You are currently browsing the tag archive for the ‘Fiction’ tag.
At dawn she opens her eyes to the poster of Paris plastered to her wall washed in the early morning lightness she loved so much. Blinking and staring, she refused to believe that she was awake, and simply gazed at the poster, imagining the world in paint. The light changed the view, in her mind like the water lilies on Monet’s pond. Aware that he was once considered a scallywag in the profession of beauty, Josephine feels a little lightened.
At breakfast she admired the newly blooming violets outside her window, it a silent appreciation that spring had finally been welcomed into the world. But here again, as she dazes off, the distinct perspectives appear to blur like the brush strokes, beyond the texture of the world that has materialized in front of her. Even the chocolate in Josephine’s coffee has altered its form, the swirls more defined and deliberate that she had noticed before.
It became increasingly difficult to concentrate in the shower, because she imagined the water droplets turning into the stubborn oil paints that she knew were so in-washable. As well, she could see the Lavender scent of petals of her soap materialize into form as she washed away the suds. Down the swirling drain were the precious purple the so invigorated her senses.
She dresses without complication, far too aware of the concrete nature of her bedroom belongings. Having had such a permanent staple there so long, she could no longer believe in the beauty of things that held so much weight on her being. Yet, she glances at the poster of Paris, dreaming again of an escape. After a moment lost in yet another blend of painted reality, she snatches up the Lucy Bacon notebook/diary she so cherishes, and maneuvers out of her crystalline jungle.
Josephine knew she wasn’t like the rest of the daily commuters – she knew that their visions weren’t as colorful as hers. She was also well aware that no one so desired the education of a closed down art school the way that she did. All those that she considered mental companions went to the famous Parisian art school Academie Colarossi. Home of the impressionists, my world, and my mind.
The bus jerks forward as she pays her toll, and she takes an available empty seat, as far away from the window as she can manage. This is the anxious time of Josephine’s day – the over-decorated world of actual reality is far to overwhelming for her creative instincts. The bombardment of advertisements and statements crowds her senses. She can’t remember the semblance of noise they call music, and she couldn’t recollect the formulas required for scientific discoveries. She could, however, remember the way the light passed through the orange juice pitcher at breakfast, and the way her curtains illuminate up the fading light of sunset through her bedroom window –
Not everything dissolves, and not everything falls apart. Some fads are permanent, sometime I believe that one will stay. She comforts these thoughts with the melodic tones of Laura Veirs in the background…the latest in continuous audible stimulation, the hums and moans of the pink light guiding her fingers on the home-stretched canvas. Despite what the punks at the gallery said, she knew herself to be true to art. The clichés of paint being blood were core to her nature, her being. It was the rhythms and stimulations of her sensory perception that guided the brushstrokes over the deliberate layers of newspaper and articles.
She brushed the hair off her forehead, whilst leaving evidence of her purple paint choice behind. Stepping back to put the creation in perspective, she began to understand the flaws…She saw the wit and white between the strategic layers of paper, canvas and paint.
It was irritating,
frustrating,
and in the end,
a relief.
Abstract deserves the cracks.
And reality deserves some fading light, stage left.
But this latter realization would come later.
For now, there was the painting to deal with.
Sophia caresses the sunlight on her pillow with sleep-covered eyes. Oscar greets her morning with a purr, and a stretch. It would be another simple day at the gallery , should she will herself that life existed outside of her bed at that moment.
15 more minutes….
I swear…
The gallery calls promptly at 10:16.
Punk A is on the line with the request that Sophia not miss another day at work, especially on a day when there was supposed to be an opening….
Friend of the owner….big deal…..right….I’ll be there….
Just 15 more minutes….promise.
Oscar simply goes to find his food bowl, leaving Sophie to her excuses.
11:09
The phone rings again.
This time it’s her step-sister. Another mini-crisis with the wedding across town. She wants Sophie to provide some rare art for the reception hall.
Fortunately, this is dealt with by the machine , and Oscar is too distracted with food to notice that Crazy still hasn’t gotten out of bed.
Simon crosses the threshold of his bedroom, places his keys on the same spot on the dresser as he always does, and moves towards his overly-organized closet. On any other day he would hang his khaki suit jacket, un-lace his leather shoes, and leave everything in their usual places, so he could go to join his mother for dinner. The warm spring sun illuminated his hardwood bedroom floor, but he could find no comfort in his arrival home. So today, an especially tiring day at the office, Simon simply sits on his bed and sighs.
