“The world turns. The star burns.”
I held the cigar before my face in the hopes that the haze would shroud me from his view. I glanced away from him and asked what he meant by this. Why it mattered to him whether the Earth spun on its axis and the Sun boiled the space around it.
“It doesn’t. The Sun will die. And your life will blink out in a span of time nearly indiscernible to that of existence: a diminutive cacophony of myriad experience. Your consciousness will fall away into a great void.”
He ashed his cigar. “So do not let your pride, your anger, your disgust, nor even your love get in the way of what you know: that you exist now.”
And my cigar went out, and the grey wisps rose into the night sky, and his eyes burned through the ever-unfolding present.The old lips twisted, as though the devil spoke in words too wise.
“It doesn’t matter.”
And I knew then that he was right. It doesn’t matter.
Five Days Ago:
My old hometown was a musty mix of decrepit mineral processing plants, low-slung warehouses, and industrial parks that sprawled out across what should have been open fields. Whenever I returned, I always tried to picture what it was like before everything was there. I imagined different animals running through open fields, like some idyllic little scene out of a children’s book: a deer, or some other four-legged beast, running with long, elegant strides. Likely in a pack, like wolves on the hunt for berries. The images got confused in my head, mixed up. They’ve always kind of been.
Four Days Ago:
I went to my sister’s house. She lived on a good street in a bad town. The house was built in the early 1900’s. It went through a renovation in the 50’s, but it still had lead paint and asbestos. Or maybe just one of those. I can’t remember. Even though it was a good street, she found a needle while she was raking leaves last fall. Probably some junkie who ditched it in her yard. They’ve been looking to move to a different town since.
Her front door was a light green, the exterior a bright blue with white trim. It clashed. I found it odd. The old lattice-work along the rotted out front porch. The colors. The way the house seemed to be build too tall and not wide enough. Her husband greeted me. I didn’t say anything about their oddly shaped home.
“Hey Todd,” I said. I said “Todd” with a heavy “d” sound at the end. I didn’t mean to. It just happened. It came out strangely. He didn’t seem to notice.
“Hey,” he said. Then after a second. “So sorry for you, brother.”
He hugged me. I half hugged him back. Literally half. One arm went around his back. The other stayed in my pocket.
“Yeah, thanks.” And I went inside.
And my sister’s kids said a short hello to me, then went up into their rooms. I understand. It’s tough when your grandfather dies. I would have done the same if I had known mine.
Three Days Ago:
I gave the eulogy at my father’s funeral.
As I walked to the lectern, the hard soles of my shoes rung out against the marble. All else was quiet and still: a great holding of breath, by humans who came to mourn, by the marble structure of the church itself. By me. From the first pew, twelve strides to the ambo. I counted them because they seemed to be the only thing commanding a presence in the room. My steps walked me: a marionette drawn on by the hands of a dead man.
I remember being in this church as a young boy at Easter Vigil. The whole church was dark. The font where I was baptized was empty. The tabernacle stood open, like some giant golden ostrich egg that had been cracked open in clean lines, the insides removed. And then the Paschal candle was lit. I loved that light, like a star burning in the heavens.
The words I spoke about my father were empty. My eyes only moved over the lines, and sounds poured from between my lips, meaningless, strange sounding: too many hissing “s” sounds and guttural “h” sounds and the transition from one sound to the next nearly made me sick. Each syllable rung out like the hollow echoing of my footsteps.
I did not think of my father as I spoke. I only thought of that single burning candle from when I was a boy.
Two Days Ago:
My car is a ’05 Nissan Sentra. I’ve never gotten it washed. The carpets have crumbs, dirt, pieces of something or other woven into them. The floor mats are gone. My heel has driven an ugly depression into the floor beneath the gas pedal. I don’t like to use the brake. I don’t like to stop. So I take the backroads.
I went to the Manor. I didn’t know where else to go. The Manor was my father’s place of solace. It wasn’t a manor in any way, just a three room shack built on an unnamed creek that ran through the pines. He went there often when we were kids. No one ever went with him. Not my sister, not my mother, not me. We all hated it. It was dirty, cramped, virtually unfurnished but for an old sofa and two creeky twin beds. One was always unoccupied. No electricity. No plumbing.The foundations were sinking into the creek. We always joked about how we thought he’d die there in his sleep. The house would just slip beneath the water, and he’d sleep into drowning.
I wish that’s how he had died.
I thought maybe I could die for him that way now.
Note from the Author: This is a short story built of parts that I write in separate sittings. Each sitting is essentially a short, quick exercise. My hope is that I can string these little portions together to form a cohesive story over numerous parts. In order to accomplish this, edits will be made to the previous sections in order to attain continuity. It’s an experiment of sorts into the writing process through flash fiction.