09 December 2008

wild horses.

[I haven’t thought of a title yet.]

It is at exactly the same moment that the hum of the radiator disappears and the wind that rattles the windows and whistles a vicious howl ceases to exist. The windows have fogged over and frozen, a stained glass window lacking in color but abundant with creamy swirls and spider web cracks. But there is one spot where the palm of his hand has been pressed against the glass and this spot delivers a tunnel vision view of the winter world outside. Grey and white save for the conifers that populate the forest dashing bits of green here and there, though the wind has tipped them westerly and the snow has fallen atop them, pushed the tips of every needle towards the earth, stretched out like ostrich necks, fearing more ice and wind.

That was the year that he abandoned the horses. Money was tight and paying for feed was a near impossible task each month. Two of them he slaughtered himself. Economical hardship had caused him to place regulations, laws and taboo on the back-burner. Nevermind the peculiarity of the slaughtering of the domestic animal, he thought, times are hard and I’ve a family to feed. So he slaughtered two of the horses much like he would have slaughtered the cattle if he hadn’t sold it off to pay mortgage for the winter. He put the roasts, the flank steaks, the ground horse meat, and all other cuts into the freezer, removing one of the many varieties the day before to allow it to thaw in the kitchen sink. At first he wasn’t thrilled to feed it to the family and the family was not thrilled to eat it, but after the arrival of the first butterfly steak on the plate and the movement of one hunk of flesh to the masticating jaws of his daughter it was decided that the meat was far more edible than expected; the opinions bordering on surprisingly good. The horse meat was sweet. He would have placed it someplace between beef and venison. He freed the other horses from the stable. There were three that confusedly ran off into the snowy conifers.

It is at exactly the same moment that the hum of the radiator disappears and the wind that rattles the windows and whistles a vicious howl ceases to exist. The windows have fogged over and frozen, a stained glass window lacking in color but abundant with creamy swirls and spider web cracks. But there is one spot where the palm of his hand has been pressed against the glass and this spot delivers a tunnel vision view of the winter world outside. The moose have retreated to the caves on the southern face of the mountain and he can see them pacing at the entrance; they are weary of the bears hibernating deeper into the tunnels, but more terrified of the gusts that threaten to drag them down by their antlers.

That was the year that he realized moving to the mountains, away from the city, in order to lead a life fueled by agricultural was a poor life decision. It wasn’t that he was a poor farmer, no, but he simply didn’t have the funds to withstand the maintenance on the barn, on the stable, on the tractor. And when he was faced with the worst winter he could have imagined he began to slip into desperation. So the family ate the horses. To save money for springtime finances he chopped away at the barn daily, barely fending off frostbite, in order to gather wood to burn in the fireplace. The thermostat runs at a lower temperature. While at night his daughter sleeps between he and Catherine, his wife. They moved the bed into the living room, right next to the fireplace. Catherine complained only to the dishes, never furthering the sickness of guilt that plagued her husband. The daughter, Madison Faye, spent some of the few hours of daylight in the yard making snow angels and praying to them, asking them for something to eat besides horse meat, a softer blanket, and a puppy. She was six years old and did not understand the severity of the situation.

It is at exactly the same moment that the hum of the radiator disappears and the wind that rattles the windows and whistles a vicious howl ceases to exist. The windows have fogged over and frozen, a stained glass window lacking in color but abundant with creamy swirls and spider web cracks. But there is one spot where the palm of his hand has been pressed against the glass and this spot delivers a tunnel vision view of the winter world outside. In the mornings the daughter would make three angels in the snow right outside of the window and the angels rose up from the frozen earth to speak with the father from time to time; they brought bad news of more snow and more ice.

That was the year that he chopped off the tip of his middle finger while sawing a plank from the barn door into thirds so that it could fit easily into the fireplace. He was wearing gloves when it happened, and as he saw the tip of his glove hit he ground and the blood spurt after it he nearly fainted. He stared blankly at the tip on the ground, could see a small white bone, before swooping down and picking it up. He moved quickly to the house, carrying the tip with his pinky and ring finger of his injured hand while trying to quell blood flow with his other hand. The blood stained the fresh powder snow and steam rose from each splatter. He burst through the doorway and fell to his knees, holding up his bleeding hand, the blood trickling down his wrist, soaking the dry portions of his wool covered hand. The look in his eyes said ‘doctor,’ and without putting a second thought into it his wife picked up the car keys, grabbed a jacket for herself and began dressing her daughter for the cold. Madison Faye’s eyes had filled with tears.

It is at exactly the same moment that the hum of the radiator disappears and the wind that rattles the windows and whistles a vicious howl ceases to exist. The windows have fogged over and frozen, a stained glass window lacking in color but abundant with creamy swirls and spider web cracks. But there is one spot where the palm of his hand has been pressed against the glass and this spot delivers a tunnel vision view of the winter world outside. Darkness had settled and the light radius emitting from the house displays only the empty graves of angels.