With his head in his hands and nerves nearing meltdown he pictures life then – the day the light came through the windows in a near ethereal manner, when Ellie told him she was leaving and she was just as wonderful as the light through those windows – and in the midst of these thoughts he attempts to revive his routine. The motions that he is so used to taking appear stifled as he moves at the same speed and consistency as molasses. His keys on the dresser, shoes in the closet, Simon can only accomplish the loosening of his silk tie. Standing in front of the small mirror above the dresser, Simon looked his disheveled face over and again. He saw the bags under his eyes, his slicked back brown-black hair, and nearly glazed green eyes. He remembered how Ellie had run her hands through his five o’clock shadow that last time to say goodbye, and he memorized seeing the pattern of red and yellow paint stains on her gentle finger tips.
There is no reason why this day should be any different, and he knows it. So he stands with his arm half out to hang up his jacket, scratches his consciousness to ponder the somber mood. Perhaps Mr. Levine had more stuck up his ass that usual, thus sending Simon on the task of placating his boss, but Simon recognized this novel routine –
So what the hell was the matter with him? Usually at this time he had already shaken off the madness of another day with J.P Levine and was ready to deal with whatever craziness was being concocted in the kitchen. Tonight, at least, the madness smelled delicious. Yet, when Gerry called up the stairs to say the rosemary-crusted chicken bake was nearly ready, his mind raced back to Ellie.
She had left three years before, and has since moved on, leaving with the house, the dog, and half of the fine china. Gerry, his mother, moved in a year later because she was causing too many problems with the nurses at the assisted living center, mostly because of the bad habits that she refused to give up. The dog disappeared not to long after his mother’s arrival, and he never once felt remorse for it – yappy Pomeranians were never his thing.
And now he is exhausted. Perhaps he is finally realizing the depravity of his situation. He had tried the dating thing – a dinner date with Bernice, a secretary in HR on the third floor who apparently collected souvenir ashtrays from thrift stores (even though she doesn’t smoke). She spent half of the dinner conversation reliving and retracing the difficulty she had tracking down a rare Old Faithful ashtray – a banter he had zoned out of before the appetizer had been cleared from the table. Not that she wasn’t stunning, her stylish blonde hair falling about her shoulders, and her pale blue eyes animated and glinting in the candle light, and the wild hand gestures she used to make the story come alive…but he just never understood the whole cigarette/ashtray thing.
He shook off the memories of the rest of that horrid night at the bottom of the back- stairs, and put his hand on the narrow hallway-wall to steady himself. Simon simultaneously became aware of the aroma of the savory chicken-bake, which attacked his senses full force, leaving him standing in a salivating stupor with a one-two punch. He had forgotten that he skipped lunch earlier in order to revamp the presentation for Mr. Levine’s board semi-important phone conference, while the jockstrap had a blonde-babe Panini in the office behind his cubicle.
* * * * *
The waves of heat from the oven smacked me in the face with the smell of rosemary and chicken. The rice was coming along nicely, and the breading on the chicken was finally taking on that golden-delicious color. So I dashed on just a touch more salt and pepper, replaced the tin-foil top. Back at the tiled counter, I glimpsed at my circa 1967 turquoise wedding ring while snuffing out the tail end of my last joint. Cooking always seemed easier with a little bit of a buzz. So with a song on my lips and tap of my foot, I picked up where I left off – throwing in the last of the feta cheese with the salad, and tossed it with a rhythm only heard in my head.
I knew just by the slamming of the front door that my meticulous son had had a particularly bad day, so I closed the oven door on the chicken bake to let simmer longer, and quickly grabbed my pot stash from the green tiled island-counter. I bent down to the lacquered-oak cabinet nearest to the fridge, pulled out the rarely used coffee grinder and hid my bad habit yet again. There, the boy doesn’t need to be bothered with this for one day, and I really don’t need the lecture. It’s not that he didn’t know that I had a weakness for the good green stuff, but at least this time the smell was masked by the long-cooking chicken in the oven.
“Simon!” I exclaimed from the bottom of the stairs in the foyer.
“Simon? Dinner will be ready in about 15 minutes! I made your favorite!” I waited and received no reply.
It really must be a really bad day if he isn’t even able to offer a Hi or Hello. But in true Geraldine fashion, I turned my concern towards productivity, and moved into the formal dining room to set the table. Perhaps it wasn’t a formal enough occasion, or formal in the least bit, but I felt that this was the one day that it was allowed to be eccentric. In the mail today, a postcard had arrived from Boston announcing that Ellie Mitchell, the love of my sons’ life, would be in town for the weekend and she wanted to stop by for dinner.
