Short story/fiction: Everything You Touch Falls Down

 

                                                            Everything You Touch Falls Down

            The late afternoon sun sagged low in the sky, lighting only the highest branches of the tallest trees. The willows that lined the riverbank were left in cool shadow. At this time of day, the willows seemed hunched and frustrated, dragging their long arms through the water like miners panning for gold. Black mosquito bodies appeared, making peppery halos around the men sitting on the bank. They fanned their hands through the air in a well-practiced motion, starting near one ear, pealing red from the sun, and ending by the opposite cheek. Occasionally one of them would spit into the river, and a cod would rise to the surface to eat it.

            The men were drifters, wandering up and down the river alone or in packs. They were the sort of men whose faces felt cold without a beard, even in the middle of July. They had long since forgotten the purpose of shoes, soap or toenail clippers, preferring the feel of hard packed earth giving way to soft river soil under their feet. Every evening could be spent fishing by the river or skipping rocks. When the weather finally turned bad (or a few of them heard of something more interesting going on down river) the men could disband with a general air of satisfaction.

            Near the willows, one man sat with a soft brimmed hat perched on his knee. He had fallen silent for some time, staring at the river and chewing on the end of a harmonica.

            "Jimmy boy, how the hell do you fish all day and come up empty?" Earl said to the man with the hat.

            "How the hell do you come to care about it?" The last part of Jim's sentence dragged slow like swirls of river bottom dirt.

            "I don't." Earl scratched at a scab on his leg until a piece came off and started to bleed, "You never catch anything though, and I ain't sharing."

            Jim blew absently into the harmonica, gritting down on the metal with his front teeth. The sound made ripples in the water. "Look at them ripples. Sometimes I wish they'd spread all the way from bank to bank, but they always fade out."

            "Ripples is trouble. They mess things up. They scare away the fish."

            "Fishing ain't the most important thing in the world."

            Earl snorted.

            Jim scratched himself and sucked his teeth.

             "I'd rather watch ripples than worry about catching fish."

            Earl squinted at the water. "Ripples is trouble."

                                                                             ~

            The sun was high, drawing waves of heat off the highway like a powerful magnet. By the time Jim emerged from the woods he was sweating alcohol, his feet burned from the hot asphalt on the road. He sat down on the shoulder to put on his shoes, breathing in the dry smell of exhaust fumes. A faded pickup approached, its pieces loose and rattling. The window rolled down and spit out trash.

            A mile or so down the road was a two-pump gas station connected to a convenient store. A man sat behind the counter drawing on his arm with a pen. Jim passed the store on the far side of the street and circled back around to the Coke machine that sat around the corner from the store's entrance. He took out the chain and searched its length until he located a small pick-key. He inserted it into the lock, making sure it was firmly lodged into place. He wrapped the chain around the iron bar until it was taut. He pulled hard. The cylindrical center of the lock came free and Jim opened the door, stuffing his pockets with quarters. He continued into town, staying in the grass. When he walked on the road, he thought he could feel the hot asphalt through his shoes.

                                                                        ~

            The dock was sunk low with the weight of so many feet, making the river close, almost a continuation of the dock. Every once in a while a man would forget his way in the dark and almost fall into the river. Firelight bounced off the water, lighting the men's chins and noses, leaving their eyes muted.

            Salvador's small boat had drifted up to the dock just as the sun fell below the willows. He was a short man whose hands moved from his cigarette to his stomach to his mustache in steady, fluid movements. Jim enjoyed Sal because he told stories about his wife and how she complained about his mustache. Or how she insisted on having sex missionary style. Tonight, he was red-faced and excited.

            "I am celebrating tonight boys. I show those guys downriver whose boss," Sal tipped back a bottle of tequila, leaving his mustache glistening, "I delivered to a restaurant in Portville and this hombre estupido try to rip me off 100 dollars." Sal spread his hands apart and shook them, "I say, 'look blanco, you think I am straight from Mexico City? I know how much cod and catfish cost and you are being a cheap bastard.'"

            The men laughed and slapped each other on the back. A few broke beer bottles against the dock.

            "Did ya get him Sal?" Jim asked.

            "He just say 'okay okay' and give me the money. I call him chicken shit and leave." Sal took another swig from the bottle but was laughing so hard some of it dribbled down his chin.

