post really, really, really short stories.

In the first chill morning of the autumn I walk her across the yard, leaves kicking up in our wake, her tiny warm hand in mine. At the curb, she doesn’t turn back but holds on, stretching her arm behind her as long as she can before loosening her grasp, climbing the steps of the bus, and I am left there in the drift of autumn up to my ankles, pulling a sweater around my arms, watching her pause at the top and then move down the aisle, out of my sight. The freedom is palpable, the alone-ness overpowering. It is still dark and wind moves in the trees overhead. Inside, the house is quiet and brightly lit against the winter that will come.

My sister had had only two interests in life: birds and her camera, which she outfitted with all the latest technological accoutrements to best enable her to capture the hummingbirds she favored. She would lurk in the garden, snapping shots of them, which she carefully developed and then spread across the kitchen table in a fan in front of Mother who was nearly blind. Mother’s gaze would flit over the photographs, her hands dancing across them, and my sister would point out the blur of wings, the sharpness of a black beak, the curve of a green body, Mother nodding, her lips moving in a smile.
My sister died at Christmas and on her birthday, I spent the day with mother, on the porch, watching the garden, not speaking of my sister. I pointed out things in the garden to Mother: the petunias, the sound of the wind chime. And the new tree my brother had planted over which, as I watched, I spotted a hummingbird hovering. The tree had no flowers, no leaves even, and seemed to be hovering itself, on the edge of life and death.
“Look, Mom,” I cried, “Can you see it?” I scooted to the edge of the chair, pointing out across the lawn. “It’s a hummingbird.”
I watched Mother perk up, her smile lifting her lined cheeks. “It’s over there now,” I added, for the bird had zipped to the petunias.
We watched in silence for a few moments and in a flash, the bird was suddenly hovering in front of us. If I had not been afraid of scaring it away, I could have put out my hand to let it alight on my palm. Instead we both watched, enraptured, because I knew, of course, that Mother could see this; the bird was inches in front of her face and we could feel the air from its wings rushing across our cheeks as it bounced in the air, beak twitching back and forth from Mother to me. I cannot count the minutes it hung there. They seemed to go on forever and to be over too soon. The bird was gone, around the petunias and across the yard, before we could take a first breath.

Kevin stirred, stretched, and his face pulled into a natural grin as he remembered the night before. The girl—Natalie? Natasha? Nata-somebody-ya-wanna-rememba? had come onto him at the bar after Jamie left. She was heavier than Jamie, had bigger boobs but her legs were shorter and her hair wasn’t naturally blonde. She smoked more than Jamie too. Jamie had almost quit. Anyway, this chick’d followed him back to his house—-he only lived half a block from the bar—and they’d sat on his old brown couch watching Saturday Night Live until suddenly she was kissing him, one hand on the back of his neck and the other gripping the bottle of Jack. She tasted different, flat and too wet. If that was a taste.

The next thing he knew, he was in bed and all his clothes were off and the girl was in his bathroom. He focused, for some reason, on the night sounds drifting in the window—-the crickets, trucks on the highway, a car door slamming, shouts from the band packing up out back of the bar. The girl came into the room after a few seconds or maybe minutes and climbed in bed and grabbed his dick in her left hand. “Hiya guy,” she said and he almost laughed … but then he couldn’t remember why. His dick stayed limp and he fell asleep. She must have passed out, too, because he woke up when she left, slamming out the door, angry. The morning was just starting.

Kevin fingered the tiny silver hoop in his left earlobe. Jamie. He felt like shit. His mouth tasted like a dog had crapped in it and his head pounded in that way he knew would not go away until evening. He should have left when Jamie did, with Jamie, and they could have gone back to her clean apartment and had good, real sex and fallen asleep afterward to the laughs of SNL. Then he would have gotten up and made her breakfast and gotten to work on time.

He stiffened suddenly. Someone had come in the front door. Fearing it was that Natalie bitch again, he closed his eyes and relaxed, willing himself to breathe deeply. Whoever it was pushed the bedroom door open—-it creaked—-and stood there for a while. Too long. Kevin felt thankful that his head was buried under the pillow. The person sighed quietly-—Jamie!—-then he heard a tiny clink and sensed an absence in the space where she had been. He’d had to give no explanations. She might not figure it out—maybe she’d only yell at him for missing work. He heard her car door slam and pulled his head cautiously from under the pillow. That hurt.

On the dresser, was the little silver hoop earring that matched his. He could see it catching the sun through the window. He sat bolt upright, flipping the sheet off his legs. She was gone.

All her life, sour. Sour at us, sour at her stepchildren, sour at her family, her job, her church, her friends. Her face, her mouth, was screwed up sour like she smelled something bad. Her face was screwed up sour like her hands. All her life, she’d worked in a factory, using her hands and her hands were ruined. They were gnarled and curled and bony and stringy. They hurt her. It hurt her to hold the string, to hold the string of that kite. It hurt her hands to hold that kite, the kite pulled on her hands, the string dug into her fingers, pulled on her fingers. She looked up at the kite. The sun hurt her eyes to look up at it, the sun shone in her eyes. She looked up at the sun, at the kite, at the kite she held in her hands. She looked up at the kite she held in her gnarled fingers and the wind blew the kite. The wind blew the kite, pulling it against her hands, against her fingers. She held the string of the kite in her hands and the wind blew the kite.

When I saw Kevin’s truck still in his driveway, I knew. He should have left for work by now, should have been at work by now. I stood for a long time across the street, staring at his sad little house; the sad little house that was in stark contrast to his brand new, lipstick-red truck. Then I crossed the empty street and stopped next to the driver-side window. I peered in, unwillingly, and saw nothing incriminating. No matter. I knew.

The front door was closed but not locked, of course. I stepped quietly in and left the door ajar. I could smell sex and Jack Daniels and cigarette smoke. And perfume. I could hear Kevin snoring from the bedroom. The curtains billowed in over the couch and the stereo light was on though whatever album had been playing had long since ended. The ashtray overflowed onto the coffee table I had bought for him at a second-hand store. The bottle of Jack was uncapped, half-empty, next to the ashtray. One cigarette butt floated dead on the surface of the alcohol. Bitch.

I moved to the bedroom door and pushed it open. It creaked but he did not move. The sheet was tangled around his skinny legs. My first instincts were to pull on his big toe, to smash the pillow on his face, to slam the door and wake him, to start pulling my clothes from his closet. I sighed quietly and removed the silver earring from my ear, the one that matched his, and put it gently on his dresser.

I don’t really like to write poetry.

Rodney

The physical, visual epitome of
Youth and freedom and abandon.
He taught us to jump from second stories
And soar to the soft spring ground below.
His face was turned to the sun, the air.
You don’t know how it feels to be weightless
Until you hit the grass, on your knees, face toward the mud,
Prolonging the flight. If you close your eyes
You’re still going and there is no end, no ground, no tomorrow, no home.
You are Peter Pan and there is no growing up.
I see him, arms flung wide, smile flung wide, hair flung wide,
Caught there still.

Aah, the magnolia
Dropping petals like pink snow
On the spring green grass

Is the aah part cheating? magnolia is a hard word!