Talespinning

Word Count: 370

The black dog was out of a gothic romance, long-haired and long-limbed and silent with eyes red and glowing. Carrie remembered his name from the novel: Damascus.

It wasn’t black when she got him; she used Clairol Irish Rose #3. He was good-natured and barkless so she taught him to growl and snap. She used his inbred fear of not pleasing his mistress against him.

But she fed him the choicest cut sirloin and between the spikes on his collar were genuine gems. Damascus was the perfect protector, reading companion, child, and lover. He was quiet when quiet was what Carrie needed. He was rough when she felt a bit kinky and wild. He liked the same brand of Cabernet and never got drunk.

The one thing that Carrie had not considered, even after she got used to the routine of the dye, was that the dog would not live as long as she wanted, though she kept him in the best tip-top health.

The vet raised an eyebrow when he discovered the hair color was not natural, that the contacts were not only corrective but red. He hid his sneer at the collar; there was just so much else going on. He listened to her list of symptoms, felt the dog with his hands. Age was the problem he knew that, but he sent them home with a a large bag of pills. As they left, he patted Damascus on the head, his sympathy hidden within this small gesture for the large, silent hound.  Damascus worked up a snarl and a quick snap and looked to Carrie for her approval.

Damascus died in his sleep one night, curled up in front of the fire, at the foot of the couch where Carrie sat reading. She didn’t realize at first he had passed. She slept on the couch for the rest of the night and called the vet in the morning. He took care of all the arrangements, even the stone. And he gave her the good news of a puppy that would be ready to pick up in two weeks. A Labrador Retriever, he said, and it was the pick of the litter. And black.

Word Count: 293

When he came home he pulled seventeen slivers out of his fingers, making a wish on each one.

His mother had instilled in him a strong bond with Jesus and it held him tight through his teens. He discovered that God didn’t listen to those who drove to church exceeding the speed limit, or those who imbibed in a whole lot of beer.

He searched for someone or something less selective, more tolerant, found some religions that appeared more open to the things he took as his right to enjoy since, after all, it was there as a constant in short skirts and tight jerseys and nipples allowed to form a natural alliance with the weather.

And it wasn’t just women and sex; it was the fact that he didn’t like children, didn’t want any, didn’t feel any need to live on through the ages. It was the element of danger, of walking the edge that some people found suicidal yet was the motivation  for getting up every day.

Even the slivers. He cut wood for the winter without wearing gloves. Every nerve drawing breath from the twack! of the axe, his heart beating in sync with the blood flowing through his body, bleeding out his fingers as he pulled out the needles of wood. He winced an odd mixture of pleasure and pain.

This was his balance, his own form of stability. Action, reaction. Negative, positive. Clouds turned inside out to reveal the soft stuffing within.

Each of his seventeen wishes was for something different. He was surprised that he had so many desires. There was Erica at work, and Jocelyn, the manager at the market. And of course, a Harley Davidson to sit in the driveway behind the old pickup truck.

Word Count: 302

It was surprising, to see the little boy standing still in a crowd of moving people, like a small oak tree in a field of waving oat. His hands hung down by his side, his fingers half-curled into his best attempt at fists. Fists give you confidence, his fingers were in the midst of unrolling as his fear softened steel into spaghetti.

I could tell he was lost, forgotten amid the craziness of Black Friday shopping. He was about six, maybe five, his bottom lip captured by front teeth just growing in. He was well-dressed, plumped into a flag-bright red jacket made of nylon-trapped down. His jeans bubbled down over sneakers tied in motherly double knots. Green mittens hung out from his pockets, abandoned protection and love within reach of his hands. It was heartbreaking. I knew the feeling. I could sense his determination to obey orders dwindling away.

He stayed in that one spot in the main aisle of the mall and the crowd flowed around him. A pebble in the stream of the morning. I watched the people buzzing by like honeybees seeking a particular flower. I looked for a mother who seemed to be missing a child. I listened for someone calling a name, high-pitched and frantic. I saw and heard no one I could connect with this one little boy.