            The men danced and stomped and drank for a few hours, until they were spent and had to lie down for support. Sal walked over to Jim and sat down.

            "'Hey Jim, where is your son lately? He would like my story."

            Jim propped himself up against a cooler and spat into the river, "Hell if I know." Then he dropped his head down between his knees, the tips of his hair brushing the dock, "Sal, sing us a song."

            Sal pushed himself up from the dock, swaying for a few moments. He stood by the fire, his legs spread, tightening his body until the force of it was behind his voice. Then he sang, a Spanish ballad that slid smoothly over the water and into the night.

                                                                                    ~

             Jim ate at McDonald's for lunch, choosing a table outside in the play area. He ate quickly, keeping his eyes on his burger wrapper, concentrating on the hollow thud sounds of kids crawling through plastic tubes. On his way out, he noticed the shoes in the cubby holes at the play place's entrance. A blue sandal had fallen out of its cubby and lay apart from the rest. He fingered the blue plastic, trying to guess what age the shoe's owner was. Probably around four or five, the age at which kids found going to McDonald's so exhilarating that they ran themselves out on the playground, making bedtime much easier than usual for their parents. He hoped kids still got that excited about McDonalds.

                                                                        ~

            The sun was fading out, its light slowly covered by layers of gray clouds. The birds had fallen silent, pushing their heads under their wings and hiding in the willows. The men on the river bank shifted uncomfortably, their poles lay uncast at their sides. None of the fish were biting. Finally someone said, "Well, we better go on in."

            They pulled tarps from different camps along the river and strung them together. Lawn chairs, cards and liquor were placed underneath. They finished setting up just as the first drops of rain began to fall. The men settled in, playing a game of poker and betting on fish they hadn't yet caught. Jim sat off to the side, shooting liquor. After a few rounds of poker, he picked up a wooden box that had been sitting at his feet.

            "Look here boys," Jim opened the lid.

            "Shit Jim," Earl slapped his knee, "Once you get those knives out I know trouble's comin'."

            "It ain't no trouble," Jim began to take the knives out and stick them in the ground, "Its fun."

            "Let's play," another man said.

            The men picked out a broad tree that grew about twenty feet from the tarps. Earl ran out into the rain, hunched, with his hands over his head, and stuck a quarter to the tree with gum.

            "Alright boys, anyone who splits the quarter gets a kiss from Sal's wife," Jim said.

            "Woowhee, I wonder if she tastes like enchiladas," a man said, licking his lips and rubbing his belly.

            The men threw knives and shot liquor. The later in the day it got, the wider they missed their mark.

            "Hey Earl," Jim said, swaying slightly, "If I hit the quarter with this shot, you gotta go get my knife out in the rain."

            "That ain't nothin. First of all, you won't make the shot. And second of all, I already went out in the rain to set up the target, so it ain't nothin."

            "Well then, if I make it, you gotta stand there while I shoot again."

            "What do I get if you miss?"

            "You can have the knives."

            Earl sat down hard on the knife box. He squinted his eyes and rubbed his beard.  "You sure about this?"

            The other men got excited. "Earl, he ain't gonna make that shot, go ahead, those knives are as good as yours."

            "Alright then." Earl stood up.

            The men passed the bottle around for a good luck shot, and clapped Jim on the back. Jim picked out a knife with a dark wood handle. He threw it.

            It flipped end over end through the air and grazed the outside of the tree trunk, landing in some bushes.

            "Looks like I got me a new knife collection." Earl stood patting his belly. The men yelled and whooped in congratulation. Earl walked over to claim his prize.

            "Go out and stand by the tree," Jim said.

            "What?"

            Jim held up a knife. "Go on."

            Earl hesitated, glancing at the other men. They were huddled together, their hands in their pockets.  He turned and walked out into the rain slowly, deliberately.

            "Turn around."

            Earl turned.

            Jim threw a second time. The knife was on target, sinking into wood a few inches above Earl's head.