That was the year that he realized living far away from the rest of civilization was a terrible mistake. His finger was well beyond repair when they made it to the hospital. The doctor did what he could, which was little more than apply a salve of sorts and bandage the wound. The combination of the two slowed and then stopped the bleeding. His wife had been awake through most of the night, sleeping here and there while her daughter napped in her lap.

It is at exactly the same moment that the hum of the radiator disappears and the wind that rattles the windows and whistles a vicious howl ceases to exist. The windows have fogged over and frozen, a stained glass window lacking in color but abundant with creamy swirls and spider web cracks. But there is one spot where the palm of his hand has been pressed against the glass and this spot delivers a tunnel vision view of the winter world outside. Where the blood was splattered from the saw-teeth that gnawed the bone there is fresh snow, hoof prints, foot prints, and from that corner of the property voices, shouting and the scrape-scraping of metal on metal are heard.

That was the year that he saw the horses he had freed clad in heavy armor and trotting alongside the car as it putted along the ice covered rode. He tried to warn his wife but she was convinced that the Vicodin the doctor had given him for pain had caused him to hallucinate. But there, where the darkness from the trees fell beside the road the three angels were dressed in war gear. The angels carried swords in their right hands, had shields strapped to their backs, had covered their hands in gauntlets, their feet in greaves, and their chests in sturdy, plate mail stained brown with dried blood. The horses moved just behind the car on its passenger side. The angels weary of being seen, being careful to stay in the blind spot, stayed hidden in the shroud of the trees. As the car neared an S-curve the angels picked up speed, dashed in front of the vehicle as it began to make its way around the first curve. The horses stopped fifteen yards in front of the car but Catherine could not stop the car in time. Her reaction time was off because she saw three winged creatures mounted atop armored beasts but that was the least of her problems. The road here was covered with a thick layer of ice and the brakes failed stop the car before it careened into the three horses. The angels, of course, spread their wings, and began their ascent to wherever it was they were off to next. But the car collided with the horses and the armor that covered their bodies damaged the car or punctured their skin and broke their bones. The car was heavily damaged by the size of the horses, by the strength of the alloys used in creating their armored plating. Catherine and Madison were fine, though they were momentarily unconscious, caused mostly by shock rather than the impact. The husband, he would never wake up again, though he would not die for many years.

It is at exactly the same moment that the hum of the radiator disappears and the wind that rattles the windows and whistles a vicious howl ceases to exist. The windows have fogged over and frozen, a stained glass window lacking in color but abundant with creamy swirls and spider web cracks. But there is one spot where the palm of his hand has been pressed against the glass and this spot delivers a tunnel vision view of the winter world outside. His daughter watched her mother moving boxes of their possessions to the moving truck, she no longer made snow angels for fear that they would get her mother next.

01 December 2008

[as per V--'s request]

Six Times in Four Months

An eye crusted shut by sleep is rubbed by thumb and forefinger. The morning has brought sunlight to the window on the east side of the building. Toes wiggle as legs stretch, a body adjusts to the temperature around it. Only cold is felt outside of the patchwork quilt. Storm windows would certainly help in keeping the warmth within the living area.

Another eye, also encrusted by sleep, opens slightly, then an eyelid exerting more strength pushes open wide, letting in the light. Good morning. Yes, good morning. And even here the legs stretch. But the legs stretch toward the other set of legs and as the prospect of flesh on flesh draws nearer a magnetism of warmth begins to push them rapider to the other until finally they are together, connected as if one. Kinetic energy. The friction of a day’s growth of hair against that of a lifetime.

Good morning. Yes, good morning. And here is the weaving of limbs. Naked breasts pressed against a bare chest. The quiet comfort of winter is nearly void of comfortability to a room with too many windows and a thermostat stuck on room temperature. Yes. But. Yes, but, let’s do it anyway. Goose pimples rise but will drop as the friction begins again. And hiding under the covers will help to hold the heat in.

When it is over with there is a pitter-patter of cold feet on hardwood floors that have seen years of abuse, have seen years of feet pitter-pattering across, have seen the urine of animals, have seen it all. Oh. Oh. Cold. Cold. Yes, very cold.

Whoosh. A rush, a stream, a jet of water sending itself in a gently slopping arc toward the bottom of the ceramic tub. Oh, shit. A hand swoops down and removes a clump of long blonde hair mixed with short black animal fur. The mass is tossed into the waste barrel to the left side of the sink. Come on, hurry. And feet pitter-patter across the floor again. The bathroom floor accompanied by four feet.

The shower isn’t exactly built for two but it’s always been something that could be worked out when necessary. And in the white-grey of winter it is necessary to shower with someone else everyday, especially after sex.

