Someone else might have said it was because he loved her that Jazz refused to give up. Might have been because, in this whole crazy universe, the stars and planets and billions of years of history had conspired to bring Kate and Jazz to this moment. It was as if to confirm that they were meant to be with one another. That they were destined not to perish on that doomed planet, and that the power of love could overcome any obstacle. Truth was, he was looking at her rack, and the thought of never seeing those cha-chas again was too much to bear.
Katy looked over, her face painted with terror. It wasn’t a look Jazz recalled ever seeing there. It said that she was nearly out of hope. She strained to hold on. Skull boy was a burden she just couldn’t bear any longer.
“Stop looking at my boobs,” she snapped. “This might be a good time to come up with a plan!”
The ship skidded along the riverbed, bouncing and banging off various obstacles. Boulders and debris crashed all around. Any one of them could easily smash the ship, or the bridge for that matter. Even if they didn’t it was apparent the ship would tumble past out of reach. Jazz looked wildly around. He was running out of time in more ways than he could count.
A large beam angled away over the river. It was flat on one side and if he could swing his body enough there was a better than even chance he could reach it. On the down side, there wasn’t a whole lot to hold onto, and if he missed, well, best not to think of the negatives.
Jazz swung back and forth for a little extra momentum. He let go and for a moment was airborne. It didn’t last long. Jazz landed hard, catching the beam in the gut and knocking the breath out of him. Hauling him self up Jazz half jogged, half skidded along the beam. He’d only gone a couple of yards before one of those boulders crashed into the bridge flipping him into the air.
At that moment the ship appeared directly beneath him. Jazz yelled and knew he’d hit hard. He slammed onto the rear of the craft and nearly bounced free. At the last instant he held tight to one of the stabilizers. He was getting too damn old for this crap, he thought, scrambling over the fuselage to the cockpit. He climbed in and pressed the ignition and nothing happened.
“You son of a …!” he hit the button again and this time the engines roared to life, and not a moment too soon.
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Friday, May 28, 2010
Monday, April 5, 2010
Emmetsburg: Eighty
They were gathered tightly above him. Some of the faces were familiar. Others were strangers to him. One of the soldiers was waving people back, urging the others to give John some air, as if air could undo the mortal damage done to his body, as if air could stop the crimson blood flowing freely from John’s body into the warm Iowa soil.
The rain had moved off. A thunderhead grew in the distance. John watched it grow along an axis, spreading across the eastern sky, Like floating white-capped mountains. It was like another world that he could well imagine among the folds, the contours and plunging canyons. He imagined towns and roads and farms where love and life were idyllic. Not like this one, burdened with sin and guilt and pain.
Someone wiped sweat and dirt from his face. He could no longer feel it, much as he could no longer hear the voices, the birds fluttering in the yard or the Myron Himmel weeping nearby. Life was falling away, darkening at the edges. It was losing focus, everything but that distant thunderhead, which felt like a destination. It felt like home, and like home broke his heart and gave him hope just the same.
Anna pushed through the circle of faces around him. Kneeling cradled his head, her expression somewhere between a forgiving smile and unfathomable grief. For John seeing her was the ultimate destination. Whatever awaited him beyond the threshold of this life, it was her face that would see him through. There was nothing more. There was no sadness, no guilt, no sense that he was leaving the world too early. Worries and recriminations are the fantasies of romantics and novelists. In the end it all comes to nothing, sweet beautiful nothing. Death comes. Death comes.
The rain had moved off. A thunderhead grew in the distance. John watched it grow along an axis, spreading across the eastern sky, Like floating white-capped mountains. It was like another world that he could well imagine among the folds, the contours and plunging canyons. He imagined towns and roads and farms where love and life were idyllic. Not like this one, burdened with sin and guilt and pain.
Someone wiped sweat and dirt from his face. He could no longer feel it, much as he could no longer hear the voices, the birds fluttering in the yard or the Myron Himmel weeping nearby. Life was falling away, darkening at the edges. It was losing focus, everything but that distant thunderhead, which felt like a destination. It felt like home, and like home broke his heart and gave him hope just the same.
Anna pushed through the circle of faces around him. Kneeling cradled his head, her expression somewhere between a forgiving smile and unfathomable grief. For John seeing her was the ultimate destination. Whatever awaited him beyond the threshold of this life, it was her face that would see him through. There was nothing more. There was no sadness, no guilt, no sense that he was leaving the world too early. Worries and recriminations are the fantasies of romantics and novelists. In the end it all comes to nothing, sweet beautiful nothing. Death comes. Death comes.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Emmetsburg:sixty-six
There was a wagon parked in the road, hitched to a weathered brown mare. The mare looked every bit as old and wise as the owner. A simple silent language passed between them as the farmer struggled a bit into the wagon. The horse watched and waited patiently before starting up the road almost before the famer had a steady hold on the reigns. They were a poem together, each part integrally and intimately in precise sync with the other.
John followed the farmer up the road, where they turned into a small driveway. It felt like entering another world. It was a small sheltered yard. The little wood-frame house was nearly hidden beneath the branches of full trees. There was a tool shed and long chicken coop out back. A Model T and small tractor were parked together between the house and coop. Through a gap in the trees, upon a hillcrest perhaps a quarter mile away, a weathered red barn was silhouetted against the building storm.
John climbed from the truck and stretched his back with a groan. The farmer unhitched the mare and patted her hip. She sauntered over to deepening grass in the yard,dipping her head and nibbling until she found the tastiest spot.
“Hell of a place to sleep,” said the farmer coming around the front of the truck.
“That it is,” John agreed twisting and stretching the knots and ghost pains from his body..
They went inside through the back door, into the kitchen. The place was neat and had been well kept. There was a tiredness to that neatness, as if the farmer’s care was starting to fray at the edges. Early morning light charging through the windows warmed and brightened the room, giving life to the wooden floor and the oval red rug in front of the basin and counter.
John sat at a small blond wooden table. In the center, hanging neatly off one end was a pretty white lace doillie. It was inlaid with with green and red flowers. The craftwork was flawless, and reminded John of his grandmother’s work, despite a few stains discoloring the fabric here and there. Those stains were set into the weave as though they had been there for years, or had been drawn into the design from the beginning.. In the center of the table, beside a vase of fresh bright and blue wild flowers was a small oriental tea cup partly filled with salt and a teaspoon.
The farmer built a fire in the belly of the black iron stove. The umber scent of soft wood catching flame warmed the room. There was a heavy iron skillet on the stove top. The old man scooped a spoon full of thick pale white grease from a ceramic pot and pushed it around the inside of the skillet until it melted clear. From the ice box he took a couple cooked pork shops and set them on the counter. The kitchen suddenly filled with their pepper and herb smell.
A cool comfortable breeze moved through from the front of the house. It carried with it a certain emptiness, as though reminding those in the house of someone’s absence.. It carried the scent of timeless memories, and of a lifetime John could scarcely fathom. He watched the old man grind coffee beans, fascinated, as though he had known him forever.
John followed the farmer up the road, where they turned into a small driveway. It felt like entering another world. It was a small sheltered yard. The little wood-frame house was nearly hidden beneath the branches of full trees. There was a tool shed and long chicken coop out back. A Model T and small tractor were parked together between the house and coop. Through a gap in the trees, upon a hillcrest perhaps a quarter mile away, a weathered red barn was silhouetted against the building storm.
John climbed from the truck and stretched his back with a groan. The farmer unhitched the mare and patted her hip. She sauntered over to deepening grass in the yard,dipping her head and nibbling until she found the tastiest spot.
“Hell of a place to sleep,” said the farmer coming around the front of the truck.
“That it is,” John agreed twisting and stretching the knots and ghost pains from his body..
They went inside through the back door, into the kitchen. The place was neat and had been well kept. There was a tiredness to that neatness, as if the farmer’s care was starting to fray at the edges. Early morning light charging through the windows warmed and brightened the room, giving life to the wooden floor and the oval red rug in front of the basin and counter.
John sat at a small blond wooden table. In the center, hanging neatly off one end was a pretty white lace doillie. It was inlaid with with green and red flowers. The craftwork was flawless, and reminded John of his grandmother’s work, despite a few stains discoloring the fabric here and there. Those stains were set into the weave as though they had been there for years, or had been drawn into the design from the beginning.. In the center of the table, beside a vase of fresh bright and blue wild flowers was a small oriental tea cup partly filled with salt and a teaspoon.
The farmer built a fire in the belly of the black iron stove. The umber scent of soft wood catching flame warmed the room. There was a heavy iron skillet on the stove top. The old man scooped a spoon full of thick pale white grease from a ceramic pot and pushed it around the inside of the skillet until it melted clear. From the ice box he took a couple cooked pork shops and set them on the counter. The kitchen suddenly filled with their pepper and herb smell.
A cool comfortable breeze moved through from the front of the house. It carried with it a certain emptiness, as though reminding those in the house of someone’s absence.. It carried the scent of timeless memories, and of a lifetime John could scarcely fathom. He watched the old man grind coffee beans, fascinated, as though he had known him forever.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Emmetsburg: Sixty-one
Pale. It was a larger than usual rabble in front of Himmel's General store in Mallard. There was a tension to the tight clusters of men. It was the weight and the ominous uncertainty born from men's convictions. It was, in a very real sense, a war council.
The day was overcast and humid. An unseasonably cool wind came out of Canada, bringing a weight to the day that gave some the sense of impending calamity, and others the feeling of a funeral, like the injustice of a child's burial in which there are no decent resolutions.
In the distance, a muddled pillar of smoke rose to meet those shrouded gray clouds. Now and then the men collected in front of Himmel's would look to that smoke with something approaching resignation, but more akin to guilt. They knew. If they hadn't known then, they all knew now, and by being here shared in that common action. Invariably, when they looked, their eyes drew a line to what they knew were the smoldering remains of C.W. Saunder's home.
Myron Himmel knew as well. He knew more than the others and felt doomed for his part in the crime. Standing in the road, in the shadow of the church across the road, Myron wondered if the path to redemption was in throwing himself upon the alter and confessing his crimes before Jesus Christ, or whether seeing this through was the surer path.
