Ron imagined a hole in the top of Gary’s head: something with a simple screw-in lid, thin metal painted matte black. He could open it up while Gary was sleeping and pour in what he liked. Facts and ideas and all the certainties overflowing from his own mind that found no space in Gary’s because Gary’s head was full of opinions and assumptions he carried around like old stale water. Because Gary never opened his mind.
Tag Archives: fiction
Folding Laundry
Sock meets other sock. Underwear folds down the middle, sits loose on the stack. Fold shirt lengthwise, fold sleeves in, fold crosswise, add to the stack.
Stan found little soothing in the repetition. He hated doing laundry. Hated the tedium of it, the inane ritual that had to be done over and over. Up to him, he’d be dressing from a pile heaped high on the other side of the bed. Wrinkles come out if you hang them in the bathroom when you shower. They’re just as clean in a heap as they are on a hanger.
Our Hero
The hero stood at the mirror, dimly lit and lightly stubbled. He rubbed his square jaw thoughtfully and considered shaving. There might be cameras. He decided there wasn’t time, shut off the light, and walked out of the apartment with his coat in his hand.
The streets bustled around him in the late morning sun. The construction site was across town. He’d rather have taken the bus, had some time for a little of the morning paper, but it didn’t sound like the workers trapped under all that earth had time. As soon as there was enough space around him he jumped into the air and started flying hundreds of feet over the streets.
The sky was peaceful. He was too low for aircraft, and most of the birds stayed out of his way, so he had the space to himself. People waved at him from high-rise windows. A pretty young woman blew him a kiss and he smiled. Maybe he would look her up later. Sometimes it was all right being the hero.
It was a lot of work, though. He didn’t have to work on strength or speed, but he had to keep his fighting skills up. And there was a lot of physics that most people never had to consider. He never knew when he might be needed, so he didn’t have much time for a life. His wife had left him three years ago because he could never be there, because people needed him and he was always there for them and never there for her. He didn’t really blame her. His life wasn’t really his, so he couldn’t really give it to her.
The woman in the high rise had carmine lipstick and warm brown eyes. Liz had hazel eyes, the left a little greener than the right. The sun in her left eye used to take his breath away. It sounded funny, and it felt uncomfortable, like a shirt that didn’t quite fit. He wasn’t totally sure of his memories after PsioPod’s mind-control beam.
The site was about a quarter-mile away, so he started his descent. He saw the construction crew working madly to save their friends. A couple of them saw him coming, but nobody stopped working. He could hear the men breathing underground, so he would be in time.
Maybe he could grab a bagel from the food truck afterwards.
Djanelle
The street and the city wanted to coalesce around and center on Djanelle as she moved down the sidewalk, the quick measured click-click-click-click of her heels on the concrete like the march of a liberating general. She wanted to think everyone’s eyes were on her. She wanted to feel the hush of wonder and awe rippling out from her, to ride that wave of stunned admiration past the storefronts and bus-stop benches straight into the office.
Ghosts and Corn Stalks
Our homes remember.
They record the details of our lives better than memory. Feelings linger like a scent in the carpet. The walls give back our passions in echoes not subject to entropy. It’s why we build windows: to let in the light, and to let fade those ghosts that hold us too close to our past. A fresh breeze carries away the smell. Forgetting is a blessing, sometimes, because even silence can echo.
