Ramblings, Musings and Other Short Stories |
Ramblings, Musings
and Other Short Stories
“ah yes- this is what it looks like to be
forgotten” the sun shone through regal glowering pines, and grey lichen covered stones crumbled slowly before our eyes. this i thought, not paying attention to the priest since he didn’t know what he was doing there anymore than we did. the casket was blue and wreathed with sickly pink and white roses and the torn up earth beside it was welcoming it, ready to swallow it whole. i wondered what the casket felt like when touched- it looked velvety but i wasn’t altogether sure that it wouldn’t disappear the second i took one step closer. i rocked back and forth in my black flat shoes that were slightly too big, and so left welts on the backs of my heels that i couldn’t really even feel that day. i was going to throw open the casket. i was going to find it empty, and with relief turn around to see my father no longer crying, as i shouted in triumph “we can all go home, we can all go find her we can all go bring her back.” and we’d quickly eat our tuna sandwiches in the car, before setting off to find where grandma had really gone. but of course i couldn’t open the casket because, the pines threatened with their quivering needles, the mausoleums anticipated my every step and my shoes were cutting open my feet- so i did not pay attention to the priest, because he didn’t know what he was doing there anymore than i did.
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Unswerving by Skylar Shaw You know those little things that somehow seem to make life more livable? Like just when you think that perhaps an eternal sleep would be preferable to getting out of bed and going to work in the morning, that very same day you find meaning; purpose. My purpose has a name. Her name is Lana Vreeland. I’m not trying to bore you with another story about an office romance, where boy meets girl amidst a crowd of corporate drones, and all of a sudden the fluorescent lighting feels like sunlight. Actually, no. That’s exactly what I’m going to do. Every day she and I come into work at the same time, and I get to hold the door for her and see her smile, knowing that smile is for me. We keep things subtle at work since the whole HR thing is a nuisance we can’t afford. She runs on coffee like it’s some form of legal cocaine, so we joke around that I’m her dealer. As I’m walking in I hand her a soy double shot latte and she holds it in both her hands to absorb its warmth. “Have I ever told you that you’re the best?” she teases. “A handful of times. Generally after coffee. Or pastries. Or other small favors and tokens.” She smirks, “You make it sound like I regularly except bribes or something. My favor cannot be bought!” She exclaims dramatically as we both get on to the elevator, which empty aside from us, thank God. “Right, right, your favor can’t be bought. Except for when it can.” She laughs and tucks her hair behind her ears. She loves to keep her hair pin straight, though she looks beautiful when it falls, curled and untamed. When she tucks her hair behind her ears, she gets one little wave in the front pieces of her hair- as though she can’t really keep something so natural restrained. It’s always too short of an elevator ride. But then again, there’s always another one at 5 pm before we leave. We both work at the same company, HRBK Transportation Group, in the headquarters’ accounting department. Let me be perfectly clear- I hate my job. HATE it. I don’t even like math. I chose this job simply because I had no idea what to choose. I went to school, and just couldn’t see how any of those courses could translate into my future, so I just chose something where I could get a paycheck. But Lana? She loves numbers. She knows the names of mathematicians. Until recently, I couldn’t name a single mathematician. She doesn’t just know the names of the basic guys you read about in high school, like Isaac Newton or Archimedes (people I still couldn’t remember until she reminded me). She talks about people like Alexander Grothendieck, you know, like of the Grothendieck-Riemann-Roch theorem in algebraic geometry. I’m still hazy on what it all means, and why it matters, but if she can talk so enthusiastically about numbers, figures, and equations then it must matter. She treats even the simple things that we do like they’re a part of a separate language, a separate world that is filled with endless possibility, endless solutions to our seemingly endless problems. Unlike me, she has her life well mapped out. She works here, and she goes to school. She goes to school and takes classes in all kinds of advanced mathematics, and in her free time tries to familiarize herself with things like homology, which apparently is some type of algebra. I admire the way she looks at things differently, and the way she talks about her goals as being definite, attainable, and inevitable. I used to wonder what my purpose was. I was always adequately bright, but never extraordinary. But if I could spend my life helping her to realize her every goal, supporting her every dream- I think that’s my purpose. It fills me with joy and wonder to see how one person