It wasn't simple enough to choose sides. The sides had been chosen for him. It wasn't simple enough to paint one side good and the other evil. Each side was right and wrong in equal proportions. It was just that as each side dug in their heals harder and harder, each side abandoning the foolish notion of compromise, the fight became more about ego and past transgressions than about a mutually beneficial resolution. Each side demonized the other in ever darkening degrees so that now all that remained was to vanquish and destroy the other side. All this for the words of fools and the specter of fear in men’s hearts.
Avery came up and stood beside Myron. Neither acknowledged the other right off. Their gaze was fixed upon the smoke rolling lazily skyward from C.W.'s house. An hour ago that smoke had been black and boiling. It was a softer gray now, just a bit darker than the clouds that consumed it ultimately. Avery looked over at Myron, trying to figure what was going through his mind. It didn't take a lot of figuring.
“It's a hard thing,” said Avery
Myron didn't answer right away. Avery could see that the boy was tearing himself to pieces, which was dangerous at a moment like this.
“Took a big step today,” said Avery. He looked up the road again. “They have to know that we are serious.”
“Don't know, Mister Lysander.”
“What would your father have done?”
Again, Myron didn't answer right off. He'd come upon a single thought in answer to Avery's question. It was the clearest and steadiest he'd had since his father'd passed. The boy looked to the ground, changed deeply by the morning's events. If he had looked over at Avery that moment he would have seen the man for what he truly was. He might have, but Myron never looked over.
“Don't think my dad would have gone for all this.” Myron could almost hear his father's voice.
“Knew your dad a lot of years, boy,' said Avery, with a scolding quality. He wasn't about to allow any of this to unravel. “One thing he wouldn't stand for was bad men taking advantage of poor hardworking folks. He wouldn't let some bureaucrat destroy lives with the stroke of a pen. Am I right? I am, ain't I?”
Myron squinted, still struggling. He replied, but certainly unconvinced. “Suppose.”
“Alot of us took a big risk coming out to stop those inspectors from ruining everything your father worked and sweated his whole life to build. We didn't have to do that. Not one of us asked anything in return, but that don't mean you don't have some responsibility here too.”
Myron chewed his lip, more confused and conflicted than ever. He looked over at Avery, his head still hung heavily. “Heard the Governor might call out the National Guard. They say maybe Hoover himself might get involved.”
“They don't dare.”
“After this morning?”
“They brought this on themselves,” said Avery. His hand slid along the boy's shoulder to hold him by the back of the neck. It wasn't enough to hurt him much, but enough to hold the boy's undivided attention. Avery leaned close. From the corner of his eye he could see Big Bill Connolly headed his way.
“Remember this, if you don't remember nothing else,” Avery's voice was filled with venom. “You are in this with the rest of us up to your neck. You best remember that if one of us goes down we're all gonna swing by the neck if it comes to a real fight.”
The day was overcast and humid. An unseasonably cool wind came out of Canada, bringing a weight to the day that gave some the sense of impending calamity, and others the feeling of a funeral, like the injustice of a child's burial in which there are no decent resolutions.
In the distance, a muddled pillar of smoke rose to meet those shrouded gray clouds. Now and then the men collected in front of Himmel's would look to that smoke with something approaching resignation, but more akin to guilt. They knew. If they hadn't known then, they all knew now, and by being here shared in that common action. Invariably, when they looked, their eyes drew a line to what they knew were the smoldering remains of C.W. Saunder's home.
Myron Himmel knew as well. He knew more than the others and felt doomed for his part in the crime. Standing in the road, in the shadow of the church across the road, Myron wondered if the path to redemption was in throwing himself upon the alter and confessing his crimes before Jesus Christ, or whether seeing this through was the surer path.
It wasn't simple enough to choose sides. The sides had been chosen for him. It wasn't simple enough to paint one side good and the other evil. Each side was right and wrong in equal proportions. It was just that as each side dug in their heals harder and harder, each side abandoning the foolish notion of compromise, the fight became more about ego and past transgressions than about a mutually beneficial resolution. Each side demonized the other in ever darkening degrees so that now all that remained was to vanquish and destroy the other side. All this for the words of fools and the specter of fear in men’s hearts.
Avery came up and stood beside Myron. Neither acknowledged the other right off. Their gaze was fixed upon the smoke rolling lazily skyward from C.W.'s house. An hour ago that smoke had been black and boiling. It was a softer gray now, just a bit darker than the clouds that consumed it ultimately. Avery looked over at Myron, trying to figure what was going through his mind. It didn't take a lot of figuring.
“It's a hard thing,” said Avery
Myron didn't answer right away. Avery could see that the boy was tearing himself to pieces, which was dangerous at a moment like this.
“Took a big step today,” said Avery. He looked up the road again. “They have to know that we are serious.”
“Don't know, Mister Lysander.”
“What would your father have done?”
Again, Myron didn't answer right off. He'd come upon a single thought in answer to Avery's question. It was the clearest and steadiest he'd had since his father'd passed. The boy looked to the ground, changed deeply by the morning's events. If he had looked over at Avery that moment he would have seen the man for what he truly was. He might have, but Myron never looked over.
“Don't think my dad would have gone for all this.” Myron could almost hear his father's voice.
“Knew your dad a lot of years, boy,' said Avery, with a scolding quality. He wasn't about to allow any of this to unravel. “One thing he wouldn't stand for was bad men taking advantage of poor hardworking folks. He wouldn't let some bureaucrat destroy lives with the stroke of a pen. Am I right? I am, ain't I?”
Myron squinted, still struggling. He replied, but certainly unconvinced. “Suppose.”
“Alot of us took a big risk coming out to stop those inspectors from ruining everything your father worked and sweated his whole life to build. We didn't have to do that. Not one of us asked anything in return, but that don't mean you don't have some responsibility here too.”
Myron chewed his lip, more confused and conflicted than ever. He looked over at Avery, his head still hung heavily. “Heard the Governor might call out the National Guard. They say maybe Hoover himself might get involved.”
“They don't dare.”
“After this morning?”
“They brought this on themselves,” said Avery. His hand slid along the boy's shoulder to hold him by the back of the neck. It wasn't enough to hurt him much, but enough to hold the boy's undivided attention. Avery leaned close. From the corner of his eye he could see Big Bill Connolly headed his way.
“Remember this, if you don't remember nothing else,” Avery's voice was filled with venom. “You are in this with the rest of us up to your neck. You best remember that if one of us goes down we're all gonna swing by the neck if it comes to a real fight.”
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Emmetsburg: Fifty-nine
Emily stood and started for the river with the coffee pot. There was a narrow trail through the trees along the bank. Emily turned for him, beckoning with a smile that was somewhere between seduction and eternal disappointment. She disappeared through the trees into the darkness. John followed, finding her at the bank.
She was silhouetted against the inky darkness of the river. Off in the distance heat lightening flashed silently. There was a storm off towards des Moines, seemingly another world away. Fireflies filled the warm night air. It was a shade cooler here by the river, the trickling obsidian waters whispering lazily by. She crouched at the river's edge and dipped the pot in the water.
“Don't know if your dad knew what to make of me when I pulled up,” John searched for something to say. “Strange fella showing up unannounced.”
“Papa had himself a stroke last year. Ain't been himself since. Then we lost the farm. Think that was the worst for him.”
“And you?”
“Ain't never been able to call no place home for very long.” Emily stood, holding the pot with both hands. She shrugged. “Can't miss what you never had, right?”
She was close to him now. Emily looked up at John, sort of mulling him over in her mind. John found he suddenly had the urge to kiss her. In fact, hungered for her lips as he had never hungered for a woman before. His desire for her raged beyond all control. If only he could muster the courage, If only she offered some sign that she felt the same he would have happily tumbled to the ground with her, pushing up her dress, devouring and tasting her. He would make passionate love to her love, spilling over and into her all his desire, grief and anger.
“Didn't much have a taste for coffee,” he said.
“I figured,” she replied softly, at hardly more than a whisper.
John gently lifted the pot from her hands and set it on the ground. He reached up and cradled her face, surprised at the coolness of her soft cheeks. Emily's hands went to his sides.
¨Could you love me?¨ she asked. Emily pressed her belly against John. She marveled at the perfection of that fit. She warmed with the mutual rush of excitement. Emily found eternity in his eyes. But there are different views on eternity.
As for John, he found more than one answer to his question. There was, almost overpowering all reason, the answer of the moment and his body. It was a moment filled with excitement and discovery, as if her body and the unpredictability of her movements, of the promise of furtive breaths, the taste of her lips, of moans and cries of ecstasy were a new culture and mysterious land begging to be explored. And there was the moment of his soul and of Anna. In each answer there was Louis's insinuation, and this moments demand for greater context and importance. His reply belied John's strident revolt against that larger question.
“I could.”
She might have kissed him. John was far too terrified to undertake that himself. She would have kissed him, but there was something behind the words. Not reluctance, necessarily, but a shadow of something else. Emily couldn't say exactly, but it was as though, to John, she wasn't a destination, but a waypoint on a greater journey. And that was something she did not care for anymore. It was a need she recognized within herself better.
Emily touched his face. John turned and kissed the palm of her hand.. His lips lingered there, where he breathed in the perfume of her palm. They remained frozen there for a time, almost as if consoling one another over the loss of a friend, or over the passing of an opportunity. Slowly they drew apart and faced the river.
She was silhouetted against the inky darkness of the river. Off in the distance heat lightening flashed silently. There was a storm off towards des Moines, seemingly another world away. Fireflies filled the warm night air. It was a shade cooler here by the river, the trickling obsidian waters whispering lazily by. She crouched at the river's edge and dipped the pot in the water.
“Don't know if your dad knew what to make of me when I pulled up,” John searched for something to say. “Strange fella showing up unannounced.”
“Papa had himself a stroke last year. Ain't been himself since. Then we lost the farm. Think that was the worst for him.”
“And you?”
“Ain't never been able to call no place home for very long.” Emily stood, holding the pot with both hands. She shrugged. “Can't miss what you never had, right?”