I edged closer, not wanting to scare him. Soon I was standing in front of him and he looked up, his eyes glassy with holding back tears. I smiled and held out my hand. “I’ll help you,” I said.

Together we walked out of the mall, making only one stop for a brightly red and green frosted chocolate tree on a stick, which he happily took and first thing, bit off the star.

Word Count: 229

He was surprised to wake up to the sun shining because in his dreams he had willed it to burn itself out. After forty-eight hours of sleep he’d gotten used to the black and gray world. He liked it. Liked it a lot.

He tried to hide under the covers, crawling around from the head to the foot of the bed hoping to find the sleep that had somehow slipped out of his grasp along with the dark. Eventually he had to come out but he kept his eyes closed.

He was fine until after he’d showered and started to dress. He stubbed his toe on the dresser, dropped a drawer on his other foot, and lost his sense of direction and walked into a wall when he searched for the closet. His eyes were all squinted to slits as he grudgingly found his way to the kitchen and made coffee and toast.

But he wouldn’t read the papers he found on the table, just where he’d left them. He had hoped they’d burned up with the sun. But there they were, crisp and bright white and scattered, all seventeen pages large and legal, bearing the same official seals and initials of all parties concerned except him. He shut his eyes.

In the dark he found himself again that night. And that is where they found him too.

Word Count: 322

He was placed in a corner and told to sit still and not move. When he grew fidgety he looked around for his parents. He saw his mother, with a drink in her hand, talking with a man that Nathan thought looked familiar. His father’s deep booming laugh came around the corner into the living room where Nathan sat on a chair that was impossibly uncomfortable and stiff.

He was good for an hour, maybe a little bit longer, but he was hungry and tired and needed to use the bathroom. His mother was reaching for a fresh drink offered by the man who looked sort of like someone Nathan had seen somewhere before. Maybe at one of these parties, maybe at the grocery store, or no–he was somebody he saw at his dad’s company on Bring Your Child to Work Day. His father was nowhere in sight or within sound.

Nathan wound his way through the crowded rooms, trying hard to avoid bumping ladies’ behinds and the tight circles of adults laughing loudly and gesturing dangerously with their drinks clinking ice cubes. He found the bathroom off the main hall. He almost forgot to wash his hands but he remembered and closed the door though not all the way. He was wiping his hands on the tiny green towel when the man who worked with his father came in.

Something didn’t feel right. Even his dad didn’t walk in on him in the bathroom anymore. The man had shut the door behind him and that made Nathan uncomfortable. The man told Nathan he was a good boy, a handsome boy, that maybe sometime they could go play ball or go fishing.

Nathan got away. He couldn’t find his mother but saw his father with his arm around a woman who didn’t look familiar at all. Nathan was still hungry but he went back to the uncomfortable chair and sat down.

Word Count: 293

Aunt Doreen comes at you with her candlestick lips, ruby red wax that she’ll streak on your cheek like a scar. She used to kiss you on the lips until you turned twenty-two and she heard the news you were gay.

Uncle Ned’s second wife hugs you so tight you can feel her breasts pushing into your lungs and doesn’t let go. You feign a cough. She jumps back in alarm. You still cringe but can laugh at this ridiculous woman.

You haven’t seen most of your family in years. Mostly because of the way life turns out but in large part because of your partner. You were the first in your family to creep out of hiding and stood alone for a very long time. Your mother finally met Jon two years ago, your father never, but he was never invited into the home your grew up in, the welcoming arms of the cousins and mothers and fathers of children more normal than you.

But here they all gather, to show their respects, to–let’s face it–take advantage of this last opportunity to see your gay lover in death, if never in life.

Aunt Doreen kneels at the casket. Her elbows move as she crosses herself but her head isn’t bowed, her eyes not teary and sad. She is stalling, getting a close look at Jon, maybe wondering what you saw in him, how you made love, if death hits you the same way when it’s a same sex relationship.

You simply stare at the soles of her shoes, waiting for her and the others to leave, and wonder how you’ll be able to bear the rest of your life. When all normal life as you know it is gone.