but I’ve found myself somewhat intrigued by robbery these days,” Charles said, pouring himself a second helping of brandy. “By the way, this is a sensational decanter. Exquisite glass work.”
“Don’t bother stealing it. It’s yours if you want it,” William said, raising his glass as if it were a toast.
Charles grinned. “Thank you, dear uncle, but permission takes all the fun out of thievery.”
“So you’re a gentleman thief now?” William asked.
“Oh, no, no. Gentlemen play cards in the afternoon and enjoy polo,” Charles said, wandering the room, admiring the portraits and antique furniture. He swirled his drink thoughtfully, making sure not to spill any.
“So you’re just a thief then?” Charlotte asked, repositioning herself on her side.
“Hardly,” Charles said. “Thieves pick pockets and lift fruit from the local markets and stands. What fun is that? I’m a grown man, not some petty orphan child looking to live another day.”
“So what do you do then?” William asked suspiciously, almost as a purr.
“Why, I rob, dear uncle! I wear masks and break into houses. I tie up families and take their things,” the young man explained, grinning sharply and savoring his words like a meal.
“Oh, come now, Charles,” Charlotte cooed. “Your mother and father would just simply not allow such things.”
“How are they to stop me? Mother’s in the hospital and father’s in the basement.”
“Oh, dear heavens,” Charlotte gasped. “What has happened?”
“What do you mean, your father’s in the basement?” William asked in a low, gruff tone.
“Well, you see, after I hit father in the face with the rifle and mother with her favorite vase, I tied father up, so he didn’t crawl to the front door and bleed on the rug I was planning on taking.”
Charlotte mumbled incoherently, confused and shocked. William thinned his eyes.
“You did what?” William asked, a growing impatience rising in him.
“I robbed them, dear uncle!” Charles announced enthusiastically.
“You robbed your mother and father?” William growled, setting his wine glass down. “You tied up my own brother like some pathetic animal and sent his wife bloodied to the hospital?”
“Oh god,” Charlotte cried. Her hands covered her mouth as her eyes watered, leaving the wine glass to hit the rug beneath her.
“Don’t do that, Charlotte,” Charles said, tossing his glass across the room and into a plant’s pot. “I plan on taking that rug and I don’t want to use your arm to comb out the shards of glass.”
“You traitorous bastard of a nephew,” William calmly rumbled through gritted teeth.
Charlotte could only manage a scream. “James!”
“Is that the butler’s name? I never could remember it,” Charles admitted whimsically. “It doesn’t matter though. I imagine he’s being tied up and beaten by my associates right now."
“You goddamn fool!” William yelled over the sound of Charlotte's sorrowful wails.
“Listen, uncle, I don’t want to risk getting blood all over my new things, so I’d appreciate you not encouraging me to drag a blade across your face,” Charles said, lightly grazing the couch with his fingers. “I’m disappearing for a while. I was kind enough not to kill father and decent enough to drop mother off at the hospital on my way here. Their things are mine now. Their plush lifestyle is all bundled up, beautifully massacred by their beloved son. Tragic? Maybe. Depends on who’s writing history, don’t you think? Well, I’ll have you know that I stole all their pens. Ha. Bully for me.”
Charlotte wept, as William backed closer to the window.
“You maniac,” William said, raising his voice to a strange level of fear and fury.
“Perhaps,” Charles said indifferently, pulling the rope that had been tucked into the back of his pants. “But I’m about to get rich the old-fashioned way. Call me an industrialist if you must, but I simply won’t be part of this simpleton party announcing itself as the traditional upper class.”
Several men in black clothes and masks entered the room.
by jake kilroy.
“Darling, this is too much red wine,” she said, holding out her glass.
“Is there such a thing?” he said with the sly raise of his brow and the twist of his mouth.
Her laughter fluttered like butterfly wings, and then she drank the maroon sea from her glass.
“How is it that we haven’t stayed in on a Saturday all year?” she asked, looking about the room of gold and white.
“The year is barely even a quarter of the way through.”
“Yes, yes, it’s the longest new year’s party we’ve ever attended, I’m sure.”
He stood at the window, warmly surveying the city, as his wife settled into her lounge chair with a silky exhale.
There was a polite knock at the sitting room door and their butler entered.
“Mr. Harrington has arrived,” the old servant said with a bow.
“Oh, good, good. Show him in,” the man said, waving his hand.
A young man entered with his right hand outstretched.
“Charles!” the woman said, gleefully pulling herself up.
“Hello, Uncle William,” the young man Charles said, shaking the man’s hand before moving towards the woman. “And, Charlotte, you dazzling spectacle, you look like fireworks as always.”
“Too much make-up?” Charlotte remarked lightly, as she and her fur coat swallowed Charles in an adoring hug.
“Don’t start her up and then leave her with me, you scoundrel,” William laughed, pulling a long sip at his wine glass.
“Sorry, uncle,” Charles said, pouring himself a brandy immediately. “The women I meet with are hourly, so I’m used to not wasting time.”
“Why, you delicious savage,” Charlotte crooned. “Where have you been hiding?”
“Somewhere between the lower east side avenues,” Charles said, sinking the dark liquor of his glass. “They have marvelous bars down there, complete with easy women and hard men.”
“My boy, it sounds like quite a life you lead in the slums,” William said.
“Oh, it’s something alright, but I’ve found myself somewhat intrigued by robbery these days,” Charles said, pouring himself a second helping of brandy. “By the way, this is a sensational decanter. Exquisite glass work.”
“Don’t bother stealing it. It’s yours if you want it,” William said, raising his glass as if it were a toast.
Charles grinned. “Thank you, dear uncle, but permission takes all the fun out of thievery.”
“So you’re a gentleman thief now?” William asked.
“Oh, no, no. Gentlemen play cards in the afternoon and enjoy polo,” Charles said, wandering the room, admiring the portraits and antique furniture. He swirled his drink thoughtfully, making sure not to spill any.
“So you’re just a thief then?” Charlotte asked, repositioning herself on her side.
“Hardly,” Charles said. “Thieves pick pockets and lift fruit from the local markets and stands. What fun is that? I’m a grown man, not some petty orphan child looking to live another day.”
“So what do you do then?” William asked suspiciously, almost as a purr.
“Why, I rob, dear uncle! I wear masks and break into houses. I tie up families and take their things,” the young man explained, grinning sharply and savoring his words like a meal.
“Oh, come now, Charles,” Charlotte cooed. “Your mother and father would just simply not allow such things.”
“How are they to stop me? Mother’s in the hospital and father’s in the basement.”
“Oh, dear heavens,” Charlotte gasped. “What has happened?”
“What do you mean, your father’s in the basement?” William asked in a low, gruff tone.
“Well, you see, after I hit father in the face with the rifle and mother with her favorite vase, I tied father up, so he didn’t crawl to the front door and bleed on the rug I was planning on taking.”
Charlotte mumbled incoherently, confused and shocked. William thinned his eyes.
“You did what?” William asked, a growing impatience rising in him.
“I robbed them, dear uncle!” Charles announced enthusiastically.
“You robbed your mother and father?” William growled, setting his wine glass down. “You tied up my own brother like some pathetic animal and sent his wife bloodied to the hospital?”
“Oh god,” Charlotte cried. Her hands covered her mouth as her eyes watered, leaving the wine glass to hit the rug beneath her.
“Don’t do that, Charlotte,” Charles said, tossing his glass across the room and into a plant’s pot. “I plan on taking that rug and I don’t want to use your arm to comb out the shards of glass.”
“You traitorous bastard of a nephew,” William calmly rumbled through gritted teeth.
Charlotte could only manage a scream. “James!”
“Is that the butler’s name? I never could remember it,” Charles admitted whimsically. “It doesn’t matter though. I imagine he’s being tied up and beaten by my associates right now."
“You goddamn fool!” William yelled over the sound of Charlotte's sorrowful wails.
“Listen, uncle, I don’t want to risk getting blood all over my new things, so I’d appreciate you not encouraging me to drag a blade across your face,” Charles said, lightly grazing the couch with his fingers. “I’m disappearing for a while. I was kind enough not to kill father and decent enough to drop mother off at the hospital on my way here. Their things are mine now. Their plush lifestyle is all bundled up, beautifully massacred by their beloved son. Tragic? Maybe. Depends on who’s writing history, don’t you think? Well, I’ll have you know that I stole all their pens. Ha. Bully for me.”
Charlotte wept, as William backed closer to the window.
“You maniac,” William said, raising his voice to a strange level of fear and fury.
“Perhaps,” Charles said indifferently, pulling the rope that had been tucked into the back of his pants. “But I’m about to get rich the old-fashioned way. Call me an industrialist if you must, but I simply won’t be part of this simpleton party announcing itself as the traditional upper class.”
