Category: Modern/Realistic

First Chill

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The hay was in. The last two bales perched like strange giant eggs at the edge of the field nearest the house, securely wrapped in their white rain guards. Not that the sky gave any reason to believe the guards were necessary; the colors of the mountain grasses shone in brilliant contrast under the cloudless late summer sky.

Looks were deceiving, Uri knew. The mountains played fickle games with the winds, churning storms into existence within hours or stubbornly channeling every wisp of cloud away from the valleys between them. Little grew in the rocky soil, but the grasses seemed to have some special charm that left them untouched by drought or flood alike and held their roots firmly attached to the bedrock. This year’s crop was exceptional, and would feed the family’s small stock through the temperamental winter to come.

Tomorrow he and Bjorn from higher up the slope would make their yearly trip to the city to resupply the root cellars and pantries before the first snows at the peaks. He smiled, a somewhat grim twist to the corner of his mouth nonetheless. The haying had been late, and the first storms would come soon. It would be the mud that trapped them first, deep and miring. Not even a sled could cross the gullies then. They would need to be quick to prepare in time.

A gust caught his shirt where he stood in the cropped field staring up the mountain. He closed his eyes and let it whip around him, alert for the subtle daggers of cold mixed with the last of the summer warmth that would signal the wild end of peace for the year. There it was, an eddy from above, just the smallest tickle at his bare neck. He breathed deeply and shoved his hands into his pockets. He’d better call Bjorn before supper; they’d need an early start in the morning.

The Corner

It wasn’t beautiful, the corner of Cedar and Walnut. In fact, whatever planner decided to name the streets after trees must of have had some twisted sense of humor. No forest could have less to do with the dirty, dingy gray of metal and concrete.

Despite uninviting appearances, the bench at the corner was always full. Pedestrians couldn’t seem to resist its invitation. Sometimes they paused there with coffee and sandwiches from the warmly lit shop on the other side of the concrete wall. Mostly they just sat and read, chatted with strangers who joined them, or smiled with thoughtful eyes that saw anything but the noisy bustle of city streets.

They called it Le’s Corner in the neighborhood. Most didn’t know why, but the old man who ran the shop spoke the name with moist eyes. He ran trembling fingers over a faded black and white photograph of a tiny girl. Even in the aging exposure her eyes lit up the room, and her smile seemed just for me.

He had made the bench for her when he was just thirteen. She had loved people and spent more time talking with passersby than playing with the toys neatly arranged upstairs. Baba had even said that she kept the shop open because no one could resist stopping to visit with the sunny child and often passed the time sharing a cold snack or the warmth of a hot drink.

Everyone knew her name, and she knew theirs. Visitors would be brought to her corner as if to a temple or a great attraction. No one noticed surroundings when she sat on her bench; light and color seemed to emanate from her and soak into everything.

When she was gone, people came for the memory. They brought their children for quiet chats, who came out of habit and comfort as they became adults. Le’s brother fed them all, and her picture hovered like a shining star over the corner.

The Bells

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They rang out across the water, a symphony of sound in chiming echoes down the brick-lined canal. The bells of Bruges, incongruously peeling out disco music to peal against medieval facades, held me captive. Even the cafe goers across the canal left their sedate mugs and tables to dance with abandon.

Invisible behind those ancient brick buildings, the great Bruges Market bustled with life. I closed my eyes, memories of its timeless sights and aromas flooding my mind in rhythm with the bells. I could almost see colorfully robed guildmembers shouting over the chimes, haggling with the shoppers of yesteryear over the price of bread or the value of a bolt of fine fabric.

For a moment, in Isolda’s shop, I had entered that world. She had looked over her flowers, braids peeking from beneath a knit cap and voluminous dirt-streaked apron swallowing her slender frame, bells chiming a muted soundtrack through medieval walls. She had smiled when I introduced myself as Tristan.

The Lens

Savannah groaned. Here she was, supposed to be photographing this society fundraiser, and the camera lens was dirty. Again. She reached in her bag for the lens cloth.

