28:
a fiction short by Scott Neumyer
(lecter323@aol.com)
“You want to shoot some pool?” she asks as we walk past the beach, our arms brushing back and forth on the sides of our legs, the salty ocean breeze hanging over us like a thick fog. We’re coming up to the only bar in town. Her sister and brother-in-law have asked us to shoot a few racks before heading back to the house. I’m full of ice cream and not sure I can handle much more than a few minutes.
“I think I’m going to head back,” I tell her. “I’ve had it. I need to close my eyes for a few.” I grab her hand, bring it to my mouth, and kiss it quickly. Her fingers are sticky from the ice cream and it reminds me of when I was younger and more willing to shoot a few racks. “You go ahead. I’ll see you back at the house later, okay?”
“You sure?”
“Of course,” I say, although I’m not. “Have fun. Have one for me.”
“I’ll have a few,” she says as she pulls me in, kisses me, and runs off to catch up with Meg and Kevin.
I watch her and wonder if I’ve made the right decision, letting her go alone like that. I convince myself that I have and walk the half-mile to the house alone, stumble up the porch steps, and straight up the stairs to the room we’re sharing for the week.
I lie on the bed, snap my headphones onto my ears and close my eyes. One day left here and I’ve decided to listen to jazz while she shoots pool, sucks down colored drinks, and does God-knows what else. I’d say I’m depressed but I’d be lying. Scared is probably the better word.
* *
It’s late when I hear the bedroom door click open. I rub the sleep from my eyes, roll over and, strain to see her in the darkness. She slips into a pajama top and sweatpants, throws her clothes in the corner, and crawls into bed, careful not to disturb me.
“It’s late,” I say. She’s startled to hear that I’m awake and quickly pulls the blankets up to her neck.
“I know,” she says. “I’m sorry. We lost track of time and just kept shooting.” She rolls her head on the pillow and looks straight into my face. “You’re not mad, are you?”
“No,” I tell her. “I’m just tired.”
She kisses me lightly on the forehead and turns on her side away from me. I stare at her smooth shoulders and strong back until we’re both asleep.
* *
The following afternoon we walk along the beach and sit on some rocks facing out into the ocean. They are smooth and clean but cold, not exactly made for sitting.
We talk about possibly living together when we get home, about maybe getting married.
“But not if you’re still at that job,” she says. “It’s slowly killing you.”
“I know,” I tell her and agree that I should leave but know I never will.
We sit on the rocks for a while and talk about the chances that we’ll be together forever, until she tells me that she’s cold. I say, “I know,” and we slip our sandals back on, walk up the beach to the house, pack our things, and drive home knowing more than we’d ever known before.
Author’s Notes
Scott Neumyer is a writer from New Jersey. He has written reviews and commentary for DVD Angle (www.dvdangle.com). His fiction has appeared in 3AM Magazine and is forthcoming in Snow Monkey. He is working on a collection of short stories.
26:
Excerpts from Southern By Birth: Bi-Polar By the Grace of God. [/b]
SPRING CHILD
Dewy gemstones scattered through tender grass reflect day peep, fresh and new. I test the rusted screened door. It responds with a cranky old creak. Careful. The report of a slamming door will rob solitude. Hesitant for only a moment I am drawn to my favorite place. Tiptoe. Struggle into the swaying swing. Loll with both legs over one armrest. Worn wood is satiny against backs of downy knees. From topsy-turvy vantage point the oak is bowing to me. Such a grand gesture to honor so small a child.
Jaybirds love this oak: it’s leafy offering of protection. From tiptop, Jays eye the comings and goings of a local cat population. ‘Catbird’ keeps close watch. Battle is engaged at the slightest provocation. One false move and ‘Cat’ is targeted and dive-bombed. Our Tom stoically crosses the yard, unflinching, while birds repeatedly fling themselves at him. The impression given for his silence seems more a point of honor than bravery.
The neighbor’s rooster winds down: a worn alarm croaking sporadically, forgetful of purpose. Drunken buzz of a bumblebee stumbles, bumbles, staggers blossomward. Honeybees fill the air. Industry does not go unrewarded. Nectar gathering reaps a faery dusting on gauzy wings. A diminutive hummingbird appears, disappears in a flurry.
Trailing tendrils and attenuated clusters of wisteria drape branch to fence forming fragrant lavender tapestries. The corner is cascading creamy white honeysuckle. Fencing groans under lipstick-pink climbing roses forming bouquets of heady bridal wear.
Nowadays most little girls sit ‘lady-like’. I sprawl, feet thrown over the swing back, head dangling. I squint straight into spring dayshine through greening of tree and vine. Up—Up—UP into vibrant motes of swirling diamond dust. In this, my bejeweled cloister imagination is fueled. I close my eyes, feel the rhythmic swaying; a breeze tickles fuzz on my cheeks, fragrance is almost palpable. A peek through red-gold lashes seems in order for one last glimpse of cerulean sky before drowsing.
What I witness jolts me upright into full, adrenaline-pumping wakefulness: a stark and unforgiving landscape, all harsh lines and angles in black and white contrast. Chiaroscuro.
Gone, sparkling pastels, soft and curving contours, fragrance on delicate breeze. Euphoria has flown, again. Dazzled site is dulled, again. Again, and yet again I am locked inside a monochromatic reality from which I can find no escape. Or am I locked out?
BERRY PATCH
Thorn-tattered
pierced
purple-stained
smug with warm memory
eyes close
pink tongue tip seeks evidence:
tale-tell seed in toothy grin.