She was close to him now. Emily looked up at John, sort of mulling him over in her mind. John found he suddenly had the urge to kiss her. In fact, hungered for her lips as he had never hungered for a woman before. His desire for her raged beyond all control. If only he could muster the courage, If only she offered some sign that she felt the same he would have happily tumbled to the ground with her, pushing up her dress, devouring and tasting her. He would make passionate love to her love, spilling over and into her all his desire, grief and anger.
“Didn't much have a taste for coffee,” he said.
“I figured,” she replied softly, at hardly more than a whisper.
John gently lifted the pot from her hands and set it on the ground. He reached up and cradled her face, surprised at the coolness of her soft cheeks. Emily's hands went to his sides.
¨Could you love me?¨ she asked. Emily pressed her belly against John. She marveled at the perfection of that fit. She warmed with the mutual rush of excitement. Emily found eternity in his eyes. But there are different views on eternity.
As for John, he found more than one answer to his question. There was, almost overpowering all reason, the answer of the moment and his body. It was a moment filled with excitement and discovery, as if her body and the unpredictability of her movements, of the promise of furtive breaths, the taste of her lips, of moans and cries of ecstasy were a new culture and mysterious land begging to be explored. And there was the moment of his soul and of Anna. In each answer there was Louis's insinuation, and this moments demand for greater context and importance. His reply belied John's strident revolt against that larger question.
“I could.”
She might have kissed him. John was far too terrified to undertake that himself. She would have kissed him, but there was something behind the words. Not reluctance, necessarily, but a shadow of something else. Emily couldn't say exactly, but it was as though, to John, she wasn't a destination, but a waypoint on a greater journey. And that was something she did not care for anymore. It was a need she recognized within herself better.
Emily touched his face. John turned and kissed the palm of her hand.. His lips lingered there, where he breathed in the perfume of her palm. They remained frozen there for a time, almost as if consoling one another over the loss of a friend, or over the passing of an opportunity. Slowly they drew apart and faced the river.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Emmetsburg: Fifty-eight
She was so very different from Anna. Long brushed autumn hair was drawn back smartly from her narrow features. Even in this light John was aware of the subdued nature of her blue eyes, which seemed to catch fire the moment they met John's, as if she recognized him from somewhere without knowing where exactly. There was the slightest tension to her brow. It betrayed some distant tragedy, some scar that had healed itself mostly.The woman paused. She looked at John a little strangely, as if she was about to greet him by name.
She appeared so terribly familiar to him as well. It was an impossible notion.. Still, even John could not readily dismiss the idea. He found himself smiling at her without hardly realizing.
“Mama, you sit,” she brushed back a lock of hair.
She laid a hand on the old man’s shoulder. Her eye’s held John’s, with a beckoning sort of sexuality.
“Don’t mean to be a bother,” he said.
“No bother, stranger,” she paused near enough to John for him to become aware of the scent of a cigarette on her breath. His gaze fell to her partially bared breast, something she seemed not to particularly bothered by.
John followed her to the fire. His attention was fully on the motion of her shapely hips and buttocks beneath the dress' thin material. He mapped those subtle movements, mapping the figure beneath She paused looking back over her shoulder, and smiled coyly. She continued again, the dress flowing in perfect harmony with the crackling fire.
There was a big metal coffee pot on a smooth stone beside the fire. It was scorched black on the bottom, and part way up the sides. The rest of the pot was scratched dented and dulled by years of use. Three tin cups, just as dented as the pot, stood beside it, turned upside down on a log. There were two more dining chairs to either side of the stone. She lifted the pot. John went to the fire, hoping he wasn't being so obvious in his surprisingly sudden and intense attraction for her.
“Running?” she asked, almost matter of fact.
“Sorry?”
“Not that I care. I mean, it ain't none of my business. Just, I have a knack for picking out lost souls.”
“That so,” John replied, trying not to let on.
“Don't mean for the law, or nothing like that.”
“Didn't take it that way.”
“Everybody 'round here's running from something,” she shrugged, opening the lid on the pot and peering inside.
“And what are you running from?” John knelt by the fire.
“Me?” she laughed. There was a history in that laugh. She sat at the edge of one of the chairs. She looked skyward, following the sparks into the night sky. As a child she thought they were angels returning to heaven.
“Long story,” she said.
“Don't mean to pry.”
He held her eyes again. Or rather she held his, almost refusing to let them go. They warmed him, and made him feel electric. It made him feel like that first time with Anna. John felt younger for it, and innocent again, something he thought he'd lost in the war.
She took a deep breath, lifted her shoulders and let it out slowly. “Hust not in the habit of airing my laundry to strangers.”
“John,” he replied almost immediately. “John Perkins.”
“John,” she repeated thoughtfully, holding the word and pondering it. “That's agood name. I'm Emily. Emily Bauer.”
She extended a hand as he came over. Emily was relieved that the glowing fire concealed the blush in her cheeks. He took her hand in a gentlemanly way, almost bending to kiss it, but thinking better of that. She liked him, and found she could hardly keep from smiling herslf. He was a brief and gentle current upon a sea she felt lost upon. He was her savior of the moment. He was an elixer but not a cure.
As for John, he could feel himself getting swept away with her. He wished to fall to her, take her into his arms and kiss her. She was a fresh country for a man who believed he had lost his. Her eyes fell to the gold band on his finger and lingered here.
“Got my own long story,” he said.
“That's your business.”
She appeared so terribly familiar to him as well. It was an impossible notion.. Still, even John could not readily dismiss the idea. He found himself smiling at her without hardly realizing.
“Mama, you sit,” she brushed back a lock of hair.
She laid a hand on the old man’s shoulder. Her eye’s held John’s, with a beckoning sort of sexuality.
“Don’t mean to be a bother,” he said.
“No bother, stranger,” she paused near enough to John for him to become aware of the scent of a cigarette on her breath. His gaze fell to her partially bared breast, something she seemed not to particularly bothered by.
John followed her to the fire. His attention was fully on the motion of her shapely hips and buttocks beneath the dress' thin material. He mapped those subtle movements, mapping the figure beneath She paused looking back over her shoulder, and smiled coyly. She continued again, the dress flowing in perfect harmony with the crackling fire.
There was a big metal coffee pot on a smooth stone beside the fire. It was scorched black on the bottom, and part way up the sides. The rest of the pot was scratched dented and dulled by years of use. Three tin cups, just as dented as the pot, stood beside it, turned upside down on a log. There were two more dining chairs to either side of the stone. She lifted the pot. John went to the fire, hoping he wasn't being so obvious in his surprisingly sudden and intense attraction for her.
“Running?” she asked, almost matter of fact.
“Sorry?”
“Not that I care. I mean, it ain't none of my business. Just, I have a knack for picking out lost souls.”
“That so,” John replied, trying not to let on.
“Don't mean for the law, or nothing like that.”
“Didn't take it that way.”
“Everybody 'round here's running from something,” she shrugged, opening the lid on the pot and peering inside.
“And what are you running from?” John knelt by the fire.
“Me?” she laughed. There was a history in that laugh. She sat at the edge of one of the chairs. She looked skyward, following the sparks into the night sky. As a child she thought they were angels returning to heaven.
“Long story,” she said.
“Don't mean to pry.”
He held her eyes again. Or rather she held his, almost refusing to let them go. They warmed him, and made him feel electric. It made him feel like that first time with Anna. John felt younger for it, and innocent again, something he thought he'd lost in the war.
She took a deep breath, lifted her shoulders and let it out slowly. “Hust not in the habit of airing my laundry to strangers.”
“John,” he replied almost immediately. “John Perkins.”
“John,” she repeated thoughtfully, holding the word and pondering it. “That's agood name. I'm Emily. Emily Bauer.”
She extended a hand as he came over. Emily was relieved that the glowing fire concealed the blush in her cheeks. He took her hand in a gentlemanly way, almost bending to kiss it, but thinking better of that. She liked him, and found she could hardly keep from smiling herslf. He was a brief and gentle current upon a sea she felt lost upon. He was her savior of the moment. He was an elixer but not a cure.
As for John, he could feel himself getting swept away with her. He wished to fall to her, take her into his arms and kiss her. She was a fresh country for a man who believed he had lost his. Her eyes fell to the gold band on his finger and lingered here.
“Got my own long story,” he said.
“That's your business.”
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Emmetsburg: Fifty-six
Vermillion rose from the umber haze and lavender dusk, like a ghost, like a destination; a concoction of umber shadows, like tombstones set against the dying horizon. Not that the town was John’s intended destination necessarily. Not that it wasn’t either. Outrunning fate, he figured, could entail the smallest of actions as well as the boldest. A body is always a heartbeat away from a thousand different fates.
There was nothing much to distinguish tiny Vermillion, save for the church, the college, a feed store and pale wood frame houses that almost appeared organic, as if they had grown from the table flat plain on their own, and were now being slowly consumed by the land once more. Some were refined, in a Victorian sort of way. Others appeared cobbled together. A few leaned precariously, or settled poorly, as if they were melting into their foundations. The town stood at the edge of time, still clinging to that other century as the new one struggled for purpose.
Side streets were unpaved and deeply rutted, and as still as a graveyard. Candlelight glowed faint from a handful of windows, but otherwise the place might have been deserted. An ivory moon grew from the eastern horizon, fat and squat. That moon only added to the emptiness of the place, and made it seem as if it was frozen in time, like a perpetual memory.
John went slowly through the town. The truck found uncomfortable paths among the criss-crossing ruts, or dipped and slid into muddy holes that might easily snap an axle, bust a spoke or shatter a tire. The rattling old truck and the engine’s pained assertions as it climbed over holes brought yelps and howls from a couple of dogs somewhere. It made him feel like more of an interloper, like an unwanted thread through the simple weave of the town. A mangy gray cat scuttled across the road, hissed at the truck then disappeared down an alley.
John stopped in the center of town, at something of a cross street. Like the dust coming to settle around the truck Johns rampaging emotions, which had carried him here, fell around him. They filled the cabin of that tiny truck, and gave a terrific weight to the warm evening air. To the west the day died quiet as a sliver of crimson, fading to a legacy and a promise to the coming day. Stars blanketed the sky, interrupted here and there by lazy pale yellow clouds still holding desperately to that last bit of daylight. Night deepened at the edges of town.