                                                                        ~

            He stayed in the grass and kept his head down until he reached a park. It was no more than a patch of grass with a walking track running the length of its borders. A few rotten benches and some picnic tables sat in the grass. As he approached, he noticed that on top of one of the picnic tables was a small drawstring bag. Jim opened it and found a set of hard glass dominoes, the lines and dots were painted blue, purple, green and red. He sat down on the track and began to set them up, creating a large spiral that took up the width of the track. Then he laid down on the grass beside it, put his arm over his eyes and fell asleep.

            A foot nudged him awake.

            "Dad."

            Jim sat up, shaking his hair and rubbing spit from his beard. "What took you so long?"

            The man was young. He would have looked like a younger version of Jim save his large ears which stuck out through his hair. He looked at Jim and shrugged. "Did you set these up?"

            "I was waiting." Jim moved so that he was facing the spiral, "Remember when we used to play?"

            "We never played dominoes."

            "Yeah we did, remember that one time after you came home from school? You were sad 'cause your teacher gave you a bad grade or something. So I cheered you up by playing dominoes."

            "We only played that one time."

            "Really? I could of swore we played other times." Jim yanked some grass out of the ground and began to tear it apart.

            "Nope."

            Jim continued to tear at the grass for a few moments. Then, "So you comin' back to the river with me? We can throw knives."

            "No."

            "No what?"

             "I'm not going to the river."

            Jim looked up. "Why'd you come here then?"

            The young man was silent for a moment. He reached into his pocket to get a cigarette. He fumbled with a lighter. After he got it lit, he took a few quick drags and said, "To tell you I'm not coming back."

            "Why not?"

            "Because." The young man's eyes moved back and forth. His gaze found the dominoes and he bent down next to them, "Everything you touch falls down and hits somebody else."

            "Shit boy, what are you talking about?"

            The young man pushed the first domino over, hitting the second, which hit the third and the fourth, fifth, sixth. The sound of single dominoes hitting each other became a rain-like song that echoed through the park. When it was finished and the spiral was collapsed, the sudden silence was abrupt and empty.

                                                                        ~

            The river was high from the storm. Every time a riverboat passed, water would slosh up onto the dock, getting Jim's feet wet. The moon was old, offering little light, so the men had to huddle around the fire to see. They were quiet except for Sal, who had brought his wife, Frieda, with him.

            "These guys are great. They live life with no regret. Never having to work, just drink and fish and sleep." Sal's speech was fast and slurred. His wife looked at the men, she neither smiled or frowned. Her brown eyes regarded them evenly.

            "Now, it ain't that simple." Earl said.

            "Sure ain't." Another man said.

            "Sure it is. You love the river. You love fish. No family, no wife. You prefer it this way, right?" Sal had moved away from his wife and was laying down on the dock outside the circle of light.

            "Hell yeah, life is better that way," Jim said, "who needs a woman anyway? They ain't nothin' but trouble."

            "I'll drink to that," one man said, and they all drank.

            There was no response from Sal. Frieda shifted, crossing her legs and folding her arms over her chest.

            "What's up with you women anyway? Thinking you're damn special." Jim set his empty beer can down and crushed it with his foot.

            In response, Freida tilted her head to the side, looking down at the dock. Her dark hair fell off her shoulder, leaving it exposed.

            Some of the men stood up, others moved closer to the fire. They opened new cans of beer.

            "You speakee English?" Spittle flecked out of Jim's mouth as he spoke. He turned to the other men, "She probably don't need to. She's probably too busy fucking to talk." The men laughed appreciatively. Earl's smile stretched across his fat face.

             She drew her arms in so that her elbows were down, and her hands were under chin. She hesitated. The men were gathered close together now, almost shoulder to shoulder. "Salvador is a silly man and drinks too much. But he comes home where I am at night. I think that is special."

             "It ain't special. You just have something he wants," Jim laughed.

             "Hey Frieda, you wanna go for a swim with me?" a man said.

            Frieda began to cry, a soundless weeping that went unnoticed by most of the men. It had been a long time since Jim had seen a woman cry. Her tears seemed to follow the same path down her face, the first following the second, third, fourth, fifth.

            "I think she looks like she wants to get wet," Earl said. He stood by the fire, bent slightly forward so that his face was almost over the flames. Beads of sweat were on his nose and forehead. Jim noticed his knife in Earl's waistband, the wooden handle stuck out, weighing down the elastic. It looked heavy and awkward tucked into his pants.