Now, Gerry wasn’t usually the one to bring old flames back into her son’s life, but word around the scrabble circuit was that Ellie had finally dumped the loser artist she ran away with, had come to her senses, and wanted a chance to talk to Simon again. With the string of bad dates Simon had been on at that point, Gerry felt that it was about time that something good happened to her vigilant Simon. Financially successful men are rarely successful in their love lives, she rationalized, and that is why they keep their mothers around.
Out of all the girls my son has ever dated, Ellie was always the most charming. Maybe she was a bit of a hussy, but she made my son damn happy, and he hasn’t been the same since she left. I get it though: I got cold feet after Leon proposed to me the first time, and took a small hiatus to San Francisco before he came to find me, to marry me for the changeling I was. At least I had had that moment of freedom…
At that moment, she heard the heavy footsteps at the bottom of the back stairs, so she took a moment to fix her tousled bright white bun on the back of her head, and straighten the large amethyst pendant around the cloth of her black turtle neck. She gazed at the aged face for a moment and smiled. Gerry was never one to regret her wrinkles or snow-white locks. So with a smile, the buxom woman dusts the lint off her shoulders, and goes to greet her son in the kitchen.
“So are you such a hot shot now that you can’t even say hello to your poor, ailing mother when you come home?” I jest with my obviously exhausted Simon. He looks like he could use some humor in his life. I mean, wrinkles under the eyes are one thing, but those look like five-ton sand bags under his.
“You went to your pharmacist again, didn’t you Gerry?” In no mood for his mother’s stoner jokes, Simon loafed to a stool at the island and rested his face in his hands with an exhausted sigh. “You know that stuff is only going to make you worse, just like the doctors said.”
“Oh please, Simon, don’t start with me. Besides, I made your favorite Rosemary Chicken for dinner.” She said with a smirk “You look like you could use it.”
And it was at that moment that Gerry realized what was different about her son. Around his neck loosely hung was the beautiful silk tie that Ellie had given him for his last Birthday. She was sure that it hadn’t been out of the closet in nearly two years now…did he know about the special guest that they were having for dinner? After a moment of reconsideration and a harder look, she didn’t think it possible. The gorgeous tie hung more like weight around her son’s handsome neck than an embellishment.
Simon could feel his mother’s curious eyes lingering on him, so he looked up to match glossed eyes with hers. “What on earth are you looking at, Geraldine?” He rested his ever-so-heavy head on his right palm while waiting for a response from his mother. But she didn’t know what to say after being made aware that she was staring. So she busied herself with the already tossed salad, contemplating how to respond.
Suddenly I felt guilty. Maybe not guilty, but unsure of how to handle the situation in a way I hadn’t experienced in years. It shouldn’t be that much of a problem to point it out; it is just a tie after-all. It’s just a tie that was given to him by the woman of his dreams; given to him weeks before she left, and now she is coming over for dinner. Looks like we’ve gotten into yet another pickle, kid.
“Would you like a beer, Simon?” I turned towards the fridge and grabbed a Fat Tire for him, even though he hadn’t replied yet.
“Why are you acting so skittish suddenly?” he replied curiously “Was the stuff that good?” He lifted his head and watched her more intently that before.
With the pop of the beer cap, I made a more sarcastic remark than I had originally intended. “Resurrecting old memories with your fashion statements today? No wonder you look so tired.”
* * * * *
Geraldine gently places the ice pack on her face. When going to pull the chicken bake out of the oven, she lost her balance and fell face first into the 350 degree concoction while in mid-conversation. Well, she didn’t exactly fall into the chicken-bake, but she did manage to smack her forehead on the oven door, sending the chicken all over the floor. No more smoking before dinner, she told herself. Simon had excused himself post mother-rescue to return the first aide kit to the upstairs bathroom. She glanced at the clock: 8:34. She grew concerned that their suprise guest of honor wouldn’t be joining them after-all, and more concerned that her perfectly planned meal was now resting with the rest of the mush in the garbage disposal . Disappointed and slightly scorched, Geraldine pours herself a glass of wine. Simon descends the back stairway for the second time that evening, appearing more relaxed.
“Sometimes you scare the hell out of me, Gerry.” He moves her hand away from her face in order to inspect the damage. “The burn on your hand may take some time to heal, and your head should be fine in couple of days. It looks like it’s just a bump.” He didn’t want to be the one to tell his Mother that there was a section of her snow-white hair that was now partially blackened, leaving it as a job for the mirror.