The water rushes down on the bodies. The cold feet heat up too quickly, grow red hot with the differences in temperature. Each solitary bead of water hits with bee sting sharpness, like stepping bare-footed onto a tack. It’s momentary though, and as if flees the warmth continues the blood flow of previous activities. The top of a shampoo bottle is flipped and a young couple revels in the joy of helping one another wash each other’s hair. Shampoo is rinsed and hands move to the bottle of conditioner so the cycle can be complete.

The show is where teeth are brushed in the morning. A hand reaches outside of the shower by pushing the curtain aside and grabbing a tube of Crest® and pulling into into the warm water stream. One hand squeezes the tubes pale white, red speckled contents onto the bristles of a blue and white brush and immediately aims for the molars while handing the tube to another set of hands. These hands repeat the process, emptying the contents of the tube and tossing the empty tube over the shower curtain rod. It lands with a surprisingly loud thud on the hardwood.

Forward, backward, forward, backward. Spit, rinse, spit, rinse.

Soap is lathered on a loofah. Wash me. Naturally a hand starts at the chest level and goes back and forth from one shoulder, the left, to the right. The hand continues, washing the breasts, the stomach, the waist, the thighs, calves, and shins. Spin. And continues starting at the shoulder blades and stopping to watch the soap as it runs down the spine.

When getting clean can go no further it is necessary to step out of the shower and begin the day. Hands reach for separate Him and Her towels and dry themselves off. Laughs are shared as bodies go from warm to slightly less warm to cold and colder. Quick, let’s get dressed. And a race for the closet, two bodies careening down a hall and sharply turning the corner into the bedroom where the closed windows have decided to let the cold in regardless of design.

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. It’s a sweater day, Roger. Yes, a sweater day, Roger. How unnatural it felt. But it was time to get dressed anyway. It was time to get moving. Besides... a stomach was hungry. Will you be joining me for breakfast? Yes, I will be joining you for breakfast.

Breakfast that morning is eggs with bacon and toast, lightly buttered. It is enjoyed in the breakfast nook. The view from this side of the apartment is nice. There is a drop off at the edge of the parking lot just outside the front door. The view from here is of tree tops, mostly pine trees. Heavily and tilting with snowfall. The branches bending. They can be heard creaking from the position at the breakfast nook.

On the windowsill a set of hands found the remains of a cricket, it’s legs stuck together in a tangled love song, no doubt symphonic on those summer nights. The other looked on with bewilderment in the eyes. The other body stood up, and moved to the trash can where the love-struck cricket was deposited into the black bag. What will you do today? Whatever you ask of me, love.

Then let me give you this list. One, please get dinner for tonight. Two, pick up the clothes from the dry cleaners. Three, Amelia has a kombucha tea mother for me. Take the jar on the counter to her and she’ll know what to do. Four, take my check to the credit union and deposit it. That should do it. That is a rather lengthy list, I should be leaving.

Feet and legs hurried towards the coat rack, grabbing a pea coat off of its hook and putting it on. A scarf for wrapping around the neck. And then a set of hands buttons up the buttons. A peck on the lips. See you tonight. Yes, I’ll see you tonight. And lips kissed lips good-bye one more time.

Roger returned having completed each task. A body that moved with the precision of an incredibly important solider with incredibly important tasks that must be carried out.

Hands were busy that night chopping vegetables and preparing meat. Fingers were busy that night stay away from the sharp serrated edges of the knives. And when all was said and done a delicious stir-fry meal was created. Hands picked up chopsticks, chopsticks picked up food, arms moved to the food to the mouth, incisors tore the fleshy meat, molars ground everything into a thicker paste, the tongue pushed it all down with a swallow and gulp.

That night was a relaxing one. After dinner was a movie, a romantic comedy that was acclaimed to be above average by most film critics. The two bodies were wrapped in a microfleece blanket as the disc spun around within the DVD player, the colors of the bodies on the television screen.

The bodies feel into sleep that way. Never making it to the bed; never making it past the couch.

Four hours passed before she woke up, finding herself colder than usual. Roger’s body was cold, frozen stiff. No. No. No. She ran quickly to grab her cellphone. She flipped it open, nearly ripping the top half clean off. She pressed * and then then number 1 and the phone’s display flashed quickly as it began dialing “Speed Dial #1.” As the phone dialed she moved to the hutch, pulling open the top drawer with force. Inside she found a manila envelope that had Roger silkscreened in a bold typeface. She undid the string on the back and removed a glossy sheet.

Please enter your 17-digit pin.

She punched: 2-5-9-9-9-8-4-3-1-1-0-5-9-5-5-6-7.

Thank you, please hold.

She didn’t hold for very long before a voice came on the line.

Mrs. Gibson, my name is Hamilton. How can I help you?

It’s Roger! He’s done it again. She was panicked.

One moment. The operator on the other line was typing, was pulling up records. Mrs. Gibson this is the sixth time in four months that Roger has malfunctioned. We’ll send a box along with a crew and a replacement in the morning.

But...







Dial tone.