Several men in black clothes and masks entered the room.
“Now, if you could both please step to your left and towards this charming rope I’m holding, I shouldn’t have to ask my friends to let loose in your very lovely sitting room. They can be such rude guests if you let them.”
Friday, March 11, 2011
The High And Dry Rye Whiskey Blues
The High And Dry Rye Whiskey Blues
a quick piece of flash fiction by jake kilroy.
"This ain't no peasant stop," he slurred. The words made it pitifully through gears of his mouth. His machine tongue was misfiring and his teeth pressed against each other like the factory of his face was in flames. He would've been sweating bullets if he had anything to load his gun with.
Instead, he just sat slumped in the driver's seat holding a bottle of rye. He looked like a pile of dress clothes the morning after. The top of the car was down and he tried whistling a tune that Tom Waits wouldn't have even understood.
"There's a place I know," he yelled with a melody that sounded like broken glass. He continued, "Folks won't pass me by."
The girl in the passenger's seat watched him with fascination and disgust. Behind the both of them lay the ocean. The car was parked on a patch of grass overlooking a cliff. The moon was high and white, the lone spotlight of the west.
"Dallas, Texas, that's the town. I cry, oh hear me cry," he croaked like a nightclub singer with a slit throat.
He took another sip from the bottle and finished the tune. "And I'm going back," he yelled again with the dynamite sound of rubble, "going back to stay there 'til I die, until I die."
The last words rolled out of him like he was talking in his sleep. He pushed rank air out of his mouth and his lips fluttered like an old car barely starting on a dirty backroad. Just the sound of his own failed engine struck a chord within his suicidal orchestra's heartstrings and he burbled out a laughter that was as raspy and poisonous as a leaky gas pipe.
"You like that song?" he said, twisted his neck and swiveling his head towards the lady next to him.
"I haven't liked any song I've heard tonight," she replied promptly.
"Yeah," he said, wiping his sweaty face, "I don't like music either."
"I like music," she informed him sternly. "But your entire songbook is lifted from degenerates and you're still singing them wrong."
"What do you know about degenerates?"
"I know I'm sitting in a car with one."
He let out a cackle that could've been accidental.
"Just so you know," he said, letting his finger wave in the air like a flag, "Dallas Blues wasn't written by a degenerate."
She raised an eyebrow. It was the first thing he had defended all evening.
"And," he said with the gathering steam of a rusting locomotive, "it may have been the first blues song ever recorded!"
The sentence exhausted him. He let his head hang backwards suddenly and hit the seat with a muffled thump.
"Then it's responsible for generations of drunks like you thinking they've got problems when they don't," she said with a calm air of enthusiasm.
"Lady," he hiccuped, "you don't get the blues."
"I understand the blues," she said. A sly smile slipped out from underneath her small nose.
"No, that's not what I'm saying, honey," he growled lovingly. "I'm saying, you don't get the blues. The blues get you."
His eyes sparkled like blood diamonds, sparing an alluring glow with a cold history behind it.
"Anyway," he said with an enthusiasm that had long been missing from his disheveled grin, "I should probably get out of your hair."
"What?" she asked. Her eyes furrowing. "You're just going to leave me here?"
"No, darling, I'm giving you the keys."
"You're giving me the keys to your car," she repeated flatly, making each word a different parody of his sentence.
"Well, I can't drive," he said, mirthfully exiting his own vehicle.
"You're serious," she said with a squint and a scoot.
"Sometimes," he shrugged. "Just leave the car wherever and I'll find it."
"And what if you can't find it?" she asked from behind the wheel.
"Then it's just one more reason to sing the blues," he said, leaning back with wild laughter that sounded like a bubbling oil geyser.
He swung a deep swig from the whiskey, draining the color from the bottle's face, with his other hand swaying purposelessly behind him. His body looked like rubber stretched beyond its means.
She watched him, shook her head disbelievingly, started up the car and left the man to start a long merry walk alone. As she sped up the coastal road, she heard the disintegrating sound of the blues and allowed herself a soft smirk.
a quick piece of flash fiction by jake kilroy.
"This ain't no peasant stop," he slurred. The words made it pitifully through gears of his mouth. His machine tongue was misfiring and his teeth pressed against each other like the factory of his face was in flames. He would've been sweating bullets if he had anything to load his gun with.
Instead, he just sat slumped in the driver's seat holding a bottle of rye. He looked like a pile of dress clothes the morning after. The top of the car was down and he tried whistling a tune that Tom Waits wouldn't have even understood.
"There's a place I know," he yelled with a melody that sounded like broken glass. He continued, "Folks won't pass me by."
The girl in the passenger's seat watched him with fascination and disgust. Behind the both of them lay the ocean. The car was parked on a patch of grass overlooking a cliff. The moon was high and white, the lone spotlight of the west.
"Dallas, Texas, that's the town. I cry, oh hear me cry," he croaked like a nightclub singer with a slit throat.
He took another sip from the bottle and finished the tune. "And I'm going back," he yelled again with the dynamite sound of rubble, "going back to stay there 'til I die, until I die."
The last words rolled out of him like he was talking in his sleep. He pushed rank air out of his mouth and his lips fluttered like an old car barely starting on a dirty backroad. Just the sound of his own failed engine struck a chord within his suicidal orchestra's heartstrings and he burbled out a laughter that was as raspy and poisonous as a leaky gas pipe.
"You like that song?" he said, twisted his neck and swiveling his head towards the lady next to him.
"I haven't liked any song I've heard tonight," she replied promptly.
"Yeah," he said, wiping his sweaty face, "I don't like music either."
"I like music," she informed him sternly. "But your entire songbook is lifted from degenerates and you're still singing them wrong."
"What do you know about degenerates?"
"I know I'm sitting in a car with one."
He let out a cackle that could've been accidental.
"Just so you know," he said, letting his finger wave in the air like a flag, "Dallas Blues wasn't written by a degenerate."
She raised an eyebrow. It was the first thing he had defended all evening.
"And," he said with the gathering steam of a rusting locomotive, "it may have been the first blues song ever recorded!"
The sentence exhausted him. He let his head hang backwards suddenly and hit the seat with a muffled thump.
"Then it's responsible for generations of drunks like you thinking they've got problems when they don't," she said with a calm air of enthusiasm.
"Lady," he hiccuped, "you don't get the blues."
"I understand the blues," she said. A sly smile slipped out from underneath her small nose.
"No, that's not what I'm saying, honey," he growled lovingly. "I'm saying, you don't get the blues. The blues get you."
His eyes sparkled like blood diamonds, sparing an alluring glow with a cold history behind it.
"Anyway," he said with an enthusiasm that had long been missing from his disheveled grin, "I should probably get out of your hair."
"What?" she asked. Her eyes furrowing. "You're just going to leave me here?"
"No, darling, I'm giving you the keys."
"You're giving me the keys to your car," she repeated flatly, making each word a different parody of his sentence.
"Well, I can't drive," he said, mirthfully exiting his own vehicle.
"You're serious," she said with a squint and a scoot.
"Sometimes," he shrugged. "Just leave the car wherever and I'll find it."
"And what if you can't find it?" she asked from behind the wheel.
"Then it's just one more reason to sing the blues," he said, leaning back with wild laughter that sounded like a bubbling oil geyser.
He swung a deep swig from the whiskey, draining the color from the bottle's face, with his other hand swaying purposelessly behind him. His body looked like rubber stretched beyond its means.
She watched him, shook her head disbelievingly, started up the car and left the man to start a long merry walk alone. As she sped up the coastal road, she heard the disintegrating sound of the blues and allowed herself a soft smirk.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Proving History Wrong
"Proving History Wrong"
done after a morning conversation by jake kilroy.
"Did you know that Meriwether Lewis always used to eat Pop Rocks before heading out in the morning and that Sacagawea was actually Filipino?" Marcel asked absently. He laid against the living room window and stared out at the bruised landscape of the city. He had been asking random non-sequiturs for the better part of an hour.
"I'm almost sure nothing that you just said is true," said Casey, holding up his magazine.
It was early evening and the two roommates waited out their night lazily. Marcel drummed his knuckles against the window and Casey had sunk so far into the couch that he looked like a mass of throw pillows dressed in flannel.
"But you can't prove it, can you?" Marcel said, looking over at Casey for the first time in twenty minutes.
"Can't prove what?" Casey said, still reading his magazine.
"You can't prove me wrong," Marcel said, leaning forward now.
"You want me to prove that Lewis didn't eat a candy that wasn't invented until 100 years after he died and that one of the most famous Native Americans was actually from another continent?" Casey asked, setting his magazine down.