can be so meaningful- but Lana means more to me than anyone else. She likes to sit outside during lunch, in the courtyard. Sometimes she sits at the fountain. My favorite picture of her is one where she’s wearing her blue sweater and grey skirt- her hair can’t stand still, and she’s smiling at passersby from her perch on the edge of the fountain. I walk up to her whenever our lunch breaks coincide- I know that there are weekends, and evenings, and nights, but there is just never enough time with her. “How is your small ocean?” She smiles up at me ruefully. “Very small. Not very clean- still incredibly polluted with nickels and dimes.” I sit down next to her, and put my hand in the cold water. I pick up the first coin I can feel, and take it out. “Penny for your thoughts?” She groans and laughs, and I hang my head. “Yeah, ok, so that wasn’t my best,” I say, wiping my hand on my pant leg and setting the penny next to her. “You know that’s someone’s wish, right?” “You believe in that?” I ask, and look at her as she lifts her red fingernails up to her hair again. She laughs, and looks down and away, with a thoughtful look in her blue eyes. I can always leave it her to treat a light question seriously, and I love the answers she gives. “I don’t know if it’s that I believe it, or that I want to believe it.” Her blue eyes flicker over to my eyes, and search through and over me. “I mean couldn’t you argue that everyone believes what they want to believe?” She shrugs. “Well…I don’t know. I believe that one day I will die, and I don’t particularly want to believe that.” “Point taken. So you want to believe in wishes in fountains?” She smiles in that far off way that lets me know that she’s only partly talking to me. “Believing what I want in some ways helps me when I have to believe the things that I don’t…like wishes in fountains somehow balance out the deaths and other inevitable ends.” We both sit in silence, and yet I feel perfectly comfortable in it. Every new thing I can learn about her gives me more to think about, and so my silences are filled anyways with a sort of inward, buzzing hum of activity. Eventually, my comfortable silence is broken. “We have to go back to work,” she mumbles. I wince. “Don’t remind me. Well, I guess I’ll see you on the other side.” and so I leave her and she waves at me from the shores of her own ocean. As I leave though, something catches my eye. A glint of silver flashes against her wrist- how had I not noticed it before? A bracelet with a small bird charm- and yet I know that I didn’t give it to her. It must be new. A thought crosses my mind. Some kid in her apartment building keeps giving her little gifts and cards. I know it shouldn’t bother me, but it does. He keeps harassing her with these unwanted attentions, and she’s just too nice to say anything about it. That, and she loves jewelry, which makes me grin to myself, knowing how she has a childlike adoration for pretty things. I don’t know if she realizes just how devoted this kid is getting to her- but that’s the beautiful thing about her pure, brilliant mind. She truly believes that everyone could have their own jewelry buddy in their apartment building. And so I let it go- and in part because of the secret I have planned. I know her favorite jewelry styles, from the catalogs she thinks I never see on her desk. Girls think that we’re so oblivious, don’t they? But I can take a hint. And so as I walk back in to the office, I reach into my pocket and pull out the black velvet box that has been my day’s amulet. I just picked it up yesterday evening- and tonight I get to give it to her, and see the joy and shock on her face. I get to make her dreams come true like she has made mine come true. And so, once the end of the work day comes, my routine feels strangely different. After I’ve gotten home and changed into a suit, doing my hair, and wearing the tie that she got me when we were each other’s Secret Santas at work “by accident,” I walk by the flower vendor that knows me by name now. “Damon,” he says with a smile, shaking my hand and looking me up and down. “Aren’t you dressed up? You clean up, nice kid.” His hand scratches mine, worn rough from age and work. A dimly shining ring gleams on his ring finger, and I remember the many times that he’s told me about his wife and kids, and his semi-retirement as a flower vendor. “Thanks, John.” I straighten my tie, feeling a high that I’ve never felt before. My hands and knees are shaking, and I only hope it doesn’t show. “You know, you could always wish me luck…” I try and hint as I hand him a 20 for the best bouquet of lilac colored roses (which are, of course, her favorite). “Luck?” He says with a huge grin. I take out that box, that amulet, that token of all my good fortune to come, and he claps his hand and pulls me into a warm embrace. “Son, you don’t need it. And you certainly aren’t paying for these.” He hands me back the 20, despite how I try to insist, and he pushes me away, saying, “Go! Go now! Don’t waste your time talking to an old man- you can talk to me all about it next time you need flowers for your lady!” It’s the same walk down her street, and yet it’s so different. It’s her apartment