“Oh stop fussing with me, Simon! I’ll be just fine; especially if you stop acting like you actually received your M.D!” She snaps. Geraldine, she says to herself, the world is not in the mood for your hissy fits right now, so quit whining and take care of the boy before the rest of this whole night falls apart. She sighs and looks at her son, “I’m sorry, Simon, I don’t know what’s come over me.” She braces the ice pack over her forehead once again, and leans back against the counter.
“So tell me about your day, sweet-pea. What’s new at the office?” At this point she is relieved that Simon didn’t pick up on the earlier comment she had made about his tie, and that he didn’t have to take her to the ER.
Except that Simon had caught the comment about the tie, and most of the chicken-bake as well. He had simply decided to ignore it and see if Gerry would make any other mentions of his ex tonight. “Well, the big-wigs in Corporate Accounting are making it a point to check up on Mr. Metz on near weekly basis now. Did I tell you they made Jimmy Metz the head of Redding Tech’s financial department? How the higher-ups felt that he had more experience is beyond me.”
Simon sighs and rubs his scruffy face. Gerry knows how frustrating the office-job as been for her son, but it was grating to listen to the mundane ramblings of office politics. She massages her temples, pretending to be in pain from the fall.
”… So Metz, the cocksucker who had had the cubical next to me, gets to live the high life in the corner office. He does nothing but flirt with the secretaries and send me on mindless, useless errands that I’m not supposed to be doing, yet he is getting paid for it. At least I’m not that poor sap that he keeps after hours every day.” Simon pauses to grab the melting ice pack from his mothers’ hands. He places the slush in the sink and maneuvers his mother to the living room to lie down.
“So today Mr. Levine was especially bothersome, forcing me to do everything: copy the memos from HR, format the presentation for the conference call into Power Point, collect the mail, and when he started to ask me to change the light bulb by the water cooler I had had it…” He sets his mother on the couch and puts a pillow behind her head. Gerry considered resisting the minor attempts her son made at care-giving, but decided to bask in the endearing qualities of the moment instead.
“Really, Simon, you can’t let them get to you. One of these days you’ll get out of that rat-ass cubicle and do something with your life. I mean, you’re only 34! You’re still a child compared to everything I went through….” she sighed with memory.
“Yeah, I know, ma. Haight-Ashbury and all the hippy shit. Just don’t start taking too many trips down memory lane with me; I’ve heard the stories before. Besides, Ellie was far more entertained by them than I ever was.”
Gerry raised an eyebrow at the reference. “Ellie…?” She replied inquisitively, “You haven’t said her name in months…” Gerry watched him as he makes his way to clear the dishes, obviously trying to put distance between himself and the name-drop.
Simon lets out a shallow breath. “I didn’t know exactly how to tell you, Ger, especially when you were acting all funny when you noticed my tie earlier –“
“Didn’t know how to tell me what?” She said with more malice than intended.
“Well….Ellie and I….we’ve…we’ve been talking…that’s all.”
“Talking about what, exactly?”
“Well, I, we, um…we’re wondering if…”
“Oh, Simon! You guys are reconciling together finally! I’m so happy for you!” Gerry rushes up to give her son a hug, nearly giving herself another dizzy spell in the process. “You know, I’ve been concerned. That girl Beatrice, beautiful as she was, was no match for you –“
“Whoa. Gerry. Stop.” Simon steadies his mother, halting her from helping with the dishes. “We’re wondering if it’s a good idea to get you a nurse.”
Gerry sinks down into the dining room chair, near sulking. For a moment I thought it had all worked after all: the dinner, the reunion, and the surprise was on me – they would surprise me with a wedding, a reunion, something! But upon second thought I realized that it had just been one big joke; the two of them in on it together….How long could they have been planning this, and why would they be so cruel? He knows I hate nurses, he knows they stole from me while at was at The Manor. I may be a little off my rocker, but I’m no cripple!
She felt the rage building up in her gut like heart burn. The warped tone of Simons’ voice told her it wasn’t just indigestion. She began to sweat slightly, and became flush. She braced the back of the dining room chair with her burned hand in order to keep from falling over.
Simon paused from his ramble and glanced at his mother. “Hey, Gerry, are you alright? You look kind of pale all of -”
“Quit your mumbling and SHUT UP! You are fucking with my mind and I can’t handle it any more!” She gets up with a thrust, knocking over the chair she rested in, exits the dining room, and heads towards the stairs. “You and that little hussy have been cavorting this entire time, behind my back like sniveling little snipes, and I’m at the end of the joke! How dare you!”