            "I tell you what boys, why don't we give Sal a swim in the river?" Jim turned to Earl, "You ever seen a drunk Mexican swim?"

            Earl cocked his head to the side for a moment, unsure. Then he smiled and said, "Hell no I ain't. You think he'll float?"

            Jim picked up Sal, heaving his weight to the edge of the dock, and dunked him. He came up sputtering. The reaction was immediate. Some men stepped back and a few sat down. Earl squatted by the fire.

             Freida hurried over to Sal and spoke with him in Spanish. Jim helped her get Sal to the boat.             "Gracious," she said.

            "Don't thank me. You ain't fucking welcome here." Jim watched as Freida turned on the motor. The little boat sped away downriver, traveling quickly with the current.

            Jim returned to the fire and squatted next to Earl. The waves from Sal's boat made water wash up onto the dock and soak their feet.

            "Fucking river," Earl said. He passed Jim the liquor bottle and he tipped it back.

           

           

            

Grandma's pictures

Here's some pictures I took of my grandmother for photo class last year. Isn't she beautiful?

Short Story: When Skies Are Gray

When Skies Are Gray

Sinking apartment buildings crowded Fairview Avenue, huddled up together like they were trying to keep warm. Occasionally street lights flickered, outlining the sharp edges of benches, open windows and aluminum cans. At times like these, tattered mittens were thrown up over the faces of the homeless sitting by the dumpsters, and babies cried, startled by the sudden brightness. Most of the time though the neighborhood was blurred and dark, casting a convenient shadow over the tenants and passersby. Kate's apartment was at the end of street, across from a small grocery.  At night, her building was completely dark, tucked away in a corner that was not reached by the flickering light. Most of the other tenants in her building were elderly, and had reached that point in there lives when the outside world was no longer familiar, and so they hid in their rooms. Her son, Michael, was the only child in the building. Every week when Kate hur

ried home after a trip to the grocery store, his voice would echo through the walls and into the corridor. The sound always surprised her because his baby talk sounded hollow, almost alien, in the empty building. 

If she could, Kate liked to bring home stickers or crayons as a peace 

offering to Michael for having to leave him alone for the fifteen minutes or so it took her to buy food. But lately she barely had enough money for bread and cereal. She'd come home, scoop Michael up out of his playpen with one hand and prepare dinner with the other. On nights like these, they would feast on hot dogs and instant mashed potatoes. 

~

On Tuesday and Thursday nights, Kate took Michael with her to work the toll booth on the St. Matthew bridge. He was happy enough sitting propped up by the window, watching the car headlights-blurry at first, slowly sharpen to two beams and sort themselves neatly into rows. Somet

imes commuters brought him candy and commented on how big he was getting. Mrs. Denton, a doctor's wife, often came through Kate's booth on her way home from the gym. She brought Michael lollipops, and would say things like, “I bet that boy eats you out of house and home.” 

Every Thursday, long after Michael fell asleep, Mr. Burbank pulled up in his Toyota. Tie undone, hair slightly coming loose from its gel, taking short drags from a cigarette. 

“Pretty Kate, how's life treating you?” The traffic was usually slow by then, and it was his custom to sit and talk with her for a few minutes.  

“It has its bright moments.” Her gazed shifted, taking him all in, settling on 

his ring finger.

“Isn't your wife going to be mad that you're always getting back so late?” 

“I doubt she even notices.” 

Kate counted out the change and handed it back to him. He stared at her hand and nodded toward the sleeping child. 

“Buy him some ice cream,” he said. 

She waited until he drove away, tail lights fading into the pale grayness of early morning, before wrapping her arms around herself, squeezing until she felt all the breath leave her lungs.

But most people passed through without noticing Michael. They were commuters from the city in such a hurry to get home that they didn't bother to look up, so that Kate became familiar with all the different kinds of male pattern baldness. Most drivers didn't like to make eye-contact whereas the people in the passenger seat, separated by a solid cushion of blood and bone, generally stared. They were the ones that noticed Michael and frowned in disapproval.

~

Kate had stopped taking Michael to Big Mama's Grocery store a few months ago. The colorful cereal boxes and shiny floors excited him. Every few moments he would reach out f

rom his perch in the cart, spreading his fingers so that they looked like a spider, and touch something. She always caught whatever he knocked over a second too late, chasing rolling oranges down the aisle or picking up the crunched remains of a bag of cookies. 