Grief and regret tore his heart in two. John gripped the wheel tight in both hands and pushed himself hard against the seat. A long low groan escaped him as the realization of what he had done became apparent. He’d left her. How could he have left her? John covered his face and pressed his dirt and sweat streaked forehead to the wheel, still warm from his hands. Would pride and the great wall of shame ever allow him peace for that grievous act?
All of this, Louis, the storm, Burt Himmel and Anna, they all whipped like a cyclone in John’s thoughts. Made all the worse in his despair and physical exhaustion. All of it had whipped like a cyclone in his mind for days. It was made all the worse for his exhaustion. John knew full well there wasn’t enough gas to get back home, even if he’d been in a place to make that decision. Nor was there enough money in his pocket, even if he’d wished. John had painted himself into something of a corner. For better or for worse any decision would have to wait till morning when he was better rested and could see more clearly. There would be a chance then to make a better accounting of things.
There was nothing much to distinguish tiny Vermillion, save for the church, the college, a feed store and pale wood frame houses that almost appeared organic, as if they had grown from the table flat plain on their own, and were now being slowly consumed by the land once more. Some were refined, in a Victorian sort of way. Others appeared cobbled together. A few leaned precariously, or settled poorly, as if they were melting into their foundations. The town stood at the edge of time, still clinging to that other century as the new one struggled for purpose.
Side streets were unpaved and deeply rutted, and as still as a graveyard. Candlelight glowed faint from a handful of windows, but otherwise the place might have been deserted. An ivory moon grew from the eastern horizon, fat and squat. That moon only added to the emptiness of the place, and made it seem as if it was frozen in time, like a perpetual memory.
John went slowly through the town. The truck found uncomfortable paths among the criss-crossing ruts, or dipped and slid into muddy holes that might easily snap an axle, bust a spoke or shatter a tire. The rattling old truck and the engine’s pained assertions as it climbed over holes brought yelps and howls from a couple of dogs somewhere. It made him feel like more of an interloper, like an unwanted thread through the simple weave of the town. A mangy gray cat scuttled across the road, hissed at the truck then disappeared down an alley.
John stopped in the center of town, at something of a cross street. Like the dust coming to settle around the truck Johns rampaging emotions, which had carried him here, fell around him. They filled the cabin of that tiny truck, and gave a terrific weight to the warm evening air. To the west the day died quiet as a sliver of crimson, fading to a legacy and a promise to the coming day. Stars blanketed the sky, interrupted here and there by lazy pale yellow clouds still holding desperately to that last bit of daylight. Night deepened at the edges of town.
Grief and regret tore his heart in two. John gripped the wheel tight in both hands and pushed himself hard against the seat. A long low groan escaped him as the realization of what he had done became apparent. He’d left her. How could he have left her? John covered his face and pressed his dirt and sweat streaked forehead to the wheel, still warm from his hands. Would pride and the great wall of shame ever allow him peace for that grievous act?
All of this, Louis, the storm, Burt Himmel and Anna, they all whipped like a cyclone in John’s thoughts. Made all the worse in his despair and physical exhaustion. All of it had whipped like a cyclone in his mind for days. It was made all the worse for his exhaustion. John knew full well there wasn’t enough gas to get back home, even if he’d been in a place to make that decision. Nor was there enough money in his pocket, even if he’d wished. John had painted himself into something of a corner. For better or for worse any decision would have to wait till morning when he was better rested and could see more clearly. There would be a chance then to make a better accounting of things.
Emmetsburg: Fifty-five
Black. Men contrive. They contrive to exalt their own deeds and conceal their misdeeds. It eventually occurs to a man, as he negotiates a path through a life that he does much more of the latter. It makes those contrivances less about some Biblical concept of evil than about the weakness and weariness of men's hearts when faced with the process of the world. A man will champion those sins to the grave, cocooned in a fundamental angst that he alone plays the fool in a universal lottery. And he’ll stay that course as long as it pays, or until those sins betray him.
It was no different for Avery Lysander. He wasn't an evil man. Was he weaker than most? Perhaps, but better than other men. As he stood before eight thousand farmers beneath the golden dome of the state capitol Avery knew full well his sins, and contrived fully to cloak them no man's land between freedom and the law. He would not be the fool, though he knew deep in his own heart that he was (not understanding that wisdom and humility are the surest paths from foolishness). That night, before a tense and agitated crowd he bandaged that fool’s heart in patriotism and the skewed permutations of liberty, despite that patriotism is a favorite hat and liberty is like capturing the sky in one’s hands.
He raged at them, in the face of a driving downpour. Avery beat the air with his fist and strained red-faced in order to set their souls on fire. Avery invoked God Almighty, charging that the government would come for each of them as a wolf in the night soon enough. Charges of Bolshevism and Communism were window dressing to the hole his words drove like a knife into each of their hearts. Men not easily swayed otherwise were driven to fear and consumed by it. Women prayed to God and Avery Lysander to see them through, like some modern day Moses come to deliver them to the promised land.
Thunder exploded, joining the stinging rain. It did little to dampen the spirits of the protesters, who dwarfed the nervous line of police guarding the gold-domed capitol building. All that held them back from overrunning the police and setting the place to flame was the thinnest veneer of civilization straining at the seams. Men contrive, but a frightened man is more than dangerous.
Communists! Bolsheviks! Avery's voice broke with emotion. The crowd rose along with him, rising up to the stormy sky to challenge the lightening and dethrone the thunder. Radicals! Subverting the constitution! He could feel them, that wild and angry and fearful crowd sweeping around him like a hurricane. Dear God, it was better than sex or any drug! It was more than power, as power is fleeting. Power are the walls of a besieged city. This, this was control. No, it was symbiosis. Their bodies were joined, merging cell to cell. Their souls were wedded in a wild orgy passion for every word Avery spoke.
Avery thought to turn them against the police. He would teach the government a lesson by tearing down the capitol. He'd fashion them into disciples, not soldiers, for ultimately a soldier wishes one day to return home. But Avery's disciples would fill the nation, sweeping aside dissent and anyone who might have the slightest suspicion of Avery's original sin.
Anyway, that's what Avery was thinking as he stood silent and nameless among the crowd. There were other speakers, men far more eloquent than he could ever hope. Before the governor and all the politicians in their tailor-made suits, their chamber maids and expensive brandy these men promised nothing short of revolution if the government continued down its treacherous path. It was a threat none of those manicured men with their crafted words and couched speech took lightly
When the rally ended Avery Lysander climbed back into his truck and started for home, content the tide was turning against the government, and that no one would discover his cattle were sick. He get them off to slaughter, feed his family and no one would be the wiser. Behind him the storm crept slow across the Iowa farmland. Ahead of him the day was drawing to an end.
It was no different for Avery Lysander. He wasn't an evil man. Was he weaker than most? Perhaps, but better than other men. As he stood before eight thousand farmers beneath the golden dome of the state capitol Avery knew full well his sins, and contrived fully to cloak them no man's land between freedom and the law. He would not be the fool, though he knew deep in his own heart that he was (not understanding that wisdom and humility are the surest paths from foolishness). That night, before a tense and agitated crowd he bandaged that fool’s heart in patriotism and the skewed permutations of liberty, despite that patriotism is a favorite hat and liberty is like capturing the sky in one’s hands.
He raged at them, in the face of a driving downpour. Avery beat the air with his fist and strained red-faced in order to set their souls on fire. Avery invoked God Almighty, charging that the government would come for each of them as a wolf in the night soon enough. Charges of Bolshevism and Communism were window dressing to the hole his words drove like a knife into each of their hearts. Men not easily swayed otherwise were driven to fear and consumed by it. Women prayed to God and Avery Lysander to see them through, like some modern day Moses come to deliver them to the promised land.
Thunder exploded, joining the stinging rain. It did little to dampen the spirits of the protesters, who dwarfed the nervous line of police guarding the gold-domed capitol building. All that held them back from overrunning the police and setting the place to flame was the thinnest veneer of civilization straining at the seams. Men contrive, but a frightened man is more than dangerous.
Communists! Bolsheviks! Avery's voice broke with emotion. The crowd rose along with him, rising up to the stormy sky to challenge the lightening and dethrone the thunder. Radicals! Subverting the constitution! He could feel them, that wild and angry and fearful crowd sweeping around him like a hurricane. Dear God, it was better than sex or any drug! It was more than power, as power is fleeting. Power are the walls of a besieged city. This, this was control. No, it was symbiosis. Their bodies were joined, merging cell to cell. Their souls were wedded in a wild orgy passion for every word Avery spoke.
Avery thought to turn them against the police. He would teach the government a lesson by tearing down the capitol. He'd fashion them into disciples, not soldiers, for ultimately a soldier wishes one day to return home. But Avery's disciples would fill the nation, sweeping aside dissent and anyone who might have the slightest suspicion of Avery's original sin.
Anyway, that's what Avery was thinking as he stood silent and nameless among the crowd. There were other speakers, men far more eloquent than he could ever hope. Before the governor and all the politicians in their tailor-made suits, their chamber maids and expensive brandy these men promised nothing short of revolution if the government continued down its treacherous path. It was a threat none of those manicured men with their crafted words and couched speech took lightly
When the rally ended Avery Lysander climbed back into his truck and started for home, content the tide was turning against the government, and that no one would discover his cattle were sick. He get them off to slaughter, feed his family and no one would be the wiser. Behind him the storm crept slow across the Iowa farmland. Ahead of him the day was drawing to an end.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Emmetsburg:Thirty-three
Louis was well enough to sit up. Not great, but better. He rose to meet John just crossing from the stairs with a glass of milk and some bread with sweet ruby-red rhubarb jam. The bread was still warm from the oven. Louis' eyes widened a bit at the thick pieces stacked upon the small flowered china plate. John set the plate and milk on a bookshelf and hurried over to help him sit. He held the milk in his good hand, with the plate balanced on the forearm. With the darkly bruised and swollen fingers of his injured hand John steadied the plate.
“Go slow,” said John. John set the plate and milk on a bookshelf and hurried over to help him sit.
