Stray Reprints

Friday, September 24, 2021

RECEPTION THEORY

“Why is this story so short?” she said. “There must be more, right?” She was sitting on the lip of the past. That was what she called the tub. She was sitting on the lip of the past, and the water that had been in it, she water that she had been in, was already swirling toward the drain. The air hung humid around her, clung to her skin. “And skin,” she said. “Is all there is.” She was talking to herself, at first, until she realized that she was not the only one in the room. “There’s no more,” said the figure behind the mirror. She couldn’t see the figure, could only see the surface of the mirror. It was a man? A woman? Herself, reflected? The figure behind the mirror explained that there was no more. “Each story,” the figure said, “is brought to a close sooner rather than later, not so that it can vanish but so that it can remain alive in you. You must extend the story forward. You must complete the picture. You must decide how to handle what is unresolved.” She didn’t like what the figure was saying. Why did she need another assignment? She was busy. She had already begun to think about the rest of her day, a drive to the store, a drive to the field, hopefully a rare minute or two snatched back that she could spend in deep contemplation of the place her mind occupied inside her body and her body inside the world. To satisfy the figure’s wish, to complete the story, was out of the question. “But it’s not a question,” the figure said. “It’s an order.” How had the figure heard her thoughts? “I can hear them as easily as I can see your skin,” the figure said. She should have been scared. She should have felt the figure’s words as a fist around her heart. Instead she plashed her palm against the small amount of water that remained in the past, dressed quickly, and left the room. The figure could finish the story on its own. It could write a book for all she cared. The air outside the room was less close and thick. It was air she could move through easily rather than air that clutched at her and held her. She locked the door behind her for additional comfort.

THEY SEE YOUR EVERY MOVE

All day the woman did not make her appearance, and Anders, his arms and shoulders sore from bearing up under the weight of the equipment, was driven to the terrible realization that she might never show. Next came to him a surprising thought: how much would it cost? He had been prudent in what he had selected, renting not the newest and smallest technology, which cost quite a bit more but which, as a result of increased demand, could only be taken for a day or two, during which whatever he managed to collect would be the entirety of the case. Instead he had opted for an earlier generation of it all, the binoculars, the directional microphone, the shoulder-strapped recorder, which was cheaper by the day and which the man behind the counter, tall and stooped, who was reputed to have been a honest-to-goodness spy in his day and, some said, maybe even an assassin, seemed to favor. “The older stuff is sturdier,” he said. “And you can keep it as long as you want.” Anders had called the client immediately and passed along this intelligence. The client, a prominent businessman who was surveilling the woman his son planned to marry, sighed heavily. He was always sighing. The enormity of what he was doing was clearly always in the process of undoing him. After he sighed, he offloaded his guilt by repeating what the phrase that Anders had given him: “as long as you want.” Prudence was in the phrase, and thrift, and even philosophy. Everything had seemed in place. Anders had gone to the diner for breakfast, hot coffee, cold cereal, feeling the change in temperature traverse his teeth. The job had seemed, in its own way, leisurely. He had already made one-way contact with the woman, standing behind her in a convenience store as she bought a motley of items: a large bottle of soda, lottery tickets, prophylactics, a candy bar, car wax. A hint of citrus levitated off her hair. He had set up across the street from the place where, his client believed, her other lover lived, and where Anders might discover information that could save his son from a lifetime of trouble. He was ready to wait as long as he wanted. But now he was reconsidering. As long as he wanted might mean a mounting outlay. He patted his pocket absent-mindedly. He was getting six hundred a week, and the initial charter had called for one day’s surveillance, which even at the higher rates for newer equipment, would have left him with five or high fours. He could have submitted the report with information or none, left the young man to his life. There were fates worse than citrus. The cheaper equipment might be on him all week and wear away fully half of his fee. And what did he care anyway? He was by trade a lawyer. He was only doing this until he could practice again. He believed himself to be sick, deeply so, something to do with his liver he suspected. And if he searched his soul, the notion that this woman might be running around on the young man gave Anders a slight thrill. Freedom still meant something to him. He pressed the binoculars to his eyes. No sign of anyone anywhere. His arms and shoulders denounced him.

Thursday, September 23, 2021

HIGH-HEELED DOWN THE HALL

Mr. Shippen, Mr. Peters, Mr. Ewing, Mr. Hutton, took the stairs, took a car, took a boat, took a turn, raised the stakes, raised the roof, raised the bar, raised the curtain, watched the clock, watched the wheels, watched the show, watched the throne, pulled up stakes, pulled up pants, pulled up limping, pulled up to the bumper. Paths that had diverged converged again. They were all in the same place and happy to see one another. They knocked on the door. They were greeted, all of them by name, by a woman who did not give her own. She went high-heeled down the hall to a room packed chockablock with other men. She motioned to Shippen, Peters, Ewing, and Hutton. They started down the hall, slowly, exhaustion overtaking them. “All these men are dead,” the woman shouted. The news deterred no one.

THREE MEN

He had been warned about having feelings in the middle of the winter. He was so dumb he thought the subcontinent meant Atlantis. He didn’t have a thought in his head about anything except money. The bus slid through the night, carrying each of them equally.

"PEACEFUL" TRANSITION OF "POWER"

He was no longer the captain, it was announced. It was announced by the new captain, who pronounced his name incorrectly, just to twist the knife. The old captain was in middle distance, walking away down the path, feeling the effects of the cocktail of regret, rebuke, disappointment, despondency that the news had administered. He had lost his hope and what had he gained in the process? His children would know that he was no longer the captain. They would be among the first to know. His daughter would put her surprisingly strong arms around him to comfort him. Would that just make him feel weaker? When he heard the new captain mispronounce his name, he turned. His fury refluxed. He charged back up the path, murder in his eyes.

Wednesday, September 22, 2021

ATTEND, ATTEND

“Have we given them too much freedom? Have we given ourselves too little responsibility? Have we allowed them to imagine the wrong things when they looked from the present to the future, and to remember the wrong ones when they looked from the present to the past? Has our laxity and thoughtlessness produced a species that uses tools crudely and devises solutions hastily? Do they skate at length on ponds where the ice is too thin, all the while dreaming that the water beneath them is warm?” These were the thoughts of the aliens as they returned to earth after more than a hundred thousand years to check on their experiment, the humans.

NEW DOG UPON RELEASE

A radio voice, bad learner, ten years in prison, new dog upon release, small house, free house, kind owners whose faith has impelled them to believe in the wisdom of trading rent for renovation, he’ll fix the stoop, he’ll fix the windows, he’ll rewire the lights and repaint the walls, “six months down the road when you’re done you can find your own place,” kind owner one, a woman who reminds him of his wife, who can say where she is anymore, the divorce papers were already drawn up when he robbed the T-Mart, he signed them in jail, heard some names of places she might have gone, Mustang City, Aguilares, kind owner one clucks her tongue, brings him beer, stays to talk, next night also, it’s not until a week in that it even occurs to him that she’s flirting, then things go at a scary speed, a look to a kiss to the bed in ten minutes flat, “it’s our secret I won’t say a word to Don,” she pets his dog before she pulls her pants back on, he fixes the stoop, the windows, the wires, the walls, calls to say he’s done, “glad to hear it but sad also,” kind owner two, comes by to wish him luck, they sit on the porch, Don drinks the beer he doesn’t know his wife has bought, “you went faster than we thought you would much obliged,” doesn’t pet the dog but calls its name in a rapid low song, he tells Don he’s much obliged as well, he gives the weather like he’s on the radio, Don laughs at how much he sounds like the real thing.