After a meticulous wipe that covered every square millimeter of glass, she nodded with satisfaction and lifted the camera again. She snapped a candid of a bored looking brunette and her plasticized escort. Was that a smudge on the digital display? No, it was the stupid lens again.

The cloth went to work again. This time she sprayed the lens with cleaner and shoved the cloth into the edges with her fingernail, digging. She inspected the results with a frown and looked around for her next subject. Just in time. The host was taking the stage for the official welcome. She raised the camera.

Was that a speck? Man, that thing was huge; her boss would fire her if that thing showed up in print! That did it. There was no way she was taking any more pictures until that lens was clear. She sat down in the nearest chair and peered closely at the camera.

It had to be so small the naked eye couldn’t see it for her to be missing it so badly. The camera would obviously make it look bigger, like looking through a microscope. She breathed on the lens to fog it and pored over the results. There, did it look like the fog didn’t settle in that spot?

The world shrank. The camera lens filled her vision. That had to be a streak. And was that dust? She wiped, sprayed, wiped again. She had to get perfect pictures; her job was on the line. If she didn’t get this fixed soon the fundraiser would be over. That lens certainly was filthy.

Green

It was June’s favorite spot at Maggie’s. The little antique shop on the square held everything from forgotten toys to glassware odds and ends, and the collection changed almost daily. Surrounded as it was by designer stores and expensive restaurants, Maggie’s was an unlikely success, but the window display stopped traffic every time.

She asked Maggie once why an old broken shelf covered with mismatched pots, cans, and boxes full of succulents. Other stores displayed the most appealing of their wares, carefully arranged and enticing. What did an unchanging window full of plants have to do with antiques?

Maggie had smiled mysteriously, and said to meet her three streets over an hour before opening the next morning. June was curious enough to agree, and the two of them joined the already bustling sidewalk throng as the pavement began to warm beneath their feet.

For an hour they walked up and down streets, dwarfed by metal and glass that reflected rather than blocked the sun. They cut through shaded brick alleys that smelled of yesterday’s trash and unwashed bodies. They peered in windows full of human imaginings. Then there was Maggie’s.

In a sea of gray, brown, and blinding, all June could see was green. It drew her, a smile widening across her hot face. The broken wood, the mismatched containers, all disappeared in that living cascade of color. June glanced at Maggie, who put her finger to her lips and turned the key. June was the last of a dozen smiling hustlers to enter and breath a slow deep breath of sudden peace.

Inexorable

He had lived his entire life in its shadow. Gazing up its sides with jaws agape like the tourists he ferried. Losing himself in the whispering roar of its invisible flow.

His boat had been a favorite; no one knew the glacier like he did. Every pop, every boom, was a message. His passengers returned again and again for the thrill of watching the birth of icebergs, the formation of bridges, and the crumbling of secret worlds.

When not on the boat he had walked the white expanse of its surface. He could walk the same path every week for a year and never become bored. Crevasses opened and sealed. Turquoise pools formed and drained and left intricate honeycombed tunnels that summoned impotent longing. Caves appeared and just as magically vanished again as snow became ice and slid to its eventual doom.

Ten years ago he had ferried his last load of gasping, camera happy tourists. His body, like the ice, cracked and moaned under the weight of time passing, and at eighty-two, the crevasses in his memory formed honeycomb of their own. But he remembered the glacier. She had been the love of his life. He had pored over her ever-changing yet changeless face every day for sixty years, extolled her unpredictable beauty to hundreds of thousands who marveled with him. He remembered the glacier.

Going to the Circus

Let’s go to the circus, Leo! I want to see the elephants dance, don’t you? And the pretty ladies on the big swings! Those are my favorite. I ‘m gonna be one of those pretty ladies when I’m big. Cause I like to swing, too! Don’t you like to swing, Leo? Maybe tomorrow you can swing with me.

Maybe they’ll let you be in the circus. I bet you’d be the best lion they ever had. Don’t be scared of the guy with the big black rope that makes loud noises. He won’t hurt you. He just has to make everybody think he will. You just roar and wave and we’ll all clap real hard.