building, but I’m going up the stairs, and I’m walking up to her door, and my palms are sweating and every drop of my blood has been replaced with pulsing, coursing adrenaline. I knock on her door, and wait for what could well be an eternity. And then there she is, strawberry blonde hair, blue eyes, and a look of sweet confusion on her face. “Lana,” I say, and laugh a bit at myself, my awkwardness. “Damon.” she frowns, puzzled, and looks at the roses. “I brought you these,” I say, and hand her the lilac blooms, watching her eyelashes hover over them in wonder. “Damon, perhaps you better come inside.” A wave of dread washes over me. Lana, usually so warm, sounds cold and controlled. But it only makes sense that she would be nervous too. From this point on, our lives will be forever changed. I follow her inside, and the tie around my neck could well be strangling me. “Lana, I know you’re surprised.” “That’s putting it mildly.” she says, setting the flowers down on her kitchen counter, before looking at me with her arms crossed. “You have no idea how long I have waited for this moment- this moment when I can ask you the question we’ve both been waiting for, and where I can finally hear the words that tell me how beautiful our future will be.” I get down on one knee as her hands go up to her face, and tears well up in her eyes. I pull out the ring, and- “Stop. Damon, stop right now.” The weight of her words crash into me and leave me stunned. “Lana- what did I do wrong? I mean, how could you-?” She cuts me off, and the tears in her eyes stream down her face, “Damon, you don’t even know me! How did you even get my address?” I stand up, and she looks at me indignantly. “How can you ask me that, Lana?” “Damon, you show up here, dressed up, with a bouquet and a ring, and you don’t think that maybe I’d be a bit surprised? And with- with lilac roses, and,” she paces and nervously pulls on her hair, no longer playing with it like she does when she’s distracted or lost in thought, but actively pulling on it until I can see a few copper strands among her fingers. “Yes, lilac roses. Your favorite,” I say gently. I would give anything to have her calm down, to be able to see her quivering lips stop shaking and reach up to meet mine. “My what?” she says in barely a whisper. “How could you say that I don’t even know you? To know you is my only purpose, my one joy. I want my life to consist of knowing you. I know your address, your favorite roses, your goals-“ “Damon, what you know about me could be found on my Facebook page.” “Don’t say that,” my voice is level, reasonable. “I know what way you take home to work, what kind of takeout you get on Fridays, where you do your laundry, the names of your best friends, soon to be our best friends. And what I don’t know yet, I will learn.” “You know their names? You…you have followed me, watched me?” At first I was nervous but now I feel the hurt of a thousand knives piercing through me. “Follow you? I watch over you. I take care of you. You know that.” I reach up to touch her face, and she smacks it away angrily. “Do not touch me you creep! Leave! Leave now or-“ Like a gunshot her head strikes the kitchen counter, and she crumples, folding over and finally falling to the ground. I see it all in slow motion, and I know only one thing. It wasn’t my fault. She didn’t understand. She didn’t know how I loved her, dreamed of her, all only for her. I only am sorry that she will never know. Kneeling down beside her, her blue eyes are open, and tears are now in my eyes. Little trails of saltwater still gleam on her cheeks, and I put my hand over her chest, and wish to feel it beat. Come back. Why couldn’t you understand? I kiss her lips and it is nothing like I dreamed. Her hand does not reach up to my neck. I do not feel her smile against mine. Everything is still and everything is ruined. I reach into my pocket and pull out that black velvet box, that amulet I thought meant good fortune is clearly my curse. I slip it onto her ring finger and kiss it, weeping, howling like I’ve never done. The door opens and I hear a hopeful cry, “Lana?” That kid. Bracelet kid. I look up at him and he looks at me, looks at her, stunned. “This is all your fault.” I seethe. And it is. Bracelet boy, petty, little, bracelet boy. I stand up and we stand face to face like reflections, gaunt, tense, and filled with hatred for the person standing opposite them. Through the open door I can see a person walking by. I hear a scream, a muffled scream, and bracelet boy charges at me in a rage. “Don’t you dare touch her! You do not deserve to touch her!” He pummels me and my blood tastes sharp. I fight against him, but every part of me feels weak. Everything blurs together until finally I feel someone pulling us apart, pulling us up, away from- Lana. It’s the last I’ll ever see of her, and fight not to be taken from her, I wish they would let me stay with her. Her ring shines from upon her finger as I am finally taken away, and my mind will forever hold that picture clearly, that picture of when at the end, she was finally- if only for a fleeting moment- as much mine as I was hers. thanks to Samjo, my sis, and a couple others for the inspiration.