She throws the last drops of wine in his face, and the glass on the floor. Geraldine heads for the stairs before the glass has sufficient time to scatter. Simon remains frozen in the dining room, taken-aback with his mothers’ sudden outburst. The next move would be tricky, and he knew it. So rather than make any sudden movements, he listens as she grumbles to herself up the stairs, and for the sound of her bedroom door slamming shut. A stale and tense moment passed before being broken up by the sound of the door bell, and the distinct sound of a Pomeranian .
The evening spring air was as refreshing as the sight of her blonde hair reflecting the porch light. Simon watched as Spencer, the new mutt, wandered through his newly marked territory inspecting every blade of grass. Her fingers had finally shed the red paint that was so distinct the last time he saw her. They caught each others glance from the side, and each smiled.
“I really wouldn’t have come if I had known it would cause so much trouble for you, Simon. Hell, I didn’t even know it was a secret that I was coming –“
“Eh, It’s no problem.” Simon shrugs, smiles. “If you want to know the truth, I don’t think you could have come on a better day.”
Jesus at the Reunion
“Good-time skeletons are kicking at the ground-“
-Laura Veirs
T.M Fulks Productions
The dense July heat punches the middle-aged woman in the face upon exiting the taxi she took with her children. She craved the refreshing breeze of the ocean in Tel Aviv, but was redeemed by the homey smells of her familiar Jerusalem.
Tzinar settles her children down with their pizza, their faces reflecting the red light from plastic chairs. Big Apple Pizza, a modern pizza shop set amongst the Jerusalem stone, was their special treat when in her home town, and Tzinar enjoyed the opportunity to watch the hustle and bustle of Ben Yehuda Street. She sipped on her Coca Cola as the children devoured their green olive pizzas. It was hard for her to have an appetite; between the stress of watching the children, and the commotion of the city, there was a soldier with the easily identifiable red boots at a table kitty-corner from her. She didn’t know the soldier, and he didn’t seem to notice her, but there was a familiarity about him, and his boots, which made Tzinar fidget. The IDF paratroopers are obviously all around the city, but never has she been so aware of them, and it had been two years since he had been discharged. She was still finding it difficult to shake off the disgrace. Had her husband not been such a schmuck, then this trip may have been more enjoyable, but Tzinar was desperate to find new living arrangements. This meant that she had to go to her mother, there were no other options. Ani lo yodat mah’a’ni osah achk’shav. I don’t know what to do…
What sort of idiot leaves that kind of evidence around the house? She wonders to herself, and she watches Yashar make his food go from nutrition to projectile weaponry. Avir retaliates with a green olive straight to Yashars’ forehead. Normally she wouldn’t allow this behavior in public, but she was far too nervous about the impending meeting with her mother to exact discipline on the growing boys. Divorce isn’t the news her Hasidic mother is going to want to hear.
– – – – – – – – – – – – – –
From: MatOdem@idf.il
To: SpceGrlWanaBe@ps133.k12.edu
Date: April 27, 1999 21:12
My Lovely Hadar-
The late nights after the last tour in Gaza have been rough. I am sore, and the thoughts of you are all that comfort me now. Your last letter gave me so much hope, to know that you will be here to visit your family in the coming months lightens my spirits. My unit will be moving to Gilat in the morning, there are rumors that the Intifada and Arafat have moved in that direction. The last bombing in Tel Aviv, one I’m sure you’ve heard on the news about at the disco, has really shaken things up here. Has your father heard of things from your Aunt’s end? Is her health holding up alright? But know that I tell you these things, not because I want to frighten you, but because I want you to be prepared for the political atmosphere you will encounter when you arrive. My darling, mi ani ohev, I may not be awake much longer, but I do look forward to your next email.
Lyla Tov,
Mat
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
– – – – – – – – – – – – –
From: SpceGrlWanaBe@ps133.k12.edu
To: MatOdem@idf.il
Date: May 2, 1999 01:36 P.M EST
My Heroic Odem,
I don’t know how you can live in a country full of so much distress. I mean, I think High School is tough, but being a 21 yr old in the IDF? It’s beyond me! Actually, I was talking to some friends in a caff before homeroom today and they asked me, “If Jesus actually came back, whose family reunion do you think he would go to? The Christians’, who worshipped him, or the Jews’, who killed him?” I know they wanted to offend me, so I left without reply. You should be thankful that you never had to encounter an American High School.