Louis waved a hand in the air. He felt dizzy and weak, but when his feet touched the hard wood floor for the first time Louis felt alive again. Not a lot alive. The pulsing thunder behind his eyes made life and consciousness and balance all negotiable points. He looked up into John's rescuing eyes.
“Maybe I ain't quite ready yet,” he managed a weary smile. “Gravity seems a little trickier than I remembered.”
“You really took a shot,” said John. “Gonna take a little while before you're back among the living.” John knelt and studied Louis' dark brown eyes, and saw his own face reflected there. “Stand to eat something?”
John stood and took the bread and milk from the shelf. He paused a moment, his gaze moving over some old dusty volumes; GOODRICH'S PICTORAL HISTORIES OF THE UNITED STATES, Mary Macgregor's THE STORY OF ROME, BESIDE THE BONNIE BRIER BUSH by Ian Maclaren, and THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. He saw them, but his thoughts were at war whether or not to ask Louis about Bert Himmel.
“Bert Himmel passed away,” he finally said. John turned slowly and scooted the stool beside the bed watching Louis for the smallest clue to something hidden. John sat looking scant-ways at Louis.
“He a friend of yours?” Louis asked, gobbling down a bit of bread and jam madly.
“Was,” his tone was leading. John placed the glass of milk in Louis' hands.
Louis' silence was potent, as he stared into the white liquid. When he spoke it was quiet and low, leaving John with far more questions than he might have wished.
“Sorry for your loss.”
“Lived up there in Mallard,” said John, leaning a bit in hopes of gauging Louis' expression. “Ever been up there?”
“Can’t say I have?” He hesitated, still refusing to look directly at John. Louis lifted the glass and emptied it in just a few gulps.
“Pulled you out of that creek just this side of Mallard,” said John, with deepening suspicion. “Seems that was the direction you were coming from.”
Louis pursed his lips, turning the empty glass in his hands. He held it out abruptly and John took it, holding the glass and Louis’ hand fast for a moment. Alarmed, Louis lifted his eyes to John.
“Told you,” he said quietly, “don’t recall nothing before the accident.”
John sighed and stood, as Louis lay back and turned towards the window. He was asleep almost instantly. John shook his head and thought this all very odd, and wondered if he wasn’t losing his mind.
Anna was waiting for him already in bed. He undressed quickly and slipped beneath the sheets beside her. She was up, straddling him in an instant, her long full red hair tumbling over his face and shoulders as she kissed him deeply, catching him fully by surprise. It all took him aback for a moment, before his body responded to hers. Anna rose and lifted away her gown, letting it fall to the floor. She helped him from his shorts and guided him to her. Anna sighed deeply and threw her head back, their bodies now a rhythm joined and rushing headlong to climax. Outside the crickets and night seemed to fall away, as if nothing beyond that lover’s bed existed
John quickly felt himself at the edge, straining to meet her as Anna focused on her own pleasure. Nearly there, John strained, moving a hand across her soft full breasts. Suddenly there was a sound from the kitchen. It was the sound of the back screen creaking open on its ancient hinges before banging closed again. Anna froze, her eyes wide with sudden alarm. John pushed her off and went for the pistol, fumbling in the dark and interrupted sex for the bullets in the bottom of the box. He managed barely one round in the cylinder, the rest falling and clanging upon the floor at his bare feet.
“John,” she gasped, covering herself with the quilt at the end of the bed. “Someone is in the house!”
“Be still.” He snapped the cylinder in place and pulled the hammer back. Naked, John lifted the weapon before him and went to the door. It was then he spotted Louis out back, staggering through the night towards the line of trees at the back of the property.
“It’s Louis,” said John, laying the Pistol on the bed and pulling on his trousers.
“What’s he doing?”
“Damned if I know,” he said, lifting the revolver again, “but I’m bound to find out.”
“Go slow,” said John. John set the plate and milk on a bookshelf and hurried over to help him sit.
Louis waved a hand in the air. He felt dizzy and weak, but when his feet touched the hard wood floor for the first time Louis felt alive again. Not a lot alive. The pulsing thunder behind his eyes made life and consciousness and balance all negotiable points. He looked up into John's rescuing eyes.
“Maybe I ain't quite ready yet,” he managed a weary smile. “Gravity seems a little trickier than I remembered.”
“You really took a shot,” said John. “Gonna take a little while before you're back among the living.” John knelt and studied Louis' dark brown eyes, and saw his own face reflected there. “Stand to eat something?”
John stood and took the bread and milk from the shelf. He paused a moment, his gaze moving over some old dusty volumes; GOODRICH'S PICTORAL HISTORIES OF THE UNITED STATES, Mary Macgregor's THE STORY OF ROME, BESIDE THE BONNIE BRIER BUSH by Ian Maclaren, and THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. He saw them, but his thoughts were at war whether or not to ask Louis about Bert Himmel.
“Bert Himmel passed away,” he finally said. John turned slowly and scooted the stool beside the bed watching Louis for the smallest clue to something hidden. John sat looking scant-ways at Louis.
“He a friend of yours?” Louis asked, gobbling down a bit of bread and jam madly.
“Was,” his tone was leading. John placed the glass of milk in Louis' hands.
Louis' silence was potent, as he stared into the white liquid. When he spoke it was quiet and low, leaving John with far more questions than he might have wished.
“Sorry for your loss.”
“Lived up there in Mallard,” said John, leaning a bit in hopes of gauging Louis' expression. “Ever been up there?”
“Can’t say I have?” He hesitated, still refusing to look directly at John. Louis lifted the glass and emptied it in just a few gulps.
“Pulled you out of that creek just this side of Mallard,” said John, with deepening suspicion. “Seems that was the direction you were coming from.”
Louis pursed his lips, turning the empty glass in his hands. He held it out abruptly and John took it, holding the glass and Louis’ hand fast for a moment. Alarmed, Louis lifted his eyes to John.
“Told you,” he said quietly, “don’t recall nothing before the accident.”
John sighed and stood, as Louis lay back and turned towards the window. He was asleep almost instantly. John shook his head and thought this all very odd, and wondered if he wasn’t losing his mind.
Anna was waiting for him already in bed. He undressed quickly and slipped beneath the sheets beside her. She was up, straddling him in an instant, her long full red hair tumbling over his face and shoulders as she kissed him deeply, catching him fully by surprise. It all took him aback for a moment, before his body responded to hers. Anna rose and lifted away her gown, letting it fall to the floor. She helped him from his shorts and guided him to her. Anna sighed deeply and threw her head back, their bodies now a rhythm joined and rushing headlong to climax. Outside the crickets and night seemed to fall away, as if nothing beyond that lover’s bed existed
John quickly felt himself at the edge, straining to meet her as Anna focused on her own pleasure. Nearly there, John strained, moving a hand across her soft full breasts. Suddenly there was a sound from the kitchen. It was the sound of the back screen creaking open on its ancient hinges before banging closed again. Anna froze, her eyes wide with sudden alarm. John pushed her off and went for the pistol, fumbling in the dark and interrupted sex for the bullets in the bottom of the box. He managed barely one round in the cylinder, the rest falling and clanging upon the floor at his bare feet.
“John,” she gasped, covering herself with the quilt at the end of the bed. “Someone is in the house!”
“Be still.” He snapped the cylinder in place and pulled the hammer back. Naked, John lifted the weapon before him and went to the door. It was then he spotted Louis out back, staggering through the night towards the line of trees at the back of the property.
“It’s Louis,” said John, laying the Pistol on the bed and pulling on his trousers.
“What’s he doing?”
“Damned if I know,” he said, lifting the revolver again, “but I’m bound to find out.”
Monday, January 25, 2010
Emmetsburg: Twenty-six
John pulled to a stop dead center of the crossroads at the edge of town. Leaning across the wheel he squinted east towards Cylinder. A golden morning sun hovered above the hills and fields to the east. It was fat and round, the heat, already becoming a presence. The sun was suspended, held aloft by arms of ochre dust rising from parched fields. A sweltering south wind painted a fine layer of sweat upon John and Anna's faces. John took a long breath and let it out dramatically through his nose. Anna knew immediately what he was thinking and touched his leg.
“Think maybe we ought to stop,” she said.
John was tortured at the thought and peered into the distance.
“Don't know.” he said simply.
“John,” she touched him again, firmer and more adamant this time. His gaze remained among the fields, lost there. Anna persisted. “John?”
“Maybe sometimes best just to let things be,” he said.
“Sometimes,” she said softly. “Sometimes best to put things to rest.”
John pursed his lips and felt the full weight of the moment.
“Just been so long, and the other night and all. Don't know if I want to risk that, Anna.”
She took his hand and lifted it to her lips. She breathed him in. He looked at her. figuring.
“I took that as a sign,” she said. “Time to say goodbye and get on with things, John Perkins. Start new.”
He conceded and yanked the truck into gear. Not a mile out of town St Mary's cemetery blanketed a rectangular patch of ground beside the road. It was a pretty little of green earth, such as it was, a solemn island bounded on three sides by unplowed fields. Nine tall firs separated that island from the world. Their mottled shade blanketed most of the cemetery, falling over ranks of neatly arranged stones. There was no fence or boundary. Instead it was as if those who resided there had reached some agreement with Iowa's endless farmland, or as if the land had given ground to those who lived and sacrificed and died here.
John guided the truck up to the gravel entrance and pulled to stop. They had not been here since the funeral. He leaned on the wheel and chewed his lip. There was a time when this place felt like a destination for John and Anna. Like a traveler might feel looking off along empty tracks leading to some unknown yet certain home. He looked at Anna, and pulled the truck forward when she gave a slight nod.
“Think maybe we ought to stop,” she said.
John was tortured at the thought and peered into the distance.
“Don't know.” he said simply.
“John,” she touched him again, firmer and more adamant this time. His gaze remained among the fields, lost there. Anna persisted. “John?”
“Maybe sometimes best just to let things be,” he said.
“Sometimes,” she said softly. “Sometimes best to put things to rest.”
John pursed his lips and felt the full weight of the moment.
“Just been so long, and the other night and all. Don't know if I want to risk that, Anna.”