"Yeah," Marcel said. "Prove it."
"If it wasn't so cold out, I'd tell you to get some fresh air," Casey said, lifting his magazine up back to his eyes. "You're getting cabin fever in your own apartment."
"The hell I am," Marcel said excitedly. "Well, ok, maybe I am. But still! I just realized that you can't prove me wrong."
Casey's eyes rolled in his head like barrels. "I can't believe you're turning this into a matter of discussion and debate. Are you really going to make me get my computer?"
Marcel stared emptily at Casey.
"Fine," Casey said, as he lumbered up, "I'll go get my computer."
Casey left the room and returned with his laptop. Marcel rubbed his hands together. Casey opened up the laptop and started tapping keys.
"I'm not getting the internet," Casey said finally.
"That's a sign that you can't prove history!" Marcel announced, standing up with arms above his head.
"No, it's a sign that we should stop stealing our internet," Casey replied tiredly.
"We can make up our own history!" Marcel said, as if science and mathematics were coming through him and forcing his mouth open. "Right now, we can't prove anything. You and I don't read history books. All we read are novels and novellas and short story collections!"
"So?" Casey said, appearing wary though intrigued where this was going.
"Lincoln survived the gunshot, Fred Astaire fought in the Revolutionary War and Vietnam came out with a peaceful resolution!" Marcel yelled. "You can't prove me wrong! I can write American history. No, wait. I'm already writing American history!"
"Jesus, dude, you need coffee or a tranquilizer," Casey said, unsure of his own humor.
"There's a first for everything!" Marcel screamed, almost chanting, almost preaching, almost ranting, almost anything.
And then it came.
There came the first snowflake.
It hit the window and fell. Neither roommate noticed the snowflake, but, with it, came a rushing sensation for everyone in the city. It was snowing. For the first time ever, it was snowing in the city.
Casey stood up when he saw the sky look like pale, sparkling confetti. He stood up slow and mesmerized. Marcel asked if he was alright and Casey simply pointed forward. Then Marcel's eyes widened and he drew in breath as if he were trying to suck the winter in through cracks of the windowpane.
There was a throbbing glory in Marcel's throat and a pulsating dance in Casey's heart. Both men turned to each other without words and ran towards the door, snatching jackets on their way out. Casey barely remembered to lock the door.
Marcel was leaping down steps and Casey was fully jumping from flight to flight. Marcel pushed the building's door open with the force of an escape into the wild and slid to the curb on gravel that would soon be coated in white. Casey followed up next to him. They stared upwards at a sky that seemed to hear them, maybe even feel them from the swarming cold and glee of the city, as the locals came out in droves. Time evaporated and soon there was a parade of people. Some were curious, some were laughing, some felt downright victorious, as if they had finally won the war that they were unsure had ever even started. Strangers talked to neighbors, acquaintances hugged friends and Marcel put his arm around Casey.
Casey shook his head, looked at the changing ground and said, "There's a first for everything." To which, Marcel just nodded and kept his eyes up.
done after a morning conversation by jake kilroy.
"Did you know that Meriwether Lewis always used to eat Pop Rocks before heading out in the morning and that Sacagawea was actually Filipino?" Marcel asked absently. He laid against the living room window and stared out at the bruised landscape of the city. He had been asking random non-sequiturs for the better part of an hour.
"I'm almost sure nothing that you just said is true," said Casey, holding up his magazine.
It was early evening and the two roommates waited out their night lazily. Marcel drummed his knuckles against the window and Casey had sunk so far into the couch that he looked like a mass of throw pillows dressed in flannel.
"But you can't prove it, can you?" Marcel said, looking over at Casey for the first time in twenty minutes.
"Can't prove what?" Casey said, still reading his magazine.
"You can't prove me wrong," Marcel said, leaning forward now.
"You want me to prove that Lewis didn't eat a candy that wasn't invented until 100 years after he died and that one of the most famous Native Americans was actually from another continent?" Casey asked, setting his magazine down.
"Yeah," Marcel said. "Prove it."
"If it wasn't so cold out, I'd tell you to get some fresh air," Casey said, lifting his magazine up back to his eyes. "You're getting cabin fever in your own apartment."
"The hell I am," Marcel said excitedly. "Well, ok, maybe I am. But still! I just realized that you can't prove me wrong."
Casey's eyes rolled in his head like barrels. "I can't believe you're turning this into a matter of discussion and debate. Are you really going to make me get my computer?"
Marcel stared emptily at Casey.
"Fine," Casey said, as he lumbered up, "I'll go get my computer."
Casey left the room and returned with his laptop. Marcel rubbed his hands together. Casey opened up the laptop and started tapping keys.
"I'm not getting the internet," Casey said finally.
"That's a sign that you can't prove history!" Marcel announced, standing up with arms above his head.
"No, it's a sign that we should stop stealing our internet," Casey replied tiredly.
"We can make up our own history!" Marcel said, as if science and mathematics were coming through him and forcing his mouth open. "Right now, we can't prove anything. You and I don't read history books. All we read are novels and novellas and short story collections!"
"So?" Casey said, appearing wary though intrigued where this was going.
"Lincoln survived the gunshot, Fred Astaire fought in the Revolutionary War and Vietnam came out with a peaceful resolution!" Marcel yelled. "You can't prove me wrong! I can write American history. No, wait. I'm already writing American history!"
"Jesus, dude, you need coffee or a tranquilizer," Casey said, unsure of his own humor.
"There's a first for everything!" Marcel screamed, almost chanting, almost preaching, almost ranting, almost anything.
And then it came.
There came the first snowflake.
It hit the window and fell. Neither roommate noticed the snowflake, but, with it, came a rushing sensation for everyone in the city. It was snowing. For the first time ever, it was snowing in the city.
Casey stood up when he saw the sky look like pale, sparkling confetti. He stood up slow and mesmerized. Marcel asked if he was alright and Casey simply pointed forward. Then Marcel's eyes widened and he drew in breath as if he were trying to suck the winter in through cracks of the windowpane.
There was a throbbing glory in Marcel's throat and a pulsating dance in Casey's heart. Both men turned to each other without words and ran towards the door, snatching jackets on their way out. Casey barely remembered to lock the door.
Marcel was leaping down steps and Casey was fully jumping from flight to flight. Marcel pushed the building's door open with the force of an escape into the wild and slid to the curb on gravel that would soon be coated in white. Casey followed up next to him. They stared upwards at a sky that seemed to hear them, maybe even feel them from the swarming cold and glee of the city, as the locals came out in droves. Time evaporated and soon there was a parade of people. Some were curious, some were laughing, some felt downright victorious, as if they had finally won the war that they were unsure had ever even started. Strangers talked to neighbors, acquaintances hugged friends and Marcel put his arm around Casey.
Casey shook his head, looked at the changing ground and said, "There's a first for everything." To which, Marcel just nodded and kept his eyes up.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
The Wilds
The Wilds
by jake kilroy.
It was later afternoon with the sun only beginning to perform its summer trick, where it only hints at setting. And then, suddenly, after a set of piercing rays, the majesty is gone. It was the cool end of a reasonable summer day, the kind that make even the weary feel young again, or, in the very least, nostalgic. Two men in their late twenties sat next to each other in lawn chairs in a backyard belonging to the taller one of them. They drank beer and stared at the powerlines against the coming stage of sunset. They watched a barbecue carry smoke towards the sky that was very slowly and vividly mutating from blue to orange.
"What do you suppose ever became of The Wild Whips?" the taller one asked, following a long sip and a sigh.
"The Wild Wipes, you mean?" the shorter one asked, not turning his head.
"No," the taller one replied with a spit, turning his head to the other one, "The Wild Whips, right?"
"I thought they were called The Wild Wipes."
"Why would they be called The Wild Wipes?"
"Well, they were a roller derby team, so I figured they were saying that they'd wipe the floor with their opponents. And then they were an all-girl team, so they added the word 'wild' to sound sexy...or wild, I guess."
"No kidding," said the taller one, the thought staying with him.
"Well, why did you think they were called The Wild Whips?"
"You know, because they'd do that move where they link arms and then whip the last person at the other team. Plus, I imagine they gave the other girls whiplash."
"Hmmmm," the shorter one drawled, sipping his beer. "Let's just call them The Wilds."
"Yeah," agreed the taller one with a dreamlike sigh, "Let's call them The Wilds."
The breeze rustled the trees and a bird moved from the tree to the powerline. The bird moved in spasms, looking around and taking in its environment as fast as possible.
"It's funny to think about what The Wilds would be doing now and how different they'd be from how they were in college," mused the taller one.
"Marriage and kids, you think?" asked the shorter one, opening up a new beer from the cooler between them.