Once, she had left the cart at the front of the aisle, parked beside a large pyramid of popcorn boxes. Michael stood up in the cart in an effort to touch one, lost his balance, and fell over into the pyramid. Kate hurried over, picked up Michael and turned around to leave.

“Had an accident there, did we?”  A tired-looking old man approached them, his skin wrinkled and hanging loosely, chicken-like, from his neck. His name tag identified him as Jim, but Kate had always thought of him as Big Mama's husband. 

“Yes, he gets excited by everything in here. I'm sorry we made such a mess.”

Jim bent down, re-stacking the pyramid. “Oh it's alright. He reminds me of my son at that age.” Jim looked up at Kate from his crouched position while he spoke, “Could you hand me those boxes over there?”

Kate sat Michael in the cart and crouched down to help him straighten. 

“You live across the street?” Jim's hands shook slightly as he shifted the boxes.

“On the corner.”

“Can't imagine raising a kid in this city.”

“Where are you from?”

“Kentucky." Jim squinted at her, sucking on his teeth. After a moment, "I had a ranch." 

Some of the corners on the cereal boxes had been crushed. Kate tried to fix them, pressing the thin cardboard together with her fingers. "Sorry."

Jim took the box from her and shook it before putting it back in the pyramid. “One time I got this full grown Mustang somebody had managed to catch out in Montana somewhere. It was beautiful, that horse.”

“Aren't Mustangs wild?” 

Jim looked up at Michael who stared right back at him, his round head tilted to the side. “Most people think they are, but in fact they're feral animals. The cowboys tamed them and were their masters for a while. But after there were no more cowboys left, they escaped and became wild again. That Mare from Montana was beautiful, you could tell she was never gonna let me tame her.”

“What happened?”

“I tried for a while, trying to break her down. But you could see it in the way she flipped her mane back, the way she danced on her front legs—she would die before she let someone tame her, make her do things she wouldn't ever do otherwise."  

Michael began to fuss, and reached for one of the boxes on the newly-formed pyramid. Kate stood up and pushed the buggy back. 

Jim said, “She quit eating after a few weeks and died.”

"I'd like to see a Mustang.”

“You won't find one here. They need wide spaces and sunlight to survive.”

Kate apologized again and left. That night, after she had put Michael to bed, Kate sat in a chair by the window. The cold colors of the street seeped through the window pane and into the room, mixing with the dust and dirt on her floor. That was the last time she took Michael grocery shopping. 

~

Most of the time, Kate waited. If the safe in the wall was full and the rent was paid, then she didn't mind waiting. She passed the time by playing with Michael, working at the toll booth, or cleaning. She cleaned often because a layer of dust and grime covered her brown furniture and thin rugs, and no matter how 

hard she tried to wipe it away it always came back. Waiting was okay because it divided life up into short, small doses that were easily swallowed. Sometimes Kate pictured herself on a time line that remained flat during her periods of waiting and spiked sharply when something important happened. The spikes were merely a bump, a small blip on her time line.

Waiting was hard when the safe was empty. Kate passed the time by sitting in a kitchen chair next to the phone, staring ahead into space. She moved only to attend to Michael or answer the phone. When the phone finally rang, she moved quickly, snatching it off its cradle and talking in sharp, efficient tones.

“Yes?”

“22nd and Fletcher, black Mercedes, the doors will be unlocked.” 

She moved quickly, grabbing her case out of the closet with one hand and scooping up a sleeping Michael with the other. He was used to their late-night outings and slept on peacefully while she shifted him into a sling on her back. The steady movements of her quick strides and then the subway kept him asleep until they reached their destination. She crept into the back of the Mercedes and locked the door. Hunching down, she made sure Michael wasn't squished between her and the seat before assembling her pistol and fitting it with a silencer.

Kate waited again. This time, her waiting was defined by a sharp sense of 

purpose, a goal. A small thrill fluttered in the pit of her stomach and she gripped the handle of her gun tighter. After a while, Michael began to stir, so she sang softly to keep him asleep.

“You are my Sunshine, My only Sunshine. You make me happy, when skies are gray.” 

