Dororthy, Lloyd and the Perfect Home

Dorothy and Lloyd met at an open house. They both fell in love with the same shuttered windows, the veranda, the spacious yard. He admired the strong mantle while she melted over the hardwood floors and butcher's block in the kitchen. It pulled to them both and neither could afford it on their own. They exchanged smiles at the doorway when he held it for her exit. Eventually, they met for drinks and decided the place was too good to pass up. It was the perfect house, in the perfect neighborhood, on the perfect street.

The owners, however, would not sell to a single resident -- their lone condition was that a family buy the dream home. So Dorothy and Lloyd got married within a month and closed on the residence within the next 4. The original owners went so far as to bring a contract with them -- should Dorothy and Lloyd ever separate, the home would be forfeit.

They put on the guise of love to their families -- after all, Lloyd was no Brad Pitt and Dorothy was a decade older than the typical blushing bride. But at home, in the most comfortable of spaces, he never touched her. She was abused as a child and he was deathly afraid of women. They slept in separate beds, had entirely different friends, each bought groceries for their own specific needs.

Each was ecstatic about the home, its beauty, its location, but at the end of the day, dreaded walking through its arched doorway. He smelled bad and she watched reality television. The were both tired of the silence, the ashamed looks, the tossing and turning at night when it felt like the home kept them awake, forcing them to look at one another. Marriage was never so uncomfortable.

Lloyd

He juggles the words in his mouth like marbles, keeping his breathing fair, focusing on one point of the hardwood like he used to as a boy when he was caught for getting into mischief. Keys jingle in the lock and the front door comes open. She walks through the front room without turning on the light, steps into the kitchen and puts the groceries on the counter. She notices him, flips the light switch and stands to look at him. His mind goes quiet when she speaks his name.

"Lloyd?"

He looks up, takes two quick paces to her and cups her face in his hands. She is taken aback -- he has never touched her before, not ever lain a finger on her. Her breath catches and the words come to her mind before they are out of his mouth -- words like thunder to an infant left out in the storm, words she has dreaded but has known would pour over his lips -- his eyes have been giving him away.

"Dorothy, this isn't working out. I'm leaving you. I won't apologize because this isn't my fault. Good-bye."

The Meadow

We walked hand-in-hand through the autumn meadow and you felt horrible that the fire-stained leaves had nothing to hold on to -- our fingers slipped from the precipice of our palms and we walked in the cold, blustery afternoon in joint solitude, your hair making waves and currents in the wind.

I punched my hands into my jacket pockets and fisted them closed for warmth. At the old dogwood, I slowed down a step while you whistled a tune I couldn't quite make out. Maybe it was something we used to listen to as children, but the wind took the melody like a thief while the shade lengthened like old fingers. You turned back to me and smiled that closed-eyed, pink'd cheeked smiled; I cried a little knowing you'd be gone in two days.

The scent of smoke was in the air and I knew we were coming close to home. The maple tree from our youth was burning to cinders in the fireplace and the scent carried to us like a sail.

The Way He Loved Her

He brought her to the log cabin. It was autumn and the rusty leaves off the oak welcomed them with fresh arms. He made love to her by the light of the kerosene lamp, their shadows dancing against the wall. In later years, whenever she smelled the strong and vaporous stuff, she thought of him. She caught his affection in the labor of his hands -- the chopped wood, the caught food. Through the strength of his arms, she found the steel of her heart. His body told of his love, the scars bearing witness.

At the Edge of the World

At the edge of the world, the water seems thinner before it falls into nothingness. That is what McTavish thought as the old ship spun about helplessly on the whirlpool, nearing a teeter on the edge of creation. The water was deadly deep, but the captain could see to the bottom, where countless animals and things he had never heard of frolicked in the undersea wind.

There's no way this can end well, he realized, as his crew died one by one on the journey. He was the only man left. His first mate, Flannery, had warned him against the edge of the world, of what old hands called "the drop of the flat map." But he didn't believe them in the pub. He believed now, though. Now that he was seeing it.

The End of Trigger

This is the end to a long project started in college about a guy who kills his wife and writes his memoirs from behind bars. He goes crazy. It's dark and very unlike my usual writings. If you have a problem with dark literature, please don't read this. If you have a problem with the fact that I wrote it, please get over it.

She whispers again in my ear. Whispers in that cold air sound like a gale through my hollow bones. "Kill me." She says it repeatedly, over and over until I am saying it, too. "Kill me. Kill me. Kill me." I hold my breath and wait, counting to 5 in my head. "Kill me." She just won't be quiet, not for a moment, not at all. I release the breath and call for the guard, palming the home-made shiv against my person. I'm sorry, I think to him before he even gets to me. I'm sorry because you are my escape route.

"Kill me." He comes to the bars, trusting me, knowing my reputation as a "good soldier." Kill me. I mouth the words and his eyes go wide as I grab his hand, driving the shiv into his forearm, then pulling it out fiercely. He screams. Kill me. The guards come, but not before I give it to Frank 3 more times in the stomach for good measure. As insurance. Kill me. The reinforcements show up and grant my wish. They kill me. BANG.

Roy

The old Kenworth pulled into the truck-stop and coughed itself to a clumsy stop, the engine convulsing when Roy jerked the key from the ignition. With a creak and a whirl, the door came open and Roy leaped down the two steps, boots scraping the gravel, door slamming shut behind him. There was no need to lock it.

He pulled his hat down low over his eyes, head down, picking out individual rocks of the loosely strewn parking lot. It was windy and he kept his hands apockets, his collar turned up, his shoulders hunched over.

"Hey Mae," he said as he opened the glass door to Joey's Truck Stop. "Long time."

"Not long enough," the waitress/cashier said. Her eyes turned to slits at the sight of him, her gum popping in her mouth. The streetlight came through the dirty blinds and shone through her dishwater hair, piled high on her head and teased with a can of Aqua Net Gold. She looked down at the old man at the booth and smiled, soothingly. "Not to worry, Mr. Higgins. I'm sure this ragamuffin will be leaving shortly. Won't you Roy?" She didn't look up to catch his reaction.

"Look, I just want a cup of coffee. Black."

"Didn't ask what you wanted, Roy."

"You sayin' I can't get a cup of Joe at Joey's?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying."

"That ain't right. That ain't right at all. Get Joe. He knows me. He'll tell ya."

"Oh, I know you, Roy. Don't you worry about that. And as for Joey, he's dead. I run this place. You want him, you can go to hell and fetch him." Roy looked slack-jawed and wide-eyed, rocking back on his heels. After a moment, he closed his mouth and wiped it with the back of his jacket, turned back to the door and put his hand on the cold handle.

"Well, you have my condolences." The bell jingled and he was back in the darkness, the wind taking his tears.