Cobbler tonight!
Worth every scratch.
SOUTHERN AFTERNOON
Time—
spiraling, twisting,
doubling back upon itself
slowly seeping away
and yet hanging
languid as a southern afternoon.
Time—
spinning, twirling,
fast – faster —- on fragile wings
as I reach for it in hopeless yearning.
I would bring it back
if I could.
I would rush headlong
if I could,
but I only have this moment
that is hanging,
languid as a southern afternoon.
CRAFTSMAN[/b]
Tiny, busy knitting needles
make a silken pinwheel grow.
Bustling, weaving, cross-threads casting,
tatting midst the sunset glow.
All the quiet nightlong labor;
tireless task of innate skill.
Stretch and measure. Snip and cast off.
Cunning garment. Fit to kill.
Flimsy whimsy dew-bedazzled,
decorated garden gate.
Quiver with the sigh of sunrise.
Settle in the warmth to wait.
Festive, dainty tent-like trappings
form prismatic sparkling spell.
Shining and seductive threads have
sewn a silent sound – death knell.
TARO
Distracted and confused in the produce section, she looks
at a gnarled and hairy monkey fist. The sign reads Taro.
She hefts, squeezes, and smells. For no apparent reason
she places two gray and wrinkled roots in her buggy.
Seamed and ruffled romaine, red and yellow peppers,
earthy mushrooms, zucchini with blossoms still attached,
tearless Vidalias are all weighed and bagged.
Taro she tells the checkout clerk.
Doesn’t say,
I won’t cook them: don’t know how.
Home, grocery bags emptied, she finds a bit of potting soil,
old plastic pot, handful of gravel. Taro is tucked
into fragrant black soil: dusty-dry and sneeze inducing.
Within days shoots appear: not tender but stiff and defiant;
grow at an alarming rate; open to fat hearts of emerald.
Heat gives way under the leading edge of a hurricane in Mexico.
Rain falls from iron skies. Armed with camera and superstition
she bends close, tries to capture an image of her future
reflected back from a dime-sized droplet, poised on upturned taro.
SOME GROW BEST WHEN LEFT ALONE
The ivy’s thriving, showy
having summered well outside.
Rescued from poi, taro grows
in spite of cats and drought.
Bamboo-thin ginger root
yellows to harvest hue.
But left for dead all season, ficus
revels in solitude.
Prized from root-bound hiding,
scissored bonsai-stark,
branches wrapped with coiled
copper wire are staked apart.
Single coy root protrudes,
encircles a granite stone.
Now tapered leaves puddle.
Some grow best when left alone.
SUSTAINABLE LOSSES
Overcast.
Shadows of clouds
cover crest with
darkling secret places;
but none erases deep, glowing
color growing
as morning matures into noon.
Soon, mist past,
gone mourning shrouds.
Mountain breast with
sparkling, dappled spaces
softly embraces sweet, flowing
streamlets glowing
in twilight’s delights ‘neath the moon.
GINKGO
October stings. This stone bench numbs.
Still, I linger near a bronze Rodin
head heavy, muscles poised for action,
supported by an armature of sorrow.
I am immovable as bronze, as stone,
squinting past stark white museum walls
that strike painful contrasts against the hard sky.
One magnificent Ginkgo shelters the statue
with protective maidenhair.
Sunset lancets glancing off bronze
strike the tree. Each leaf shimmers,
trembles before the sacrifice this season exacts.
Then it begins: a hushing, shushing, holy sound
as every leaf drops in obeisance.
OCTOBER
Birds zigzag, hover the oak and settle.
The couple shuffle, creak to a halt
and claim their bench on the boardwalk.
Rain scents the wind. Weather can confuse
birds, he says. One October,-
do you remember? He begins then hesitates.
The sky lowers and clouds rumble.
Instinct sends his arm around her.
She leans in, lips grazing his cheek.
Did you hear about the October
birds flew north? She nods encouragement.
Her smile hides pain.
Lightning arcs.
The ozone sizzles but goes un-noticed.
1931? No, wait — in ‘31 hobos road the rails,
left signs on gateposts. Remember?
She shakes her head.
He loses focus. His eyes search the sky.
Rain dimples the sand. She umbrellas their heads
and he pats her knee.
What topic? he asks.
Signs. She prompts him.
Birds,
not knowing the idea his mind seeks.
Yes, one October — remember?
He begins, then hesitates. Birds flutter, swirl.
Did you hear about the October birds flew north?
Tears runnel her face and mingle with rain,
distort her smile. Hobos marked the gateposts.
Didn’t you say that?
Yes, she agrees; nods in his direction.
Did you feed hobos? He questions.
Yes, Sweetie. She concedes this lie.
Oh. Did you hear about the October…
He hesitates. Rain and surf swirl.
Thoughts zigzag, hover. Weather can confuse,
he begins…
MIND FULL SEASONS
Thought, long under winter ashes
takes spring flight, transmogrifies
wakened by sheet-lightening flashes.
Death of winter, eulogize.
Phoenix watch the beast abate not
to repose but ruminate,
smolder. Summer Smaug-like guards
collected horde of sparkling shards.
Autumn flashpoint terror wrought,
explode again to conscious thought.
Be still. Observe. The moment’s past.
Shiver—
bend to winter’s blast.
by Freada Dillon © 2003
For Author’s Notes see:
Southern By Birth: Bi-Polar By the Grace of God.
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