The song faded as a man in a tuxedo approached the car, fumbling in his pockets for the keys. He stood there with the door open, talking on the phone and gesturing animatedly. His arms flailed around and his mouth gaped open for a few seconds and then shut tight again. He reminded Kate of a fish out of water, an angel fish she decided since he was wearing black and white. 

“No, I can get you the money. I swear to God. Just give me a few days-I'm good for it. My kid had to get braces and all this shit, please-hello? hello?”

He snapped the phone shut and climbed into the car, slamming his fist into the dashboard and grunting with the force of it. Michael jerked awake, letting out a loud cry of protest. It was one of his more substantial cries, starting from the depths of his belly and emanating from the throat. The man turned around in surprise. Kate shot him. It was clean and almost soundless, right between his eyes. She dissembled the gun, wiping it down to make sure there was no blood or gray matter on the weapon. Quickly she exited the car, careful to avoid the cameras at the ATM machine across the street. Michael's cry echoed in the 

deserted business district, bouncing off bricks and plate glass windows. Filling up the emptiness.

~

After a job, Kate relaxed. She let the answering machine pick up missed calls and took Michael out to the park. She'd push him around in his blue stroller on the walking track to get exercise and fresh air. Afterward, she followed Michael around on the playground, his skinny arms digging holes in the sandbox or climbing precariously up wooden platforms. He was awkward and shy with the other children, preferring to play alone or with Kate. The few times other children played with him, it was in the form of bullying. Michael was made to march behind another child, or move over to let someone else ahead of him in line for the slide. Kate, who was waiting to catch him at the bottom, would have to stifle her urge to yell at other people's children. If there was money left over from the subway ride, Kate took Michael to get ice cream before returning to Fairview Avenue. He would fall asleep early on evenings like these, before the streets had a chance to turn gray with the setting sun.

~

The streetlights that flanked Big Mama's Grocery were the only working lights on Fairview Avenue. The circles of fluorescence surrounding the store acted 

as a kind of line of demarcation: Gang members and drug dealers on one side and less obvious customers on the other. The people who entered the store did so with hunched backs, keeping their heads down and away from the glare. 

The tall automatic doors at Big Mama's seemed to be vacuum sealed, so that every time they opened, the swooshing sound made Kate feel as if all the air were being sucked out of her lungs. Breathlessly, she skimmed through the toiletries, throwing Johnson's shampoo and rash cream in her cart without glancing at the prices. After a job, she was careless, almost reckless with money, buying impractical food like pork rinds, avocados, and sushi the deli made several hours earlier. She walked quickly through every aisle, running her hand over plastic wrappers and cold freezer windows. In the bakery she sampled little square pieces of stale pumpkin bread sitting, lumpy, in a plastic bubble. 

She saved the magazines for last, slowing down to browse through “Travel” and “National Geographic.” She imagined Mr. Burbank and Michael sitting at home on a blanket spread out on the floor. She would return home from the grocery with bags full of goodies, presenting Michael with his stickers first before giving Mr. Burbank the National Geographic she had bought him as a surprise. He would look at her, pleased, and say “That's the right kind of thing for a man to be reading.”

Kate picked up a “Star” and an “Inquirer” magazine instead and walked up 

to the checkout counter. Jim greeted her, his thin mouth turned upward in a vague attempt at a smile. 

“Hello Kate.” He rang up the sushi and the magazines, and Kate could hear him sucking on his gums. When he finished, he looked up, squinting through his glasses, and said, “Where's Michael? I haven't seen him around lately.”

“He's at home.”  

“I liked that boy. He reminds me of my son.” 

“How's that?”

“Oh, its that look. Wesley was bright in the eyes and the heart, like your boy.”

“Bright? There's not much of anything bright around here,” Kate glanced out the door to the twin circles of light illuminating the otherwise gray sidewalk.

“Its a kind of freedom they're born with. People like me and you, we don't have it. We can earn it sometimes, we can try real hard, but most of the time we just have to see them on their way,” Jim paused for a moment, holding her bag of pork rinds, “I'm lucky. Wesley moved up here to the city, got a big fancy job commuting and everything, and he let me follow him. I lived a few good years with him and his family before he died.” 

“I'm sorry,” Kate looked up at him, “How did he die?”