"Probably. Just like the rest of America, they'll move along with nothing to see. They went from being the wildest and toughest girls we knew to becoming mannered wives and then patient mothers and then, someday, loving grandmothers," the taller one said, seeming to sink lower into his chair. "Now that's something to think about."
There was a pause in the conversation and a breeze came through the backyard sounding like the sweeping of a porch.
"Remember Susie Q-Life?" asked the shorter one.
The taller one laughed. "Oh man, 'Quarterlife?' How could I forget? One night with her..."
"...and you lost a quarter of your life," finished the shorter one with a laugh. "Yeah, she was probably the wildest of the Wilds, though that's a risky statement to make. Goddamn, it was hard to take her anywhere. She always seemed to start a fight."
"Yep. You know she was responsible for my first black eye?" the taller one said with a nod.
"Really? What'd she do, drag you into a bar fight?"
"Nope. She slugged me."
The shorter one laughed. "Well, what'd you try to pull there anyway?"
"Nothing," the taller one said, shaking his head slow, as if he were remembering an old friend. "Well, I guess that's not entirely true. I tried to tell her she was too drunk for more vodka."
"Hot damn, consider yourself lucky that you only made it out with a black eye."
"Yep," the taller one said, as if recalling the details of a dream. "Once a fighter, but now she's a wife and maybe a mother and will probably end up as some kid's grandmother. That's the wildest thing she could've done, I guess."
The shorter one nodded and added, "I can't imagine."
There came another pause in the conversation and the sun melted through the clouds. The sky looked like a fleet of old ships in flames.
"You think our grandmothers were ever young girls like The Wilds?" asked the taller one, opening up a new beer.
"I don't know," replied the shorter one, taking it more serious than light-hearted. "I didn't really know my dad's mom and I'm not too close with my mom's mom. Huh. What about you?"
"Yeah...I think both of my grandmothers could've been Wilds. My grandmother on my mom's side can still kick my ass and she's well into her 70s. Christ, she used to threaten to hang us on the clothesline by our ears and break our knuckles while tied to popsicle sticks."
"Whoa," the shorter one said with a stiff giggle. "Your grandma sounds like a mixture of housewife and Vietcong."
The shorter one rubbed his mouth thoughtfully. "What about your other grandmother?"
"The dearly departed?" said the taller one.
"Yeah."
"Man, that woman was proud Irish Catholic and she sharpened her words like weapons. I mean, she put up with a lot from my grandfather, but, when she was younger, she was a religious girl with a whole lot of fiest to her, complete with fiery red hair and all, upset about something, maybe that she was somewhere in the Midwest, itching to make it to the big cities on either coast. No upstart wants to live and die in Ohio."
The taller one smiled, as the sun became a melted mass of popsicles and ice cream.
"I bet she would've been a Wild and probably started her own gang I never heard about," the taller one continued softly. "I wish I had told her that when she died."
"What, told her that she could've been a Wild?"
"Yeah, or something like that, something that would've sounded closer to the truth," said the taller one, grinning sheepishly. "I wish I had told her, 'Hey, I know you took a beating in your twilight, but I'll bet anything I've got that you were a real upstart back in the day, before the second half of the 20th Century,' you know? I wish I had told her that I was proud of who she probably was decades before I knew her as an old woman. That's the worst, meeting some of the best people on their way out. Grandparents are like old, dearest friends you run into at a restaurant that you just arrived at and they're heading out. You've only got a brief conversation in you, but it means so goddamn much and you talk about that conversation weeks or months or years afterward."
"Yeah," said the shorter one. "But nobody can talk forever, right?"
"Ain't that the truth," the taller one said. "Especially my family. Goddamn Irish Catholics only want fighting words. Apologies would weaken their heart too much. Fragile busts for once-solid hearts."
"Yeah, your family had kind of a weird falling out."
"Something like that," said the taller one with a sip of beer.
"Even at the hospital?"
"Even at the hospital. Damn, maybe especially at the hospital."
"It was the best of times; it was the worst of times."
"That son of a bitch Dickens," the taller one said with a shaking head. "Well, actually, he probably had something go down with his family in some cavernous hospital somewhere in the modern depths of the dying Britain Empire."
"And it was like that when your Grandma was in hospital?
"My family was a tornado that wanted to be a hurricane. Nothing and everything matters when it's like that, even in a hospital room, even after years of a family falling out and all the stupid aftermath that the people put themselves through," the taller one explained. "When you say goodbye to someone who doesn't know you're there, it's like spitting in the rain or laughing on a windy day. It means something to you, but it doesn't mean anything to nature, and, before you know it, it's gone, disappearing into the unknown. And then everybody's there watching you say goodbye, and, if every one of them has spent the last few years angry, then they want to make sure you do it right, meaning 'their way.'"
"So you said goodbye at the hospital, yeah?" asked the shorter one.
"Yeah, I said a lot of things at the hospital and the words came out of my mouth as cautious as ghosts from a haunted house. After years of silence, I still had things to say and they didn't seem like they meant the same things in the real world as they did in my head."
"But she couldn't hear them anyway."
"She couldn't hear them, no."
"How'd you feel in the end?"
"Awful. Who doesn't?"
"Beyond the usual awful, or do you mean guilty?"
"Maybe it's always a mixture of everything."
"Why?" asked the shorter one, acknowledging that his family had never been through the rough.
"Because years of silence pile up and the weight becomes too much for any man or woman," said the taller one, aimlessly tearing the wet label off of the beer, "so everyone tries to pass it off. Nobody was making phone calls, so somebody blames everybody for not calling. Everyone asks, 'Hey, where the hell were you?' And then everyone else asks, 'Well, where the hell were you?' Finally, everyone just sits at the hospital bed and brings their confession with them like their dying relative is a priets. Can they hear anything? No, of course not. Everyone confesses to a host of morphine in the end."
"Your relatives too?"
"My relatives too. When my grandmother was passing, I felt like the heavy air of the entire hospital weighed on me. I felt like it was difficult to sit and breathe and talk. And I looked at the relatives around me that seemed a foot and a mile away at the same time, and it was pretty obvious they were in the same sinking boat as me, praying."
"Really?"
"Yeah, most of them were worse off than me. There some of them that were holding my grandmother's bones like rosary beads, counting off sins or regrets or wishes or who knows. Confessions are for people with something to say. You can still do a lot of talking in the end, but you don't have to make amends with yourself."
"You don't confess to your dying relatives?"
"Of course I do. That's the other thing about hospital wards; they make you a hypocrite," the taller one said with a sigh. "Do you know what my grandmother's last full sentence was to me?"
"What?"
"'I wish things could've been different.' But who knows what it means?"
"Well, I'm assuming she meant that she wished things could've been better."
"Yeah, that's the obvious call, but you never know. You never know what people are thinking. You know what her actual last words were?"
"What?"
"'Well, I was thinking.' And she could've ended that just about any way possible."
"Yeah, but it was probably something good."
"Everything good is always worse in a hospital room. It reeks of loss."
"That's harsh," said the shorter one.
"Yeah, but that's what my grandmother would've said as a young upstart. She had glimpses of being fiery. There was a trembling rocket in her soul, waiting to go off. It's just that the cancer got their first and it came after years of silence between my family and hers, or something like that, I guess. If it had happened fifty years before, my grandmother would've never stood for it all. She would've whipped us into talking and being a family again. Nobody would've remembered why we were fighting. Nobody would've wondered anything at the hospital. And maybe nobody would've prayed."
"That would've been wild."
"Yeah," the taller one said with a pause, taking in the colors seeping through the sky and turning the powerlines into thick shadows, "my grandmother could've been a Wild."
by jake kilroy.
It was later afternoon with the sun only beginning to perform its summer trick, where it only hints at setting. And then, suddenly, after a set of piercing rays, the majesty is gone. It was the cool end of a reasonable summer day, the kind that make even the weary feel young again, or, in the very least, nostalgic. Two men in their late twenties sat next to each other in lawn chairs in a backyard belonging to the taller one of them. They drank beer and stared at the powerlines against the coming stage of sunset. They watched a barbecue carry smoke towards the sky that was very slowly and vividly mutating from blue to orange.
"What do you suppose ever became of The Wild Whips?" the taller one asked, following a long sip and a sigh.
"The Wild Wipes, you mean?" the shorter one asked, not turning his head.
"No," the taller one replied with a spit, turning his head to the other one, "The Wild Whips, right?"
"I thought they were called The Wild Wipes."
"Why would they be called The Wild Wipes?"
"Well, they were a roller derby team, so I figured they were saying that they'd wipe the floor with their opponents. And then they were an all-girl team, so they added the word 'wild' to sound sexy...or wild, I guess."
"No kidding," said the taller one, the thought staying with him.