She took his hand and lifted it to her lips. She breathed him in. He looked at her. figuring.
“I took that as a sign,” she said. “Time to say goodbye and get on with things, John Perkins. Start new.”
He conceded and yanked the truck into gear. Not a mile out of town St Mary's cemetery blanketed a rectangular patch of ground beside the road. It was a pretty little of green earth, such as it was, a solemn island bounded on three sides by unplowed fields. Nine tall firs separated that island from the world. Their mottled shade blanketed most of the cemetery, falling over ranks of neatly arranged stones. There was no fence or boundary. Instead it was as if those who resided there had reached some agreement with Iowa's endless farmland, or as if the land had given ground to those who lived and sacrificed and died here.
John guided the truck up to the gravel entrance and pulled to stop. They had not been here since the funeral. He leaned on the wheel and chewed his lip. There was a time when this place felt like a destination for John and Anna. Like a traveler might feel looking off along empty tracks leading to some unknown yet certain home. He looked at Anna, and pulled the truck forward when she gave a slight nod.
Monday, January 11, 2010
EMMETSBURG: Sixteen
The water rolled him over the car's submerged hood. At the last instant, before being flung down river John shot out his arm and grabbed for anything that would save him. His hand found a part of the shattered windshield. The jagged glass sliced diagonally through the center of his palm clean to the bone. The pain was immediate, John’s cry stifled by a wave that momentarily covered him. A torrent of satin red blood gushed forth instantly, sweeping away in spiraling eddies in the rushing waters.
The creek unleashed its full force on him now, as if the two were mortal enemies, as if the creek held some vendetta against him. Despite the pain John held firm to the window, and with a cry of determination that thundered among the trees, hauled himself out of the current.
With his good hand John reached up and grabbed a hold of the driver’s door and hauled himself over. His wounded hand gushed even more now. He pulled his fingers in towards the palm, hoping to stem the flow and felt one of the fingers sink into the squishy wet mix of exposed muscle, fat and bone.
He looked to the bank, hardly more than a couple feet away. It might have been distant land, an impossible land, he thought, draping his battered and exhausted body over the low flat roof. His head dangled over the front. It was then that John spotted the body inside the vehicle.
It was a colored man dressed in a pin-striped brown suit. His head and one shoulder bobbed just above the rampaging waters. He might have been unconscious, or dead for all John could tell. He was seated on the floor with his back to the car door. His head was back, pulling his mouth open. A bright red welt glowed from above his left eye, running down nearly to the jaw line between the ear and chin.
John had half a mind to swear. He looked back at the bank and thought of going for help. The creek swelled suddenly, tugging the front end of the Roadster sideways a bit before settling again. John had little doubt that another swell would drag the auto deeper and with it the poor soul inside.
His feet fought in the slick mud. He hooked the arm of his bad hand inside the car door and reached out with his good hand. John managed a hold on the man’s jacket but couldn’t muster the strength to haul him up but just a little. The dead weight and water was just too much, and John was already exhausted from his own fight with the creek.
John tried once more, growling and shouting at the strain, but just couldn’t budge the poor soul. Just then two old timers pulled up, and came scrambling down from the road. John was already losing his grip on the man and thanked God help had come.
“Lend me a hand here boys!” he cried.
“Somebody hurt down there?”
“Got a fella in a bad way here!”
One of the old timers climbed onto the car with surprising ease, while the other went back to his truck for rope. The pair were small men, but with hands and strength forged from lifetimes of back breaking labor. They made short work of John, hauling him up onto the dry bank. That done they went back down to the car.
With a length of heavy rope they lashed the car to a sturdy tree higher on the bank. With the car held firmly in place one of the men crawled inside and cinched another length beneath the colored fella’s arms and lifted him carefully out of the wreck road. They carried him up to the road. John, cradling his bleeding hand, followed close behind.
“Careful, boys,” said John, “see if he’s got anything broken.”
“Is he breathing?” said one of the men.
“Just barely,” said the other.
“Can’t see that anything’s broken,” said the first. “Sure is a beauty of a welt though.”
For the first time John got a good look at the man. This was the closest John had ever come to a black man, save for the porters on the troop ship out of New York, and a few African faces in Paris. The man's skin was soft and smooth as buttered chocolate. His face was long and thin, with barely a hint of stubble near the jaw. John thought he had a rather honest face. Indeed, it was almost angelic and other-worldly. It was a quality John found almost haunting.
His fine black hair was neatly trimmed and straight, combed and greased tightly from his brow. John doubted the guy was much beyond his twenties. He glanced back at the roadster and wondered what he was doing way out here, here black folks just weren't known much.
The man was dressed in a finely tailored brown silk suit. The buttons were gold. The white shirt was open at the collar, one of the ivory buttons missing, as though it had been opened in great haste. John doubted it was from the accident. The ends of a silk purple and red striped tie hung from one pocket. One of the man's dark brown alligator shoes was missing. Colored or not, he was certainly a man of wealth and class..
“What’s a sort like this doin' out here, dressed to the nines in a big expensive car?” asked the other.
“Some sort of gangster, or fugitive, I’d bet,” said the other.
His partner spit and said with a sort of smirk. “Now aren’t you one to go making up stories.” He noticed John’s hand, now staining the front of his coveralls red. “Best get you to the hospital too, son.”
“I’ll live,” said John. “Give me a hand getting him in the back of my truck.”
The creek unleashed its full force on him now, as if the two were mortal enemies, as if the creek held some vendetta against him. Despite the pain John held firm to the window, and with a cry of determination that thundered among the trees, hauled himself out of the current.
With his good hand John reached up and grabbed a hold of the driver’s door and hauled himself over. His wounded hand gushed even more now. He pulled his fingers in towards the palm, hoping to stem the flow and felt one of the fingers sink into the squishy wet mix of exposed muscle, fat and bone.
He looked to the bank, hardly more than a couple feet away. It might have been distant land, an impossible land, he thought, draping his battered and exhausted body over the low flat roof. His head dangled over the front. It was then that John spotted the body inside the vehicle.
It was a colored man dressed in a pin-striped brown suit. His head and one shoulder bobbed just above the rampaging waters. He might have been unconscious, or dead for all John could tell. He was seated on the floor with his back to the car door. His head was back, pulling his mouth open. A bright red welt glowed from above his left eye, running down nearly to the jaw line between the ear and chin.
John had half a mind to swear. He looked back at the bank and thought of going for help. The creek swelled suddenly, tugging the front end of the Roadster sideways a bit before settling again. John had little doubt that another swell would drag the auto deeper and with it the poor soul inside.
His feet fought in the slick mud. He hooked the arm of his bad hand inside the car door and reached out with his good hand. John managed a hold on the man’s jacket but couldn’t muster the strength to haul him up but just a little. The dead weight and water was just too much, and John was already exhausted from his own fight with the creek.
John tried once more, growling and shouting at the strain, but just couldn’t budge the poor soul. Just then two old timers pulled up, and came scrambling down from the road. John was already losing his grip on the man and thanked God help had come.
“Lend me a hand here boys!” he cried.
“Somebody hurt down there?”
“Got a fella in a bad way here!”
One of the old timers climbed onto the car with surprising ease, while the other went back to his truck for rope. The pair were small men, but with hands and strength forged from lifetimes of back breaking labor. They made short work of John, hauling him up onto the dry bank. That done they went back down to the car.
With a length of heavy rope they lashed the car to a sturdy tree higher on the bank. With the car held firmly in place one of the men crawled inside and cinched another length beneath the colored fella’s arms and lifted him carefully out of the wreck road. They carried him up to the road. John, cradling his bleeding hand, followed close behind.
“Careful, boys,” said John, “see if he’s got anything broken.”
“Is he breathing?” said one of the men.
“Just barely,” said the other.
“Can’t see that anything’s broken,” said the first. “Sure is a beauty of a welt though.”
For the first time John got a good look at the man. This was the closest John had ever come to a black man, save for the porters on the troop ship out of New York, and a few African faces in Paris. The man's skin was soft and smooth as buttered chocolate. His face was long and thin, with barely a hint of stubble near the jaw. John thought he had a rather honest face. Indeed, it was almost angelic and other-worldly. It was a quality John found almost haunting.
His fine black hair was neatly trimmed and straight, combed and greased tightly from his brow. John doubted the guy was much beyond his twenties. He glanced back at the roadster and wondered what he was doing way out here, here black folks just weren't known much.
The man was dressed in a finely tailored brown silk suit. The buttons were gold. The white shirt was open at the collar, one of the ivory buttons missing, as though it had been opened in great haste. John doubted it was from the accident. The ends of a silk purple and red striped tie hung from one pocket. One of the man's dark brown alligator shoes was missing. Colored or not, he was certainly a man of wealth and class..
“What’s a sort like this doin' out here, dressed to the nines in a big expensive car?” asked the other.
“Some sort of gangster, or fugitive, I’d bet,” said the other.
His partner spit and said with a sort of smirk. “Now aren’t you one to go making up stories.” He noticed John’s hand, now staining the front of his coveralls red. “Best get you to the hospital too, son.”
“I’ll live,” said John. “Give me a hand getting him in the back of my truck.”
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
THE LAST MAN: Part Thirty-three
There a blistering gun battle near the Reclamation Center. It sounds like thousands of bits of glass being crushed. Dull hollow explosions punctuate the fighting, joined in awful chorus of the murdering airships on the coast. I pause in the doorway of my building and can see that parts of the city have gone unnaturally dark.
Further on I pass a naked man in a doorway. He is curled gently, an arm across his belly. His feet are bloody and there is a bullet wound through his forehead. A trickled of blood runs across his forehead and across one temple. But for that the lonesome figure appears asleep. On the next block I find a man and woman cowering and disoriented. They huddle against the wall, their faces emptied of any emotion, with only a jacket from a fallen trooper to keep them warm. At the end of the street the front of a Section Twenty-one transport has been shredded by a bomb. Flames pour from the rear compartment, consuming the troops inside, still sitting in their seats.