So, I wanted to let you know that my Doda Tzir may be contacting you sometime in the near future. With my pending trip to Israel she just wants to make sure you’re not a ‘shmuck’. (What does that mean exactly?) And when are you going to translate all of these Hebrew sweet nothings for me?
There’s the bell! Gotta run!
All My Love,
Hadar
– – – – – – – – – – – – – –
– – – – – – – – – – – – –
From: MatOdem@idf.il
To: SpceGrlWanaBe@ps133.k12.edu
Date: May 3, 1999 00:36
Hadar Zahav-
Do no worry so much about your friends; in the long run they are insignificant. Besides, I think you did the best thing by not responding…its shows your maturity.
Also, you immensely smart and beautiful, and I know you will be successful as you move through the world. Had I not been forced into the military four years ago, I would have gone to study at the university. But it is my duty to my country and, as you know, I do not have the parental support that I would need to afford the University’s tuition. So, in the meantime, I must leave for Gaza again in the morning. They are saying this will be another two week excursion, but who knows if that is true. I will miss you every day, my darling, and will do all that is in my power to stay safe. I don’t want you to worry, but know that if anything should happen to me my friend will contact you. I will write as soon as I am able.
May your dreams be sweet and refreshing,
Mat
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
From: MatOdem@idf.il
To: SpceGrlWanaBe@ps133.k12.edu
Date: July 6, 1999 01:23
Dear Hadar,
I have long anticipated having to write this letter to you. I must inform you that a heartbreaking event has taken place. It is the best of both of our interests that I inform you that Odem, my husband, has been corresponding with you under false pretenses. Please understand that this is a necessary course of action. May your trip to Israel be inspiring and eye-opening, and may you find your family well.
Shalom,
Tzinar
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
As Avir and Yashar pile into the back of the taxi, Tzinar loads the last of the luggage into the trunk. Leaving her marriage and home behind is not proving to be an easy task for the middle-aged woman, and she knows that all of her neighbors are watching, commenting on the one divorce they will see for the next ten years. Ez eh ma’hn’yach! What is she going to do with those children? Who is going to be their father? Even though he’s a shit-head too, a shit-head is better than nothing. Knowing this would be the last impression made on the neighbors in Tel Aviv was unsettling to Tzinar, but she pulled her strength together for the journey back to Jerusalem.
Before leaving the home she spent the last twelve years in, Tzinar had one final gift to leave her dastardly husband. She went into his office, the one room that remain furnished, and took the pile of printed emails from the shoebox on top of the bookcase. How did he think that I wouldn’t find these? Day in and day out I clean this house from top to bottom, and he thinks that I wouldn’t notice that he finally kept a shoebox? She didn’t want to look at them, the words that the man she loved had written to another woman, a younger woman. One who was probably more beautiful than her, but she assumed this only because she knew the woman was American. The exotic nature of those bizarre creatures had always fascinated the man, and she never understood why. They lacked the depth that she found Israeli women to have, and she told herself this partially to reassure her crumbling esteem.
The children safely loaded in the car, and Tzinar closing the trunk, she quickly makes the decision to not look back. It would be too painful, because one simple piece of machinery had ruined everything her parents had built for her. Her husband, the schmuck, would have to clean up this mess himself.
– – – – – – – – – – – – – –
Odem opens the door to a hollow apartment. All remnants of his wife and children are gone, and the defeat is settled in on his already disheveled face. The silence was amplified by the shuffle of loose paper at his feet. He grabs the one from under the heel of his red boot, and the faded gray print reminding him of his loves attempted and lost. Mah ani osah ach’shav? What am I to do now? The emails rustling against Jerusalem stone in the hollowed flat emptied his spirit. It was never intended to get to this point, it wasn’t supposed to fall apart. Yet it was the lingering scent of his children, their innocent perfume that brought the grown man to his knees sobbing. He glances over the email in his hand:
“My Lovely Hadar-
It is only a matter of two weeks now before your arrival. I can’t wait to show you around the city on the back of my moped, and have you try authentic falafel. I understand what they have in New York is good, but it’s nothing like the food here….”
Odem drags himself into his office, the one room she left furnished because it contained his only belongings. He plops down in the chair, defeated, and retrieves the hidden bottle of bourbon from his bottom desk drawer.
*Still not complete*
Talia
Ramblings of the Mundane: Observations from the Treehouse 