***** Deep breaths, key in the ignition. Brontë breathed deeply in and out as she felt the engine hum as she turned it on. When she felt it start she felt as though a weight was lifted off of her, and as she looked up at her parents’ house, she saw Alyce come to the large bay window by the door and wave her small fingers, smiling next to her grandmother. “Bye, mommy!” she mouthed over and over again, her tiny teeth forming a baby smile that Brontë wished she could keep forever. Brontë smiled and waved, and she caught her mother’s look of concern as she crouched next to Alyce. Her mother had looked like that for a while now, but Brontë had told her what all daughters tell their mothers when they aren’t ready to talk. “I’m fine.” And on good days, she really could believe that she was. Brontë drove down the orderly little street she had grown up on, the street with picket fence lined yards, small blossoming trees with tire swings attached to the front branches, and brightly colored shutters making houses look like the picture of a perfect childhood. And Brontë smiled again as she drove past these houses and remembered the names of her classmates. “We really were the lucky ones,” she whispered to herself. How many happy summers she could remember, running, biking, skating down the roads; feeling warm, chaotic winds tangle her hair, scraping her knees an endless amount of times as she fell while playing with her friends, and chasing one crazy idea after the other. Distant memories. Just like that the smile faded from her lips. As she pulled up to a stoplight nearing the center of town, she flipped down the visor and opened the mirror. “Still my same Brontë!” her father had cheerily said, while giving her a quick hug and kiss before chasing after his grandchild. But she wasn’t, was she? Still young, sure, but tired. Under her eyes looked careworn, and her hair, though clean and neat, was pulled into a quick braid, and badly needed a trim. She wore no makeup, she had never needed it. Now she wasn’t so sure. She gave her glasses a quick adjust and swiped on some lip balm. The driver behind her honked his horn, clearly impatient. The light had been green for a bit now, and she hadn’t even noticed. There was a lot Brontë hardly remembered, or barely noticed, and it filled her with such guilt when she realized just how overwhelmed she felt. The truth was, this was not how she imagined her life. She looked in the rearview mirror and gave it a quick adjustment. Towards the bottom of it she could see Alyce’s booster seat. 3 whole years old, and that girl was the most beautiful part of her life. It didn’t matter that the floor mats were covered in a fine dust of Cheerios, or that it smelled like the ghosts of juice boxes past. Didn’t matter that her tiny hands had left fingerprints all over the windows, or that countless vividly illustrated picture books covered the backseat. Alyce filled her world with brightness and curiosity- she jokingly told her husband, Malcolm, that Alyce led her through her own little looking-glass world. She lived in a constant state of wonder, always asking “Mommy, why?” and then sometimes thoughtfully answering her own question, dreaming up the solutions only children can see. No, Brontë couldn’t imagine a world without Alyce. She just longed for the world she and Malcolm had constructed in their dreams, 5 years ago when getting married seemed like the wackiest, most beautiful adventure they could have. Normally Brontë didn’t stop on her way to the park, but this time, she pulled into the drive through of the nearest coffee chain, Leaf & Bean. As she scanned the menu, tea on one side, and coffee on the other, out of habit she singled out the orders she would’ve gotten for Malcolm and Alyce. Double shot vanilla latte for Malcolm, very berry iced tea and a chocolate chip cookie for Alyce. For herself she usually just got a small house blend, but today… “Ma’am, I asked for your order?” the perky voice on the other side of the speaker sounded slightly perplexed, and anxious about the line of cars building behind Brontë. “Yes, so sorry. I’ll take a triple shot latte with a bit of cinnamon.” With order restored, the young girl happily chirped, “That’ll be 4.95, please pull up to the next window!” Brontë pulled up to the window and watched a few raindrops lightly tap against her windshield. The sky was mottled white and grey, like the back of a seagull’s wings, and soon there would be more rain. She pursed her lips into a concerned frown- would she get to the park before the showers came? The drive through window slid suddenly opened, and the relentlessly cheerful girl leaned towards Brontë, latte in hand, long brown ponytail swinging behind her tan visor. “That’ll be 4.95!” she repeated. Brontë fumbled in her wallet for a 5 dollar bill and the special punch card she could’ve sworn she had. Before she knew it, all the contents of her wallet had spilled over the passenger seat. She sighed and handed the money to the girl, who was wearing a pitying expression that she found incredibly irritating. Calm down, she doesn’t mean to be insulting. You’re just ridiculously on edge today. She held the warm coffee cup close, and adjusted the heat. For a May day, there was an edge to the weather, and as she drove towards the park, she began to wonder just how much time she’d have at her favorite bench. The Bixby Memorial Park was the pet project of a prominent landscaper who had lived in Harwinton anonymously after his retirement. The town named his little oasis after the benefactor who funded it, simply because the architect wished to remain nameless at all costs. So it was that a town that shouldn’t have gotten a park so artfully done, was named after someone who shouldn’t have gotten the glory, and Brontë who should’ve left that town ages ago, ended up spending much of her time at a park bench that she shouldn’t have found in the first place, wondering about the nameless architect instead of memorializing