The scene before the Reclamation Center is far ghastlier. Bodies are piled at the wide, arched entrance. A crimson river floods into the street. Great concrete pillars to either side are chewed and pitted by shrapnel and bullets. A transport lies overturned. The bodies of Low City rebels and Corporation troops are scattered everywhere, many in deadly embrace. The continuing battle thunders from within the building.
Near the entrance I find one of the rebels still alive. I recognize her from the sewers. Kneeling I gently lift her head. Her eyes, distant and confused, find mine.
“Why did you come here?” she coughs. There is blood on her lips. More trickles across her cheek, running wet and wrm over my fingers.
“Why did you?” I ask.
She coughs heavily, bringing a wave of terrible pain that wracks her broken body. She squeezes the back of my arm tightly, and then relaxes as the pain, or the worst of it, passes.
“There was no choice,” she says, her voice fading steadily. I sweep back the hair from her tortured and perspired brow.
“Yes,” I say, simply.
She coughs again, more violent and more exhaustive this time. There is sudden alarm in her young face. Not a realization she is dying. There is no doubt about that. The bullets had all but cut her in half, enough that her legs have fallen unnaturally to one side. No, the alarm, I believe, is more a precise understanding of just how little time remains her.
“You have to go, get away from here,” she says. “There isn’t much time.”
As if to underscore the urgency in her voice the earth shudders powerfully. Across the city a giant tower collapses into a cloud of dust and smoke and flame.
She looks to the roar following a moment later. I know already this is the fate about to befall the Reclamation Center. Now that knowledge grows to an urgency. It thunders away in my chest.
Her expression transforms to something puzzling and curious. And for a moment we are an island apart from the battle. It is not something dark or reflective of the cruelty done her body. Nor is it filtered through some ultimate betrayal of personal dreams or aspirations. It is apart from those things, as if the body and its desires are inconsequential. It comes to her like a recognition, like an idea just occurring to her. She reaches up and touches my cheek.
“You’ve come for…” she says. “What’s the word? I can’t think of it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Help me to say it.”
“Love?”
“Yes,” she says at hardly a whisper as her body goes limp. She almost smiles, and seems lifted by the word; by a single ancient word. The light fades from her eyes. She gives a final sigh and manages the word one last time. “Love.”
Further on I pass a naked man in a doorway. He is curled gently, an arm across his belly. His feet are bloody and there is a bullet wound through his forehead. A trickled of blood runs across his forehead and across one temple. But for that the lonesome figure appears asleep. On the next block I find a man and woman cowering and disoriented. They huddle against the wall, their faces emptied of any emotion, with only a jacket from a fallen trooper to keep them warm. At the end of the street the front of a Section Twenty-one transport has been shredded by a bomb. Flames pour from the rear compartment, consuming the troops inside, still sitting in their seats.
The scene before the Reclamation Center is far ghastlier. Bodies are piled at the wide, arched entrance. A crimson river floods into the street. Great concrete pillars to either side are chewed and pitted by shrapnel and bullets. A transport lies overturned. The bodies of Low City rebels and Corporation troops are scattered everywhere, many in deadly embrace. The continuing battle thunders from within the building.
Near the entrance I find one of the rebels still alive. I recognize her from the sewers. Kneeling I gently lift her head. Her eyes, distant and confused, find mine.
“Why did you come here?” she coughs. There is blood on her lips. More trickles across her cheek, running wet and wrm over my fingers.
“Why did you?” I ask.
She coughs heavily, bringing a wave of terrible pain that wracks her broken body. She squeezes the back of my arm tightly, and then relaxes as the pain, or the worst of it, passes.
“There was no choice,” she says, her voice fading steadily. I sweep back the hair from her tortured and perspired brow.
“Yes,” I say, simply.
She coughs again, more violent and more exhaustive this time. There is sudden alarm in her young face. Not a realization she is dying. There is no doubt about that. The bullets had all but cut her in half, enough that her legs have fallen unnaturally to one side. No, the alarm, I believe, is more a precise understanding of just how little time remains her.
“You have to go, get away from here,” she says. “There isn’t much time.”
As if to underscore the urgency in her voice the earth shudders powerfully. Across the city a giant tower collapses into a cloud of dust and smoke and flame.
She looks to the roar following a moment later. I know already this is the fate about to befall the Reclamation Center. Now that knowledge grows to an urgency. It thunders away in my chest.
Her expression transforms to something puzzling and curious. And for a moment we are an island apart from the battle. It is not something dark or reflective of the cruelty done her body. Nor is it filtered through some ultimate betrayal of personal dreams or aspirations. It is apart from those things, as if the body and its desires are inconsequential. It comes to her like a recognition, like an idea just occurring to her. She reaches up and touches my cheek.
“You’ve come for…” she says. “What’s the word? I can’t think of it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Help me to say it.”
“Love?”
“Yes,” she says at hardly a whisper as her body goes limp. She almost smiles, and seems lifted by the word; by a single ancient word. The light fades from her eyes. She gives a final sigh and manages the word one last time. “Love.”
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
THE LAST MAN: Part Twenty-one
I stand and stretch with a groan. After a piss I look out across the city. The hazy orange sun is glorious and warm. The ruins are lost to the sun’s bright reflection upon the mirror-like sea. The city looks clean and full. Business is brisk, the streets choked with traffic.
“What is your fertility rank?” I ask without looking at her. Desiree’s reflection is vaguely superimposed over the city. The fires burning among the ruins are clearer than I can ever recall.
“I’m viable,” she cocks her head. “Why do you ask?”
I don’t answer right off. Without a word I grab one of the chairs, walk calming across the room and smash the Sentinel by the door. Desiree screams, startled. She covers herself with the sheet and looks at me as if I have gone stark raving mad. Truth be told, I’m not so sure I haven’t.
“What are you doing?” she cries. A body can be Reclaimed for much less. I doubt we will for this, at least not before the trial ends. I have gotten away with so much already. I figure they will repair it soon enough. Kneeling at the bed I take her trembling hands in mine.
“What if you become pregnant?”
“I don’t know.”
“What if it looks like me? Would you be ashamed? Disgusted?”
She thinks a moment. “I don’t know.”
“I’d want it to have a chance.”
“You’re crazy to believe that, you know?”
“If there was some place, somewhere far from Sentinel and the Corporation?”
“No such place exists,” she scoffs.
“If there was?”
“It doesn’t!”
“Can’t you answer the question?” I shake her, growing impatient.
“It’s a ridiculous.”
“Just yes or no?”
“To what?”
I groan loudly and flail with frustration. She really is just impossible. I turn and have a mind to fling the chair across the room. Then she smiles, though it is tinged with spite. She toys with me, which only enrages me more.
“What?” I demand.
“Your temper,” she replies.
“You provoke it,” I laugh. It is impossible to remain mad at her for very long. “I hate you.”
Desiree’s expression softens. Her eyes flash quickly to the shattered Sentinel. Wisps of white smoke trail from the tattered innards.
“Where would we go?”
I pull her quickly from bed and guide her to the window. I lean against her and press a finger to the window. She studies the distant ruins for a time, and her brow furls slightly. She has not noticed them before.
“There?” she asks, perplexed.
“There.”
“The ruins?”
“Things are different there!” My voice rises with emotion.
“Like how?”
“Free,” I say.
“And how do you know that?” she asks, trapping me. I draw away and right the upturned chair. With a wounded sigh I sit.
“Anyway, that’s what I believe.”
“Don’t be a fool!” she laughs. The words crush me. I would die to be anything but a fool in her eyes. I fall into bed, staring at the wall. My chest tightens as tears come to my eyes. It seems an eternity before she comes to me. I refuse to look at her, but she knows only too well the feeble nature of that gesture.
“Don’t be mad,” she says.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“So what if I am?”
She moves onto the bed beside me, nudging me with her hips, and running her hand gently across my back and shoulder. I pull away. Not much, but I so want to punish her for being so cruel. She is first to bridge the chasm, and kisses my shoulder.
“You’re not a fool.”
I turn and melt in her eyes. My fingers brush her soft breast and the rubbery dark nipple. With a shudder Desiree pulls me to her chest.
“They had dreams,” I say, staring past her. There are still tears in my eyes, but not for her comments, but now from a sudden upwelling of passion. It is something pure and clean and not of this world; something that transcends the body. “Things were not always as they are now.”
She does not reply. Instead she nods un-committed and strokes my chest. After all, what was there to say? How does one talk about the past to people who have no history? It is why Section Twenty-one and the Corporation have no fear of me. I am trapped within a truth. I could shout them to the masses in hopes of starting a revolt, but they would prove little more than the ramblings of a madman.
“I wish I could believe like you,” she says to be kind.
“Do you?”
She rises and walks to the window again. I marvel at her waist, the alternating tension and relaxation of the muscles of her back and shoulders, and of the rise and fall of her buttocks when she moves. Desiree remains silhouetted at the window for some time. I can see her face reflected there, and know that it is only a half-hearted gesture.
“I see it,” she says, “the fires. People are moving, though I cannot make out any details. Are they men or women? Maybe there are more like you.”
She turns. I sit, unsure for moment if she is still mocking me. Then I can see that she doesn’t really believe, but that she believes in me.
“I don’t know,” I tell her, “but in when the light is just right I believe that I can actually see them. Sometimes I close my eyes and can almost feel their hands touching me, welcoming me.”
“Hands?”
“Maybe I’ll go there. Maybe I’ll escape and bring you with me.”
She returns to me, and falls into my arms. I kiss her smooth belly and look up between her breasts. I have no idea if she believes anything I have said. I have no evidence, no concrete reason for believing as I do. It is hope and I am bleeding it all over her.
“What is your fertility rank?” I ask without looking at her. Desiree’s reflection is vaguely superimposed over the city. The fires burning among the ruins are clearer than I can ever recall.
“I’m viable,” she cocks her head. “Why do you ask?”
I don’t answer right off. Without a word I grab one of the chairs, walk calming across the room and smash the Sentinel by the door. Desiree screams, startled. She covers herself with the sheet and looks at me as if I have gone stark raving mad. Truth be told, I’m not so sure I haven’t.