"Well, why did you think they were called The Wild Whips?"
"You know, because they'd do that move where they link arms and then whip the last person at the other team. Plus, I imagine they gave the other girls whiplash."
"Hmmmm," the shorter one drawled, sipping his beer. "Let's just call them The Wilds."
"Yeah," agreed the taller one with a dreamlike sigh, "Let's call them The Wilds."
The breeze rustled the trees and a bird moved from the tree to the powerline. The bird moved in spasms, looking around and taking in its environment as fast as possible.
"It's funny to think about what The Wilds would be doing now and how different they'd be from how they were in college," mused the taller one.
"Marriage and kids, you think?" asked the shorter one, opening up a new beer from the cooler between them.
"Probably. Just like the rest of America, they'll move along with nothing to see. They went from being the wildest and toughest girls we knew to becoming mannered wives and then patient mothers and then, someday, loving grandmothers," the taller one said, seeming to sink lower into his chair. "Now that's something to think about."
There was a pause in the conversation and a breeze came through the backyard sounding like the sweeping of a porch.
"Remember Susie Q-Life?" asked the shorter one.
The taller one laughed. "Oh man, 'Quarterlife?' How could I forget? One night with her..."
"...and you lost a quarter of your life," finished the shorter one with a laugh. "Yeah, she was probably the wildest of the Wilds, though that's a risky statement to make. Goddamn, it was hard to take her anywhere. She always seemed to start a fight."
"Yep. You know she was responsible for my first black eye?" the taller one said with a nod.
"Really? What'd she do, drag you into a bar fight?"
"Nope. She slugged me."
The shorter one laughed. "Well, what'd you try to pull there anyway?"
"Nothing," the taller one said, shaking his head slow, as if he were remembering an old friend. "Well, I guess that's not entirely true. I tried to tell her she was too drunk for more vodka."
"Hot damn, consider yourself lucky that you only made it out with a black eye."
"Yep," the taller one said, as if recalling the details of a dream. "Once a fighter, but now she's a wife and maybe a mother and will probably end up as some kid's grandmother. That's the wildest thing she could've done, I guess."
The shorter one nodded and added, "I can't imagine."
There came another pause in the conversation and the sun melted through the clouds. The sky looked like a fleet of old ships in flames.
"You think our grandmothers were ever young girls like The Wilds?" asked the taller one, opening up a new beer.
"I don't know," replied the shorter one, taking it more serious than light-hearted. "I didn't really know my dad's mom and I'm not too close with my mom's mom. Huh. What about you?"
"Yeah...I think both of my grandmothers could've been Wilds. My grandmother on my mom's side can still kick my ass and she's well into her 70s. Christ, she used to threaten to hang us on the clothesline by our ears and break our knuckles while tied to popsicle sticks."
"Whoa," the shorter one said with a stiff giggle. "Your grandma sounds like a mixture of housewife and Vietcong."
The shorter one rubbed his mouth thoughtfully. "What about your other grandmother?"
"The dearly departed?" said the taller one.
"Yeah."
"Man, that woman was proud Irish Catholic and she sharpened her words like weapons. I mean, she put up with a lot from my grandfather, but, when she was younger, she was a religious girl with a whole lot of fiest to her, complete with fiery red hair and all, upset about something, maybe that she was somewhere in the Midwest, itching to make it to the big cities on either coast. No upstart wants to live and die in Ohio."
The taller one smiled, as the sun became a melted mass of popsicles and ice cream.
"I bet she would've been a Wild and probably started her own gang I never heard about," the taller one continued softly. "I wish I had told her that when she died."
"What, told her that she could've been a Wild?"
"Yeah, or something like that, something that would've sounded closer to the truth," said the taller one, grinning sheepishly. "I wish I had told her, 'Hey, I know you took a beating in your twilight, but I'll bet anything I've got that you were a real upstart back in the day, before the second half of the 20th Century,' you know? I wish I had told her that I was proud of who she probably was decades before I knew her as an old woman. That's the worst, meeting some of the best people on their way out. Grandparents are like old, dearest friends you run into at a restaurant that you just arrived at and they're heading out. You've only got a brief conversation in you, but it means so goddamn much and you talk about that conversation weeks or months or years afterward."
"Yeah," said the shorter one. "But nobody can talk forever, right?"
"Ain't that the truth," the taller one said. "Especially my family. Goddamn Irish Catholics only want fighting words. Apologies would weaken their heart too much. Fragile busts for once-solid hearts."
"Yeah, your family had kind of a weird falling out."
"Something like that," said the taller one with a sip of beer.
"Even at the hospital?"
"Even at the hospital. Damn, maybe especially at the hospital."
"It was the best of times; it was the worst of times."
"That son of a bitch Dickens," the taller one said with a shaking head. "Well, actually, he probably had something go down with his family in some cavernous hospital somewhere in the modern depths of the dying Britain Empire."
"And it was like that when your Grandma was in hospital?
"My family was a tornado that wanted to be a hurricane. Nothing and everything matters when it's like that, even in a hospital room, even after years of a family falling out and all the stupid aftermath that the people put themselves through," the taller one explained. "When you say goodbye to someone who doesn't know you're there, it's like spitting in the rain or laughing on a windy day. It means something to you, but it doesn't mean anything to nature, and, before you know it, it's gone, disappearing into the unknown. And then everybody's there watching you say goodbye, and, if every one of them has spent the last few years angry, then they want to make sure you do it right, meaning 'their way.'"
"So you said goodbye at the hospital, yeah?" asked the shorter one.
"Yeah, I said a lot of things at the hospital and the words came out of my mouth as cautious as ghosts from a haunted house. After years of silence, I still had things to say and they didn't seem like they meant the same things in the real world as they did in my head."
"But she couldn't hear them anyway."
"She couldn't hear them, no."
"How'd you feel in the end?"
"Awful. Who doesn't?"
"Beyond the usual awful, or do you mean guilty?"
"Maybe it's always a mixture of everything."
"Why?" asked the shorter one, acknowledging that his family had never been through the rough.
"Because years of silence pile up and the weight becomes too much for any man or woman," said the taller one, aimlessly tearing the wet label off of the beer, "so everyone tries to pass it off. Nobody was making phone calls, so somebody blames everybody for not calling. Everyone asks, 'Hey, where the hell were you?' And then everyone else asks, 'Well, where the hell were you?' Finally, everyone just sits at the hospital bed and brings their confession with them like their dying relative is a priets. Can they hear anything? No, of course not. Everyone confesses to a host of morphine in the end."
"Your relatives too?"
"My relatives too. When my grandmother was passing, I felt like the heavy air of the entire hospital weighed on me. I felt like it was difficult to sit and breathe and talk. And I looked at the relatives around me that seemed a foot and a mile away at the same time, and it was pretty obvious they were in the same sinking boat as me, praying."
"Really?"
"Yeah, most of them were worse off than me. There some of them that were holding my grandmother's bones like rosary beads, counting off sins or regrets or wishes or who knows. Confessions are for people with something to say. You can still do a lot of talking in the end, but you don't have to make amends with yourself."
"You don't confess to your dying relatives?"
"Of course I do. That's the other thing about hospital wards; they make you a hypocrite," the taller one said with a sigh. "Do you know what my grandmother's last full sentence was to me?"
"What?"
"'I wish things could've been different.' But who knows what it means?"
"Well, I'm assuming she meant that she wished things could've been better."
"Yeah, that's the obvious call, but you never know. You never know what people are thinking. You know what her actual last words were?"
"What?"
"'Well, I was thinking.' And she could've ended that just about any way possible."
"Yeah, but it was probably something good."
"Everything good is always worse in a hospital room. It reeks of loss."
"That's harsh," said the shorter one.
"Yeah, but that's what my grandmother would've said as a young upstart. She had glimpses of being fiery. There was a trembling rocket in her soul, waiting to go off. It's just that the cancer got their first and it came after years of silence between my family and hers, or something like that, I guess. If it had happened fifty years before, my grandmother would've never stood for it all. She would've whipped us into talking and being a family again. Nobody would've remembered why we were fighting. Nobody would've wondered anything at the hospital. And maybe nobody would've prayed."
"That would've been wild."
"Yeah," the taller one said with a pause, taking in the colors seeping through the sky and turning the powerlines into thick shadows, "my grandmother could've been a Wild."
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Silence & The Saxophone
"Silence & The Saxophone"
a new wave old world story told somewhere in the middle with way too much narrative by jake kilroy.
The saxophone played a dull tune, as the brass tones crawled out of the stereo and sprinkled the room in a lulling, sleepy sound.
Each melodic and pensive note of the instrument seemed to slump majestically around the living room, sliding up his sleeves or down the slender legs of the woman on his couch.