the dead benefactor. Today she was just driving to avoid the rain, and willing herself to try and focus on the road. She was almost surprised she made it to the park without getting pulled over or running any red lights. Only as she parked under the leaves of the large elm trees bordering the park did the rain really and truly begin. Sheets of rain turned the air silver, and Brontë had no choice but to just sit back in her seat, sip her coffee, and wait. She glanced over at the contents of her wallet, and was about to put everything back in order when she stopped. Her wedding picture. “Sentimental to the core,” Malcolm teased whenever he came across the wallet-sized picture of their wedding that she kept with her. She would wrinkle her nose and he would laugh- how long had it been since he had teased her? She looked at the picture; her with her hair and makeup looking pristine, lace on her dress, and a blue sash at her waist. He and his messy brown hair finally styled into place, that grin that she had fallen in love with so many times. He was grinning at the camera, and she was looking at him like she couldn’t see anything or anyone else. Her coffee grew colder by the second as she held the picture, rubbing her thumb over the wrinkles and creases. Every time she came to this park she thought of those walks they would take on the winding paths under the elm trees, leading to the duck pond, and then to the rose garden. His fingers would entwine with hers, and he’d wait until none of the workers were nearby and whisper in her ear, “Pick one!” She’d quickly pick out which rose was her favorite, and he’d carefully and quickly, avoiding the thorns as best he could, take it for her, and they’d rush to their bench, laughing like school kids. On that bench they’d paint out their future. Some days they’d plan on being world travelers, living out of suitcases, wearing out their sneakers. Other days they’d dream up a family of a dozen kids in a country home, trying their hand at raising chickens and selling food out of their garden at the farmer’s market. Her favorite memory though was the day she laughed and said, “Seriously though. Whatever life you want, whatever life we want. Let’s go for it. I promise, anything we can come up with, anything we can dream up, I want to find a way to get it and live it.” He looked seriously at her earnest, uplifted eyes, and lifted her hand to his mouth. After kissing it he seemed lost in thought. As he looked down at her hand, he seemed to search carefully for his words before he said, “Your hand in mine. That’s the only dream I need to keep me going right now. Everything else will just fall into place, just so long as I have your hand in mine.” She came to the park alone now. She didn’t just miss romantic gestures- she wished he would come home before Alyce went to bed some nights. She wished they could just sit out in the front lawn and look up at the stars on clear nights. She wished she knew that this life they had built really was their dream come true, but she wondered if maybe now she had to admit to herself that it wasn’t. It could’ve been her dream, this life she had. Her life really should’ve been beautiful. But the truth was, her hand wasn’t in his very often at all, and she felt as though her timing was vitally off. Every time her hand was outstretched his back turned, and she just wished they could get back in sync. She almost waited at the park a bit longer, but she couldn’t just sit there anymore. She knew what she had to do. Her car had driven this route so many times before, from park to home, down a number of little side streets by a number of townhouses. She didn’t even need to think about the way home to get there, though she felt bitterness swallow her stomach as she got closer. What did she expect? What she had already known for so long. Her heart sank as she stopped 4 houses away. Her hands fell from the steering wheel, and she just sat looking at the two cars in the driveway. The tears that should’ve come, couldn’t. That was Malcolm’s car, and he knew that Brontë always spent Tuesday afternoons running errands while Alyce was with her grandparents. That was her neighbor Britt’s car, Britt who smiled at her at every preschool open house night while laughing at every word Malcolm said. Where was there to go now? What was there to do? She wouldn’t storm in and embarrass herself as much as him. She just couldn’t understand how she ended up in this car, on this road in the first place. This was the life they both asked for, and it turns out it wasn’t what either of them wanted. Alyce. Tears only came then. Did he wonder how much Alyce missed him, drew pictures for him, made plans with him, and waited up every night hoping he’d come home before she went to sleep? Did Britt get annoyed every time she saw Alyce at school functions, think she was an inconvenience? Brontë began to sob and her own voice scared her. Her head began to pound and she pressed her palms to her temples just to try and press away the incessant throbbing she felt. She threw the picture out of her lap and on to the floor. Change still covered the front seat, and only then she realized Alyce had left her stuffed giraffe, Safi, in her car seat. She caught a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror and almost laughed, but her laugh sounded almost as frightening as her cries. Eventually she rested her head on the steering wheel, and just listened to the rain against the windshield and the steady back and forth scraping of the wipers. Minutes that felt like hours passed, and she looked up to find that both cars were still there- nothing had changed. And she still didn’t know what to do, but she opened her stinging eyes and picked up the picture. Scooping everything from her wallet into her purse, she reached back and grabbed the floppy little giraffe, placing it on her lap. Deep breaths, key in the ignition. |
Skylar ShawI write to give myself strength. ArchivesCategories |