“Somebody up and shot him. Should've known with this damn city and all the crime. Anyway, its been a few years ago now. I'd trade all the horses in the world to get Wesley back.” Jim finished bagging the groceries and handed them to her. She grabbed them and walked to the door. Jim let out a breath.

“Hurry home to your boy. Mothers should be Mothers, you know.” 

Kate listened to the doors swoosh shut behind her, cutting off his words. She stepped quickly into the darkness, hunched over with her head down.

~

The phone rang. Michael had fallen asleep on a blanket in the living room after a long day at the park, his stomach full from eating a scoop of double chocolate chip ice cream. Kate rushed to pick up the phone, glancing at Michael to make sure he was still asleep. But when she put the phone to her ear she hesitated. A voice on the other side said, “Hello?”

“Yes. I'm here.”

“The warehouse on Highview Boulevard. The target will exit out the side door and into the alley.”

Michael was fussy on the subway ride into the city, jerking awake every time the train stopped. They hid behind a dumpster in the alley, the smell of rotten food and cat litter hung in the air, as well as the acrid stench of some sort of chemical. Kate crouched low, balancing on her haunches while she assembled her gun. Behind her, Michael's feet dragged the ground, his white tennis shoes getting streaked with the grime of the alley. 

She waited, her legs falling asleep underneath her from squatting for so long. She concentrated on her heartbeat, trying to see if it matched Michael's rhythm, faint but discernible up against her back. Then she tried to match his breathing, but his breath came too quickly so that when she sped up her breathing to match his, she began to feel light-headed and anxious. 

The night was beginning to take on the gray hues of morning when the warehouse door finally opened. A man side-stepped into the alley. Kate could see the back of his head and the outline of his shoulders under a black overcoat. He was holding a cigarette in one hand and fumbling for keys with the other. When he dropped them, the small tinkle of keys hitting pavement echoed in the empty alley, creating a sound too big for such a small object. She stood up, wincing at the pain of a thousand pinpricks as blood rushed back into the lower parts of her legs. The man bent over to retrieve his keys and Kate stepped out from behind the dumpster. 

Something about his hunched position made her take a step closer instead of shooting. The hair on the top of his head was thinning but well-styled by a generous helping of product. The hand holding the cigarette had a slight tremor, automatically shaking the ash off the end of the cigarette when it got too long. Kate knew who he was before he stood up and met her gaze.

The surprise in Mr. Burbank's face quickly faded, replaced by fear and then a sort of coldness. 

“It's you.”

She pointed the gun at his chest, holding it with both hands.

“The fucking toll booth girl and her kid...Fuck.” Mr. Burbank took a drag 

from his cigarette and stood facing her, his hands hanging awkwardly by his sides. 

Kate felt Michael's small, steady heartbeat. It was slower now than it had been earlier when he was pumping his legs on the swing set at the park or chasing bugs in the grass outside their apartment. As she stood there, gun in hand, some strands of her hair were pulled, stuck to Michael's sticky face as he turned in his sleep. 

“They won't stop.” 

Gray morning sunlight entered the alley, blurring the spaces between the trash and brick walls and crumbling pavement. Mr. Burbank closed his eyes and exhaled. By the time he opened them again, Kate was gone.

~

Michael was crying. He had refused to eat his dinner and now sat on the floor, balling his hands into tight fists and directing his cries toward the chair where his mother sat, waiting for the phone to ring. The phone had been silent for three months, and Kate had begun to pass the time she spent waiting for the phone by twisting the cord around her fingers, tightening it until the tips turned white.

She looked out the window onto Fairview Avenue, the lights surrounding Big Mama's grocery casted shadows on the surrounding street. She wondered if the grayness that seemed to occupy the street most of the time, sinking into the crevices and defying the light, was there because of her. She wondered if it was her fault that there were no horses on Fairview Avenue. 

Kate walked over to Michael and picked him up, pressing his chest against hers. He stopped crying momentarily, looking at his mother with wet eyes. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed tight, until all the breath left their bodies. They stood like that, slightly bent, silhouetted against the shabby neighborhood outside the window. 

Introducing...

Hopefully my blog will include photos, stories and news information i find important. I also write creatively, so that stuff will be on here too. 

(My friends and I at the library at our college. )