“What are you doing?” she cries. A body can be Reclaimed for much less. I doubt we will for this, at least not before the trial ends. I have gotten away with so much already. I figure they will repair it soon enough. Kneeling at the bed I take her trembling hands in mine.
“What if you become pregnant?”
“I don’t know.”
“What if it looks like me? Would you be ashamed? Disgusted?”
She thinks a moment. “I don’t know.”
“I’d want it to have a chance.”
“You’re crazy to believe that, you know?”
“If there was some place, somewhere far from Sentinel and the Corporation?”
“No such place exists,” she scoffs.
“If there was?”
“It doesn’t!”
“Can’t you answer the question?” I shake her, growing impatient.
“It’s a ridiculous.”
“Just yes or no?”
“To what?”
I groan loudly and flail with frustration. She really is just impossible. I turn and have a mind to fling the chair across the room. Then she smiles, though it is tinged with spite. She toys with me, which only enrages me more.
“What?” I demand.
“Your temper,” she replies.
“You provoke it,” I laugh. It is impossible to remain mad at her for very long. “I hate you.”
Desiree’s expression softens. Her eyes flash quickly to the shattered Sentinel. Wisps of white smoke trail from the tattered innards.
“Where would we go?”
I pull her quickly from bed and guide her to the window. I lean against her and press a finger to the window. She studies the distant ruins for a time, and her brow furls slightly. She has not noticed them before.
“There?” she asks, perplexed.
“There.”
“The ruins?”
“Things are different there!” My voice rises with emotion.
“Like how?”
“Free,” I say.
“And how do you know that?” she asks, trapping me. I draw away and right the upturned chair. With a wounded sigh I sit.
“Anyway, that’s what I believe.”
“Don’t be a fool!” she laughs. The words crush me. I would die to be anything but a fool in her eyes. I fall into bed, staring at the wall. My chest tightens as tears come to my eyes. It seems an eternity before she comes to me. I refuse to look at her, but she knows only too well the feeble nature of that gesture.
“Don’t be mad,” she says.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“So what if I am?”
She moves onto the bed beside me, nudging me with her hips, and running her hand gently across my back and shoulder. I pull away. Not much, but I so want to punish her for being so cruel. She is first to bridge the chasm, and kisses my shoulder.
“You’re not a fool.”
I turn and melt in her eyes. My fingers brush her soft breast and the rubbery dark nipple. With a shudder Desiree pulls me to her chest.
“They had dreams,” I say, staring past her. There are still tears in my eyes, but not for her comments, but now from a sudden upwelling of passion. It is something pure and clean and not of this world; something that transcends the body. “Things were not always as they are now.”
She does not reply. Instead she nods un-committed and strokes my chest. After all, what was there to say? How does one talk about the past to people who have no history? It is why Section Twenty-one and the Corporation have no fear of me. I am trapped within a truth. I could shout them to the masses in hopes of starting a revolt, but they would prove little more than the ramblings of a madman.
“I wish I could believe like you,” she says to be kind.
“Do you?”
She rises and walks to the window again. I marvel at her waist, the alternating tension and relaxation of the muscles of her back and shoulders, and of the rise and fall of her buttocks when she moves. Desiree remains silhouetted at the window for some time. I can see her face reflected there, and know that it is only a half-hearted gesture.
“I see it,” she says, “the fires. People are moving, though I cannot make out any details. Are they men or women? Maybe there are more like you.”
She turns. I sit, unsure for moment if she is still mocking me. Then I can see that she doesn’t really believe, but that she believes in me.
“I don’t know,” I tell her, “but in when the light is just right I believe that I can actually see them. Sometimes I close my eyes and can almost feel their hands touching me, welcoming me.”
“Hands?”
“Maybe I’ll go there. Maybe I’ll escape and bring you with me.”
She returns to me, and falls into my arms. I kiss her smooth belly and look up between her breasts. I have no idea if she believes anything I have said. I have no evidence, no concrete reason for believing as I do. It is hope and I am bleeding it all over her.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
THE LAST MAN: Part Twenty
I’d be lying if I said there was any real passion in the act. It was animal sex pure and simple. It was an exchange, a bodily pressure, and in a way, an act of rage. It was sex, a release, a few moments in which the intersection of my body with Desiree’s eclipsed the whole world. But to dismiss it as merely a bodily function, as blind as, say, a sneeze, would not be accurate either. It is not about the biological release, but rather the magic of a touch, and in the unencumbered closeness of bodies that leaves no room for dishonesty.
We lay together afterwards, wrapped in each other’s arms and legs. Her breathing is still heavy, like mine. She turns and pulls me close, nuzzling her face into my neck. I exalt at the simple rise and fall of her belly against mine. She is flushed, and the soft scent of her tossed hair steals my thoughts from the trial. In the fading sunset of her pleasure Desiree’s body trembles slightly. When it subsides she lets out a long breath warm against my flesh that cools me. I rise a little and looked into her glistening face. The hair is matted to her damp forehead.
On the whole, I am happy with my new companion. She must feel the same. Certainly our attraction is more than mechanical. We are hopeful islands to one another. I am careful not to assign too much to any of this, however. Those long abandoned concepts of Love are ill-defined abstracts. It is a word without meaning and certainly without relevance any longer. Long about the end of the Twentieth and Twenty-first Centuries Love was dissected, its constituent parts isolated and quantified in terms of bio-chemical equations. No fault of Science, with its natural and laudable quest for knowledge, but rather the fault of misplaced cynicism that twisted that knowledge and stole the magical nature of Love. For truly the magic of love lies in the finite nature of our existence amid the miniscule perspective we bring to the universe.
Overnight love was transformed into a drug, a fleeting and childish titillation, a mystery only of fate and the random lottery of advantageous meetings. And so Science marginalized it, business mocked it as a commodity, and religion propagandized it until Love ceased to hold purpose when at last the Corporation (with the complicent silence of the people) negated it altogether. The strategies by moralists, false prophets and religionists that seized upon ever narrowing definitions instead proved the ultimate catalyst of Love’s demise.
Rolling to one side, she presses her smooth buttocks against my side. I’m glad she cannot see my smile; dumb like a schoolboy. It is a relic of a wiser time, before our dreams were stolen by the Corporation, or before the reality of the world in which such fancies could run free and unfettered. My breaths echo off the ceiling. I could almost sleep at that sweet rhythm. My eyelids grow heavy and I almost feel myself slipping away when she begins to whimper. It is almost too quiet to hear. For a moment I try to ignore her, but it grows as a weight in my heart.
“You’re crying?”
“I’m happy,” she sniffles.
“Happy?” I say. “Hardly sounds happy.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Dare I ask?” I say.
“It’s hopeless.”
“Hopeless?”
“Us. You and me.”
“And that makes you happy?”
“They’ll send us off to Reclamation soon enough. It’s guaranteed. When your trial is finished, or you’ve impregnated me, when they’ve completed their observations and experiments. Oh yes, we’ll be finished all right!”
“Well,” I groan, and pat her naked hip, “you’ve certainly cheered me up!”
“You don’t understand,” she says, retreating to the end of the bed. Desiree curls her legs close to her body. She rocks gently to and fro. “Maybe it’s my affliction, all these unnatural emotions, quite different than the corporation expects from us, but for the first time I don’t have to hide my emotions; these thoughts.” She smiles wistfully. “Death has freed me.”
We lay together afterwards, wrapped in each other’s arms and legs. Her breathing is still heavy, like mine. She turns and pulls me close, nuzzling her face into my neck. I exalt at the simple rise and fall of her belly against mine. She is flushed, and the soft scent of her tossed hair steals my thoughts from the trial. In the fading sunset of her pleasure Desiree’s body trembles slightly. When it subsides she lets out a long breath warm against my flesh that cools me. I rise a little and looked into her glistening face. The hair is matted to her damp forehead.
On the whole, I am happy with my new companion. She must feel the same. Certainly our attraction is more than mechanical. We are hopeful islands to one another. I am careful not to assign too much to any of this, however. Those long abandoned concepts of Love are ill-defined abstracts. It is a word without meaning and certainly without relevance any longer. Long about the end of the Twentieth and Twenty-first Centuries Love was dissected, its constituent parts isolated and quantified in terms of bio-chemical equations. No fault of Science, with its natural and laudable quest for knowledge, but rather the fault of misplaced cynicism that twisted that knowledge and stole the magical nature of Love. For truly the magic of love lies in the finite nature of our existence amid the miniscule perspective we bring to the universe.
Overnight love was transformed into a drug, a fleeting and childish titillation, a mystery only of fate and the random lottery of advantageous meetings. And so Science marginalized it, business mocked it as a commodity, and religion propagandized it until Love ceased to hold purpose when at last the Corporation (with the complicent silence of the people) negated it altogether. The strategies by moralists, false prophets and religionists that seized upon ever narrowing definitions instead proved the ultimate catalyst of Love’s demise.
Rolling to one side, she presses her smooth buttocks against my side. I’m glad she cannot see my smile; dumb like a schoolboy. It is a relic of a wiser time, before our dreams were stolen by the Corporation, or before the reality of the world in which such fancies could run free and unfettered. My breaths echo off the ceiling. I could almost sleep at that sweet rhythm. My eyelids grow heavy and I almost feel myself slipping away when she begins to whimper. It is almost too quiet to hear. For a moment I try to ignore her, but it grows as a weight in my heart.
“You’re crying?”
“I’m happy,” she sniffles.
“Happy?” I say. “Hardly sounds happy.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Dare I ask?” I say.
“It’s hopeless.”
“Hopeless?”
“Us. You and me.”
“And that makes you happy?”
“They’ll send us off to Reclamation soon enough. It’s guaranteed. When your trial is finished, or you’ve impregnated me, when they’ve completed their observations and experiments. Oh yes, we’ll be finished all right!”
“Well,” I groan, and pat her naked hip, “you’ve certainly cheered me up!”
“You don’t understand,” she says, retreating to the end of the bed. Desiree curls her legs close to her body. She rocks gently to and fro. “Maybe it’s my affliction, all these unnatural emotions, quite different than the corporation expects from us, but for the first time I don’t have to hide my emotions; these thoughts.” She smiles wistfully. “Death has freed me.”
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