"The bitter end," he mumbled, dragging on a cigarette, sitting in the window with one leg in the room and one leg hanging over the brick, watching the many people below in the streets. Sun was setting and a piercing orange glow swathed the city's buildings in its own brass tones.
The record turned in place and the music came careful and scratchy, as the needle drifted and bounced along like an old car on a dirt road. There was a soft piano along with the brushing strokes of a lounging drummer to accompany the saxophone on its liquid-like rolling of golden music notes.
"Are we going out?" she asked with a brutal sigh. Her red nails cut through the pages of the magazine as she flipped through each article aimlessly, not reading anything, never taking in a thing. "I didn't wear an evening gown just to have it wrinkle, you know."
His eyes hung on the city like his eyelids were nailed to the stucco wall.
"That dress looked fine in the hamper anyway," he said in something only just barely above monotone.
"No, it didn't," she said, a tremor of angst shaking the bottom of her throat. "It looked its best when I was at that party in the Hamptons."
He snickered and sneered, as his eyes closed and opened lazily.
"Nobody looks good in the Hamptons. Everybody looks like an asshole," he said, pinching the filter of his cigarette and drawing thoughtfully.
"Right. Everybody looks like an asshole. Says the guy who doesn't leave his apartment," she said, closing the magazine and opening her stinging eyes. "What are you so afraid of out there? That everyone won't appreciate you? Well, I've got news for you. Nobody out there has ever heard of you or your art."
He shrugged. "It's probably for the best."
"So what are you going to do instead? Sit here and listen to this naptime bullshit?"
He shrugged again and gave a response that resembled a word jumble. "Maybe."
"Why?" she demanded, flicking the needle off of the record. "We were invited to a great party. Great people will be there. There'll be great music, great food, great fun. What do you have against great?"
"Great ain't productive. Lowly, spastic, pathetic crying for help is," he replied, knowing that even his answer was total thoughtless, inconsiderate bullshit. But that's what most fights were. Words always got in the way of actions, cutting up the tempo of their dance so it always felt cluttered and clumsy.
The living room always felt like it was too wordy, but it wasn't what they were saying. The space between them felt like it was stacked with the words not being said. Every room felt stuffy with the thin oxygen of unsaid sentences. And it slowed the pace of their stories, making their lives seem clunky to each other.
"That's stupid. And empty. That is the absolute absence of real art. That's why you're not who you say you are."
"That's what everyone says about great art."
"Great, ravenous art is for crows," she said tossing her arms up and letting them come down heavy. "Every crow wants to be a raven. Every stupid artist wants to torture themselves and barely just get by, always wanting more, but always acting like they don't."
"Yeah?" he asked, grinning, now finally looking at her.
"Yeah, and at least the swans and songbirds have truth," she said, as her hands slipped onto her hips.
He sluggishly lowered his head back to the street as she swayed to the bathroom to freshen up.
"Baby, there ain't one true thing about what you've got on," he said, finishing his cigarette and throwing it upwards with a snap. "Even that necklace is fake."
There was a lowly silence that would've been filled by the saxophone, but instead was meagerly stuffed with the breaking of hearts and wills.
"What? But you gave me this," she said with long, timid pulls on each word.
"Right, darling, and like I always say, a fake for a fake."
The heavy silence returned.
"Fuck you," she said finally.
"Ah," he said with a lights in his eyes that resembled swinging light bulbs. "There's the truth they talk about in movies."
"Fuck you," she repeated.
"Keep 'em coming, sweetheart, I'll tuck those fiery words nearby and save money on heat."
"Fuck you!" she yelled and threw the necklace at him, but missed and hit the window. The necklace sang a dazzling sound and then fell to pieces on the floor. Seeing the necklace explode threw her into a fit. She immediately found her arms dragging across the bathroom counter, spilling the pills, the perfume and the glass containers of nothing that she had come to admire.
"I'm going out and I hope I see you on the way home stuck under a trolley," she bellowed, shaking her way into a thick, fashionable coat.
"You won't, since I walk everywhere," he said casually, once again, letting his arms slide into a shrug. "I don't have to rely on anybody. Enjoy your evening of crying on shoulders and asking for donations from criminals posing as gentlemen. Let me know how white their cuffs are. Tell me how their buttons taste and where exactly they plan on breaking your heart."
"You're going to die alone," she said with words that sounded like bricks hitting the bottom of a construction site, each one landing as loveless as possible with stark echoes.
"Yeah, but not tonight. Sweet dreams, honey. You're gonna get lost out there in that forest of concrete and steam. You'll probably starve to death if somebody doesn't feed you with a silver spoon."
She screamed and closed the door. He listened to her stomp down the stairs. She yelled all the way down, floor by floor, and kept yelling once she was on the street. She looked up and saw him sitting at the window, one legging swinging enthusiastically. He saluted and she scream a final curtain call growl before slinking into the back of a cab.
He watched the yellow disappear into the black streets of a dying orange glow, and then stood up to put the needle back on the record player. He got a glass from the cupboard, filled it and then sat back down on the windowsill again to light another cigarette. With a pillar of smoke climbing the crisp air of evening, he looked towards his bedroom and wondered if he should change into a tuxedo.
a new wave old world story told somewhere in the middle with way too much narrative by jake kilroy.
The saxophone played a dull tune, as the brass tones crawled out of the stereo and sprinkled the room in a lulling, sleepy sound.
Each melodic and pensive note of the instrument seemed to slump majestically around the living room, sliding up his sleeves or down the slender legs of the woman on his couch.
"The bitter end," he mumbled, dragging on a cigarette, sitting in the window with one leg in the room and one leg hanging over the brick, watching the many people below in the streets. Sun was setting and a piercing orange glow swathed the city's buildings in its own brass tones.
The record turned in place and the music came careful and scratchy, as the needle drifted and bounced along like an old car on a dirt road. There was a soft piano along with the brushing strokes of a lounging drummer to accompany the saxophone on its liquid-like rolling of golden music notes.
"Are we going out?" she asked with a brutal sigh. Her red nails cut through the pages of the magazine as she flipped through each article aimlessly, not reading anything, never taking in a thing. "I didn't wear an evening gown just to have it wrinkle, you know."
His eyes hung on the city like his eyelids were nailed to the stucco wall.
"That dress looked fine in the hamper anyway," he said in something only just barely above monotone.
"No, it didn't," she said, a tremor of angst shaking the bottom of her throat. "It looked its best when I was at that party in the Hamptons."
He snickered and sneered, as his eyes closed and opened lazily.
"Nobody looks good in the Hamptons. Everybody looks like an asshole," he said, pinching the filter of his cigarette and drawing thoughtfully.
"Right. Everybody looks like an asshole. Says the guy who doesn't leave his apartment," she said, closing the magazine and opening her stinging eyes. "What are you so afraid of out there? That everyone won't appreciate you? Well, I've got news for you. Nobody out there has ever heard of you or your art."
He shrugged. "It's probably for the best."
"So what are you going to do instead? Sit here and listen to this naptime bullshit?"
He shrugged again and gave a response that resembled a word jumble. "Maybe."
"Why?" she demanded, flicking the needle off of the record. "We were invited to a great party. Great people will be there. There'll be great music, great food, great fun. What do you have against great?"
"Great ain't productive. Lowly, spastic, pathetic crying for help is," he replied, knowing that even his answer was total thoughtless, inconsiderate bullshit. But that's what most fights were. Words always got in the way of actions, cutting up the tempo of their dance so it always felt cluttered and clumsy.
The living room always felt like it was too wordy, but it wasn't what they were saying. The space between them felt like it was stacked with the words not being said. Every room felt stuffy with the thin oxygen of unsaid sentences. And it slowed the pace of their stories, making their lives seem clunky to each other.
"That's stupid. And empty. That is the absolute absence of real art. That's why you're not who you say you are."
"That's what everyone says about great art."
"Great, ravenous art is for crows," she said tossing her arms up and letting them come down heavy. "Every crow wants to be a raven. Every stupid artist wants to torture themselves and barely just get by, always wanting more, but always acting like they don't."
"Yeah?" he asked, grinning, now finally looking at her.
"Yeah, and at least the swans and songbirds have truth," she said, as her hands slipped onto her hips.
He sluggishly lowered his head back to the street as she swayed to the bathroom to freshen up.
"Baby, there ain't one true thing about what you've got on," he said, finishing his cigarette and throwing it upwards with a snap. "Even that necklace is fake."
There was a lowly silence that would've been filled by the saxophone, but instead was meagerly stuffed with the breaking of hearts and wills.
"What? But you gave me this," she said with long, timid pulls on each word.
"Right, darling, and like I always say, a fake for a fake."
