Goldfish
Dancing motes in soft, hazy air struck through with prism color, hover above the carpet. Their movement gives life to the hot room. The air seems to swirl in multi-colored vortices, which lead back to the bowl balanced on the flute of dark cherry standing by the window. There he sits, quiet, unobtrusive, stoic, suspended in warm fluid, watching.
Barbara scuffs quietly into the room. She glances at the old clock—10 to 6. Not long to wait now. The window shades are open at present. Not for long, she thinks. She can see the street, framed by sun bleached, blue curtains—their lively pattern of flowers now dim compared to the skein of life against which they lay. Tommy and Billy, the Carney twins, wrestle on their lawn, venting in play what surely lies more darkly in a mature form inside them. She raises her arm and draws the long, dark sweater across her nose. A thin trail of snot marks its passing. She sighs and glances at the clock—8 to 6. Not long to wait now.
Hanging motionless, he watches the dark form slip across the wide, glass expanse.
As she slips across the room Barbara’s hands fidget and fiddle with one another, mimicking what the Carney boys are doing across the street. First the left gains supremacy, then the right. One twists away while the other grasps. Constant motion akin to the up, down, in, out of a priest’s hands over a dying soul. Only the soul is not dying, and it’s not in front, but behind. She laughs softly at this thought when she sees her hands moving in the reflection from the mirror. “And there is no forgiveness from my hands, nor comfort,” she whispers. Only tedious motion. Her eyes play over the clock—5 to 6. Not long to wait now.
He angles away as the large white forms flash to and fro above him.
Standing at the window, Barbara can feel the heat coming from the glass. It is near on 100 degrees today. The window is closed, locked, painted shut, and sealed with dust released long ago from the spiral dance that involved it for a moment. At one point, it held a dream of freedom— wild, colorful freedom spinning uncontrolled in the wash of light, weightless and unencumbered; unshackled. But that dream died when it settled down. No longer filled with stripes of color, it sits on the wood sill, quietly, unremarkably, fated. She looks at the sill, “Dusty,” she mumbles, and reaches out to trace a finger lightly through the dead dreams. She blankly looks at the clock’s reflection in the window—2 to 6. Not long to wait now.
He sinks down; danger looms in the white terror that flashes over him. The water begins to shudder lightly.
Dave’s truck pulls into the drive. 1 to 6. The deep rumble of power shakes the world as the engine settles to idle. He listens to the throb for a moment. It matches the pulse lightly tapping his eyelids. The engine shakes the frame softly, keeping it on alert, ready for action. He listens quietly for a few more seconds, then quickly, without warning twists the key, and quiets the shaking.
The water stops shuddering.
Barbara reaches to the shades, shaking, and wearily pulls them to, banishing that world, darkening hers. She scuttles to the far side of the room, away from the bowl, away from the light—just away. Her eyes acknowledge the clock. 6 o’clock—time. The silence is broken by the turn of a key in the lock. The door cracks slightly. The world tries to spill back in, but Dave blocks it, beats it back—envelops the thin line of life with his body as he pushes into the house. She sidles back a hare, head down, eyes looking through lashes at that ever smaller patch of life as the door closes again. Thick grayness fills the room tangibly as Dave sighs out a long, seemingly black breath. He hangs his coat on the hook. She hung that tired, weighed down hook years ago. It is smaller now than it was. The years of weight have rubbed it down, removed its color, and made it invisible.
There are two shapes in the void now. He drifts back to the rear, down to the rock, behind the fronds.
Her “Hi hon!” hangs like a dead animal in a jar of formaldehyde. One moment alive and full of hope, the next, sitting on the bottom, a shadow of lifeless life. Dave turns and glances at her. His eyes penetrate the gray haze emanating from him and pin her to the far wall. She smiles tightly. He advances across the wood floor.
Stay down! They are closer! Behind the fronds, near the rock!
Crack! Her eyes barely open as the first blow lands. She rockets back into the wall. A short grunt of air explodes from her lips at impact. She slides down to the floor thinking muddily, “Stay low, behind the chair maybe, near the chifforobe.” She crawls to the right. Sluggish thoughts: “Stay low! Move to the window!”
He settles on the bottom, turned to the approaching shapes, pressed to the far glassy wall.
She settles to the floor by the cherry candle stand. A small trickle of blood wanders down from her left eye, mingling with the snot that runs from her swollen nose. “Crouch low, near the wall.” His foot connects hard, pressing the ribs back. Bending, bending, broken. They wander from their place. Needles of bone. Not for stitching however. These are different.
They’re right above him! Swim! Escape! But only circular restriction in all directions!
She groans and tries to get out, to flee. She cannot. Her eyes wildly flutter around the room. Nothing but the room in sight. The knife drives into her exposed neck. It cuts between the windpipe and the spine, and finally settles into the crack between the lovely oak boards beneath her. Her arm flails out connecting uselessly with the candle stand; too late. Eyes glaze over. Short, jittery exclamations of the passage of life shake her. A sigh.
The wall slams him from behind! Now blackness rushes at him! No water! Flailing fins. Jittery exclamations of the passage of life. A sigh.
“Damn goldfish!” Dave mutters.
Lemming
Turly Breidablick banged the metal spatula down onto the sizzling grill, swished it under the potatoes and, with flair reserved for the truly talented, flipped the whole mass of hash-browns over. He banged the spatula again, knocking the few clingy pieces of spud from its face, and turned OverMedium’s eggs. Glancing up from the grill, as Marty hung another order, he saw AmericanOmelete enter and head for his window seat. As American settled, Turly clanged the little bell and slid OverMedium’s breakfast onto the counter for Marty to serve. She took it with a wink, added a pot of coffee in her other hand, and sauntered the whole mess over to OverMedium in his corner by the Coke clock. Turly watched as Marty grinned at OverMedium, plunked the food down, and filled his cup. She then added a little something on his bill (Thanks! And see you again!), tore it from her book, laid it on the table, and turning, slid her pencil behind her ear. On the way back to the counter she dribbled some coffee for ColdCereal, and answered a question from ToastandJuice (like she would actually have anything else!—Turly grinned to himself).
Before she made the counter, AmericanOmelet waggled a finger at her, and without looking to see what he said, Turly cracked three eggs into a metal bowel. When Marty hung up the order, Turly grinned to himself finding it for “Am Om, pots, cof.” Imagine that! His eyes twinkled as he swished in the milk and poured the conglomeration onto the hot stove. As it cooked he snagged some cheese, a few chives, and some onions. He quickly grilled the onions and then formed the Omelet into its customary shape.
Ding! Two scrambled eggs, toast (wheat), ham. Funny, HamandEggs hadn’t been in for a week now. This order had reminded him of that again. Turly glanced at the Coke clock; 7:28. HamandEggs was always here by 7. But not this last week. Something’s up there. Ka’ching; bye Oatmeal. That was a good one. Almost never get Oatmeal these days. Once, to Turly’s surprise, he had been asked for bulgur . . . for breakfast! That was odd. We don’t have bulgur for breakfast. We don’t have bulgur at all. Bulgur doesn’t ask for bulgur anymore. Now he has FriedPotatos, low oil. They don’t look too good to Turly Breidablick,