Do you think there’ll be clowns? I’m kinda scared of those. They smile weird. They do make fun balloons, though, and I like those. Maybe, if you hold my hand really tight, I won’t be scared when a clown gives me one.

Can you see the big tent yet, Leo? We’ve been walking a long time and I’m tired. I thought we’d get there faster, didn’t you? I’m hungry, too. I bet Mommy has some animal crackers. Let’s go home and have some. Then all the animals can be in our own circus! Won’t that be fun, Leo? Come on, let’s run!

The Square

It was an odd place, cobblestone streets and medieval plaster houses confusingly paired with modern storefronts and colorful canvas awnings. Agatha loved it. Every birthday and anniversary, she insisted we have lunch at the little bistro on the tiny mishmash of a square.

The city had long since turned the houses into a retirement village, which meant that the crowds tended decidedly toward the downward side of the hill, if you know what I mean. I asked Agatha on one birthday somewhere in her early thirties why she preferred the square to any of the popular and romantic downtown spots. She said she couldn’t think of anything more romantic than the square.

Agatha loved watching people, and I loved watching her, so I rarely saw what she saw. But that day she made me pull my chair next to hers and look out over the square. She showed me the couple at the next table whose wrinkled fingers entwined as they sipped black coffee from plain mugs. She showed me the elderly man pushing his wife around in her chair while she chattered excitedly about the window displays in the little shops. She showed me the three sisters with bobbed hair and oversized handbags who made the same round of the square every day, just for the chance to be together.

For thirty years she made me promise we would retire to the square. She never saw her wish come true. Today would have been her 65th birthday, and for thirteen years I have ridden the elevator from my fourth floor plaster-walled apartment to sit under the green umbrella in front of the bistro. Now I watch the young people who occasionally visit, wondering what they are thinking, what Agatha would have made of them. They are different these days, yet the same. I wonder if one day that boy with eyes for only one person will sit here fifty years from now, and hope that bright-eyed girl he adores will be holding his hand over a mug of coffee.

The Box

She closed the door slowly, keys slipping from her fingers to the entryway table with an absurdly loud clatter in the silent house. A light showed dimly under the kitchen door and her feet moved automatically in that direction.

Her hand slid across the door as she pushed it open and a broad swath of light broke the endless night of the hallway. The overhead lamp blazed above the breakfast table, showing off the place settings for two ready for the next morning’s date. She touched the edge of one plate, fiddling with the paper napkin hanging slightly over.

She squeezed her eyes shut and sighed heavily before looking to the center of the table. Pink roses lay in no particular arrangement around a tiny cardboard box tied with brown cord. Her hand shook as she reached for the box, and nerveless fingers bent the edge of the note stuck beneath the knot.

He should have been the one to open it. He should have been waiting for her as they had planned. It should have been the beginning of the rest of their lives. It wasn’t fair. A panicked urge to flee backed her into the door that had swung shut behind her, and she slid to the floor with the box crushed against face, dissolving slowly in unheeded tears.

The Map

It was the worst excuse for a map I had ever seen. Trust Lin to come up with something like this. Too much imagination, not enough sense, that girl.

That square might be the airport, I thought. Or if I was holding it upside down, maybe it was the fairgrounds. Given the giant question mark in the middle, I wasn’t holding it upside down.

What was that question mark about anyway? Who uses punctuation on a map? Lin would probably call it a challenge, but seriously. I just want to get where I’m going, not waste half an hour and twenty bucks worth of gas playing guessing games.

Next time I should probably just ask for written directions. Although, knowing Lun, she’d find a way to make that just as pointless. Could a map be written in poetry? If not, she’d probably try.

I wadded the fake parchment with unnecessary vigor and tossed it into the back seat. Time to ask for directions. “Excuse me, could you direct me to Knight’s Row? It must be, I’m supposed to look for the fourth gate west of the Great Hall. No, I’m not trying to be funny. Wait, come back! Hey, I just need directions!”

The address, Lin. Next time, just tell me the address.