The heavy silence returned.
"Fuck you," she said finally.
"Ah," he said with a lights in his eyes that resembled swinging light bulbs. "There's the truth they talk about in movies."
"Fuck you," she repeated.
"Keep 'em coming, sweetheart, I'll tuck those fiery words nearby and save money on heat."
"Fuck you!" she yelled and threw the necklace at him, but missed and hit the window. The necklace sang a dazzling sound and then fell to pieces on the floor. Seeing the necklace explode threw her into a fit. She immediately found her arms dragging across the bathroom counter, spilling the pills, the perfume and the glass containers of nothing that she had come to admire.
"I'm going out and I hope I see you on the way home stuck under a trolley," she bellowed, shaking her way into a thick, fashionable coat.
"You won't, since I walk everywhere," he said casually, once again, letting his arms slide into a shrug. "I don't have to rely on anybody. Enjoy your evening of crying on shoulders and asking for donations from criminals posing as gentlemen. Let me know how white their cuffs are. Tell me how their buttons taste and where exactly they plan on breaking your heart."
"You're going to die alone," she said with words that sounded like bricks hitting the bottom of a construction site, each one landing as loveless as possible with stark echoes.
"Yeah, but not tonight. Sweet dreams, honey. You're gonna get lost out there in that forest of concrete and steam. You'll probably starve to death if somebody doesn't feed you with a silver spoon."
She screamed and closed the door. He listened to her stomp down the stairs. She yelled all the way down, floor by floor, and kept yelling once she was on the street. She looked up and saw him sitting at the window, one legging swinging enthusiastically. He saluted and she scream a final curtain call growl before slinking into the back of a cab.
He watched the yellow disappear into the black streets of a dying orange glow, and then stood up to put the needle back on the record player. He got a glass from the cupboard, filled it and then sat back down on the windowsill again to light another cigarette. With a pillar of smoke climbing the crisp air of evening, he looked towards his bedroom and wondered if he should change into a tuxedo.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Blue Sunday Bookstore Blues
This was a part of Zuhair's "The Lie And How We Told It" series (friends writing stories 800 words or less). But I figured I should publish it in full on this blog too.
"Blue Sunday Bookstore Blues"
by Jake Kilroy
I was moving through the used bookstore as if I were fondling the art of a museum.
The light at the end of the aisle jangled a terrible hum. But, as I swayed towards the end of the aisle, there came the rickety music box voice of a teenage boy. It was a wobbly sound, the forlorn melody of a boy trying to impress a girl. It’s a song that nobody likes to hear, but it’ll be dazzling nobody until the end of mankind.
There, sitting next to a girl, was a boy with an optimistic look that only belongs to somebody without a tender understanding of humiliation.
“I don’t like writing. I like having written,” the boy said.
“Yeah,” drawled the girl sitting next to him, reading a red book.
I faced the walls of books, keeping my eyes away but my ears around.
“I think I just like watching the page numbers go up,” he said.
The girl nodded.
“That's probably what Tolstoy thought,” said the boy, his own throat rattling like a jail key in a jar, “you know, because War And Peace was so long.”
“Yeah.”
“Have you ever read War And Peace?”
“No.”
“Me neither."
The girl’s phone rang. She answered it and headed outside. I noticed what book the girl had been reading and I felt close to homesick. The boy fiddled with random books, which, for whatever reason, confirmed to me that he was inexperienced with women.
“Kid, either your head or your heart is going to explode if you keep up with that storm you call affection,” I said, my eyes still roving the books.
“I‘m sorry?”
“I dated that girl years ago. Not her, obviously, but somebody close. And I’ve gathered you’re in love with her.”
“Well, I don't know if it's love.”
“How old are you?”
“Almost 16.”
“It will be.”
“What will be?”
“I don’t know. You tell me,” I said, finally turning to look at him.
He stared emptily at me, which is quite a feat for teenagers, as their heads, if I remember it correctly, are like roomfuls of typewriters.
“I think I’m going to go see if everything’s alright,” he said, moving past me towards the exit.
“She's already found out about Vonnegut, hasn’t she?”
The boy stopped and came back. “Yeah. How did you know that? She's been reading him a lot lately.”
“And what do you read?”
“Whatever my teachers tell me to.”
I shook my head. “That’s not good enough, kid. Pretty soon, that girl’s going to be finishing A Clockwork Orange while you're just starting The Perks Of Being A Wallflower. If you want the intellectual, you can’t be young. You have to be smarter than age.”
“How do I do that?” the boy said asked sincerely.
“You make youth last.”
“I thought you said I can’t be young.”
“You’re only young until you’re old. If you make youth last, there’s no such thing as older.”
“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”
“I know you don’t, but I’m a lot older than you.”
“I thought you said there was no such thing as older.”
“That’s only if you make youth last.”
“You didn’t?”
“No,” I said definitely.
“What happened?”
“Like I told you before, I loved the same girl when I was your age.”
“And?”
“And I didn’t love her right.”
“I'm sorry to hear that. What went wrong?”
“You don’t get to know.”
“Oh, sorry for prying.”
“Prying? Kid, I've been breaking and entering into your life for the last few minutes. No, I mean you don’t get to know because it'll ruin your chances with that girl outside. All I’m saying is you better tell her how you feel before she discovers Bukowski.”
“Why?”
“Because then it means she’s already read between the lines of Hemingway.”
The girl reappeared and I glided away like a specter, down the aisle, rummaging through the books until I found it. I opened up the copy of A Farewell To Arms I had seen so many times on my night table, on her night table and in the bookstore these last few years.
In an instant, I was sick.
My hands became oil-starved machines, creaking as they moved the pages with something that should’ve resembled grace. I read her name and my name on the title page and what I had written in between. Squeezing my eyes for a moment, I moved with an anguished fury to the counter and finally bought the goddamn thing. The cashier asked me if I was ok. I nodded and stalked back to the teenage boy as if the book was a gun. I shoved it into him and said, “Always believe there’s a future in the present, not a past.”
"Blue Sunday Bookstore Blues"
by Jake Kilroy
I was moving through the used bookstore as if I were fondling the art of a museum.
The light at the end of the aisle jangled a terrible hum. But, as I swayed towards the end of the aisle, there came the rickety music box voice of a teenage boy. It was a wobbly sound, the forlorn melody of a boy trying to impress a girl. It’s a song that nobody likes to hear, but it’ll be dazzling nobody until the end of mankind.
There, sitting next to a girl, was a boy with an optimistic look that only belongs to somebody without a tender understanding of humiliation.
“I don’t like writing. I like having written,” the boy said.
“Yeah,” drawled the girl sitting next to him, reading a red book.
I faced the walls of books, keeping my eyes away but my ears around.
“I think I just like watching the page numbers go up,” he said.
The girl nodded.
“That's probably what Tolstoy thought,” said the boy, his own throat rattling like a jail key in a jar, “you know, because War And Peace was so long.”
“Yeah.”
“Have you ever read War And Peace?”
“No.”
“Me neither."
The girl’s phone rang. She answered it and headed outside. I noticed what book the girl had been reading and I felt close to homesick. The boy fiddled with random books, which, for whatever reason, confirmed to me that he was inexperienced with women.
“Kid, either your head or your heart is going to explode if you keep up with that storm you call affection,” I said, my eyes still roving the books.
“I‘m sorry?”
“I dated that girl years ago. Not her, obviously, but somebody close. And I’ve gathered you’re in love with her.”
“Well, I don't know if it's love.”
“How old are you?”
“Almost 16.”
“It will be.”
“What will be?”
“I don’t know. You tell me,” I said, finally turning to look at him.
He stared emptily at me, which is quite a feat for teenagers, as their heads, if I remember it correctly, are like roomfuls of typewriters.
“I think I’m going to go see if everything’s alright,” he said, moving past me towards the exit.
“She's already found out about Vonnegut, hasn’t she?”
The boy stopped and came back. “Yeah. How did you know that? She's been reading him a lot lately.”
“And what do you read?”
“Whatever my teachers tell me to.”
I shook my head. “That’s not good enough, kid. Pretty soon, that girl’s going to be finishing A Clockwork Orange while you're just starting The Perks Of Being A Wallflower. If you want the intellectual, you can’t be young. You have to be smarter than age.”
“How do I do that?” the boy said asked sincerely.
“You make youth last.”
“I thought you said I can’t be young.”
“You’re only young until you’re old. If you make youth last, there’s no such thing as older.”
“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”
“I know you don’t, but I’m a lot older than you.”
“I thought you said there was no such thing as older.”
“That’s only if you make youth last.”
“You didn’t?”
“No,” I said definitely.
“What happened?”
“Like I told you before, I loved the same girl when I was your age.”
“And?”
“And I didn’t love her right.”
“I'm sorry to hear that. What went wrong?”
“You don’t get to know.”
“Oh, sorry for prying.”
“Prying? Kid, I've been breaking and entering into your life for the last few minutes. No, I mean you don’t get to know because it'll ruin your chances with that girl outside. All I’m saying is you better tell her how you feel before she discovers Bukowski.”
“Why?”
“Because then it means she’s already read between the lines of Hemingway.”
The girl reappeared and I glided away like a specter, down the aisle, rummaging through the books until I found it. I opened up the copy of A Farewell To Arms I had seen so many times on my night table, on her night table and in the bookstore these last few years.
In an instant, I was sick.
My hands became oil-starved machines, creaking as they moved the pages with something that should’ve resembled grace. I read her name and my name on the title page and what I had written in between. Squeezing my eyes for a moment, I moved with an anguished fury to the counter and finally bought the goddamn thing. The cashier asked me if I was ok. I nodded and stalked back to the teenage boy as if the book was a gun. I shoved it into him and said, “Always believe there’s a future in the present, not a past.”
Thursday, March 25, 2010
The Lie And How We Told It
Good ol' Zuhair Abdulla has done up a pretty radical series on his blog, Two Hands Radio. This current series (called The Lie And How We Told It) is a collection of short stories that are less than 800 words long each.
Anyway, I wrote a story for it called "Blue Sunday Bookstore Blues." You can read it here.
The story's based off of a conversation I heard in a used bookstore two weeks ago. I wondered what I would say to the teenage boy if I were older and wiser and actually knew a thing or two. Then I stab him. No, ok, I didn't do that. But I should've though. Stories are kind of boring without stabbings. Or monsters! No, no monsters either. Sorry. I'm just kind of a bitch.
Anyway, I wrote a story for it called "Blue Sunday Bookstore Blues." You can read it here.
The story's based off of a conversation I heard in a used bookstore two weeks ago. I wondered what I would say to the teenage boy if I were older and wiser and actually knew a thing or two. Then I stab him. No, ok, I didn't do that. But I should've though. Stories are kind of boring without stabbings. Or monsters! No, no monsters either. Sorry. I'm just kind of a bitch.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
The Quiet Evening
Of quiet days and quiter nights, when a television sounds like a theater, a man can cook himself dinner. He can eat his meal sitting by the window, as the magnificent music of traffic and conversation from a few stories down float up and drift beyond his living room, like balloons pressing up against the glass, streaking and noisily dragging its hide. And that man can eat and laugh at the television, as he also hears a record player carrying the faint tunes of yesteryear and the foot taps of dancing on hardwood floors. And before he even makes it to dessert, he’s already thinking of the days when all he did was swim by the dock.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Her Summer Tattoos
"Her Summer Tattoos"
by Jake Kilroy
She had a tattoo of a field on her upper right arm. She got it the day she decided to become an artist in a big city.
When she slept, the field swayed and played with the wind that would surely dance on her arm. The breeze would roll in on warm summer nights when she slept facing the open window, several stories up. She was always wondered if she’d ever spool out and fall, but she never determined if she would hit the fence, the tree or the pavement.
She just slept.
The meadow of dead grass and barley would wave its ocean of gold with its thin black lines, flapping against the breeze, rupturing its own tendencies, against her soft skin. She would sigh blissfully and twist her way into the sheets. Once asleep, the wind would caress the field magnificently, and she would roll her tongue in her sleep, trying to speak in dreams.
When men would spend the night, they would kiss her neck, but never the meadow. And none of them ever knew if it was by their choice or hers. Their lips just never grazed the Midwest.
One morning, she awoke to a new cow skull tattoo on her shoulder blade. But instead of calling a friend or rummaging her room, she sat in bed and repeatedly grazed the animal's head with her smallest finger before adjusting her underwear and meandering into the kitchen to make cereal and read her book at her island.
She slept a summer’s week petting the cow skull and wondering what it would say if it belonged to a cow that had been loopy enough to wander into her arm’s scene, turning the field into a pasture. She would smirk and spending the morning writing poetry about the cow.
After spending the night with red wine, she gave the cow skull a name, but never told anyone.
Another day, a barn appeared just above her breast. And again, instead of fashioning it a wound or corrupting the day with antics, she smiled sweetly and put her hand under the barn, as if to hold it in place and keep it from collapsing with wooden planks plummeting into her bra.
Before long, her pale blue underwear began to reveal clouds floating across. She thought it was silly to sit up and stare down at her own crotch. So, one lazy Saturday morning, she pulled the underwear down to her ankles and then pressed her legs against the wall, and she would guess the shapes she saw in the sky blue underwear as the clouds drifted across. Little white fluffy clouds sailed between the blue rims squeezed against her ankles. Sometimes, she would believe she saw the bodies and faces of relatives, friends and lovers in the clouds, and her toes would flutter and a gentle giggle would escape from her cheekbones.
Soon, a river was running across her bra. It came in from one edge of her torso and ran a straight course to the other side. It would wake her up some Sunday mornings, but she would simply crinkle her nose and revolve in her bed until she was on her back, so she could hear the river better.
The meadow scenery varied as the summer bounced along. Sometimes, birds would appear and sing or snow would fall silently. Or something else would emerge, but each new thing meant something different. When the birds showed up, she would sit with her arms on the windowsill and wait for rain. When the snow arrived, she would invite friends over. She made a chart during one last August weekend.
She wanted to remember all of it, as she could feel an end, not an eternity coming.
When autumn came, the river stopped tickling and the clouds stopped coming, and soon, the meadow stopped swaying. When winter came, nothing changed. When spring came, there was still no movement.
But every year, from the first morning light until the last night darkness, her tattoos would come to life and stay the summer.
by Jake Kilroy
She had a tattoo of a field on her upper right arm. She got it the day she decided to become an artist in a big city.
When she slept, the field swayed and played with the wind that would surely dance on her arm. The breeze would roll in on warm summer nights when she slept facing the open window, several stories up. She was always wondered if she’d ever spool out and fall, but she never determined if she would hit the fence, the tree or the pavement.
She just slept.
The meadow of dead grass and barley would wave its ocean of gold with its thin black lines, flapping against the breeze, rupturing its own tendencies, against her soft skin. She would sigh blissfully and twist her way into the sheets. Once asleep, the wind would caress the field magnificently, and she would roll her tongue in her sleep, trying to speak in dreams.
When men would spend the night, they would kiss her neck, but never the meadow. And none of them ever knew if it was by their choice or hers. Their lips just never grazed the Midwest.
One morning, she awoke to a new cow skull tattoo on her shoulder blade. But instead of calling a friend or rummaging her room, she sat in bed and repeatedly grazed the animal's head with her smallest finger before adjusting her underwear and meandering into the kitchen to make cereal and read her book at her island.
She slept a summer’s week petting the cow skull and wondering what it would say if it belonged to a cow that had been loopy enough to wander into her arm’s scene, turning the field into a pasture. She would smirk and spending the morning writing poetry about the cow.
After spending the night with red wine, she gave the cow skull a name, but never told anyone.
Another day, a barn appeared just above her breast. And again, instead of fashioning it a wound or corrupting the day with antics, she smiled sweetly and put her hand under the barn, as if to hold it in place and keep it from collapsing with wooden planks plummeting into her bra.
Before long, her pale blue underwear began to reveal clouds floating across. She thought it was silly to sit up and stare down at her own crotch. So, one lazy Saturday morning, she pulled the underwear down to her ankles and then pressed her legs against the wall, and she would guess the shapes she saw in the sky blue underwear as the clouds drifted across. Little white fluffy clouds sailed between the blue rims squeezed against her ankles. Sometimes, she would believe she saw the bodies and faces of relatives, friends and lovers in the clouds, and her toes would flutter and a gentle giggle would escape from her cheekbones.
Soon, a river was running across her bra. It came in from one edge of her torso and ran a straight course to the other side. It would wake her up some Sunday mornings, but she would simply crinkle her nose and revolve in her bed until she was on her back, so she could hear the river better.
The meadow scenery varied as the summer bounced along. Sometimes, birds would appear and sing or snow would fall silently. Or something else would emerge, but each new thing meant something different. When the birds showed up, she would sit with her arms on the windowsill and wait for rain. When the snow arrived, she would invite friends over. She made a chart during one last August weekend.
She wanted to remember all of it, as she could feel an end, not an eternity coming.
When autumn came, the river stopped tickling and the clouds stopped coming, and soon, the meadow stopped swaying. When winter came, nothing changed. When spring came, there was still no movement.
But every year, from the first morning light until the last night darkness, her tattoos would come to life and stay the summer.
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