A Story About the Secret Signals of Fruit Flies

The fruit flies dipped and weaved. "What is that smell," they all thought. "What is that, that tips our soul and spills it about? We must have it. We must be near it."

The pears wondered which one of their number had died, except for one on the bottom of the bowl. The one on the bottom knew that it alone drew the fruit flies near. But it was not dead, just dying. "I knew that bruise would do me in," thought bottom pear. "But I didn't think it would be so soon. Why have all my friends stayed piled on me so long? Could they not go off and do their job? No they stay home and crush bottom pear to death."

Some of the more astute flies hovered in the proximity of bottom pear, which was there way of calling, :Over here! Over here!" And so all the flies hovered near bottom pear, except for broken wing fly who was day dreaming of having two working wings. All this attention of the beating of mincing wings caught the attention of the majority of pears.

"Oh look!"
"They are hovering."
"I see that!"
"Who are they hovering over?"
"Not me."
"Then who?"
"Whoever it is that died."
"Oh, look they are hovering over you."
"It’s not me."
"It’s under me, bottom pear died."

"No," bottom pear whispered. "I’m not dead yet. But soon."

"Oh, gross."
"Bottom pear is touching me."
"I can’t believe you had the inhospitably to go south."
"Once one of us goes we all go."
"Is that what you want?"
"Get out of here! Get!"

This sentiment went on for a long time. Bottom Pear could listen no longer and did what most fruit hasn’t the courage to do. Bottom Pear squeezed out of the bowl and onto the counter and looked at the kitchen all around. Wherever he would go next, the fruit flies were prepared to follow.

A Story About Melanie

Melanie had a comb-over she was proud of. Her grandfather gave it to her. And she decided she was going to wear it to school.

Every Thursday afternoon she would visit her grandfather. She liked how he seemed to know about all the different kinds of birds and flowers. She liked his sweaters with two buttons down the front. She liked the pipe he smoked that smelled like burning cherries. And she liked how long he grew his hair and how he would sweep it over his head. The men in her life wore their hair so short they might as well have been bald. Not Grandpa Jasper. He fought the call of simple modernity and maintained a sense of animalistic purity.

Yes, Jasper was surprised when young Melanie asked if she could have his comb-over. But how could he say no? She was such an attentive girl. While all the other cousins played with dolls or with guns or both, she sat and listened to him tell stories about the world. Yes, he’d always assumed that she did not even know the word comb-over, but now that she said it, he was glad the word had been floated out there. Relieved even.

When he had first started balding, his ego was badly shaken. He was only in his twenties but looked in his forties. He styled his follicles one way and then another, a futile battle again the gentle eroding waves of time. He eventually settled on bold part that began on the side of his head and swept a tangle of hair over his dome. It fooled no one. And now that his hair had gone grey it fooled even less. Recently Jasper had contemplated a different look, but it felt best when he combed it that one way. The part in his hair was as comfortable as an old sock. All of this he explained to young Melanie.

It seemed strange for him to try and cut his own hair so he handed the scissors to Melanie. She squeezed her fingers around the scissors, studied his skull for a moment and then began to cut. She was as careful as she was quick. After handing her grandfather back the scissors she gathered the comb-over, which managed to more or less in one piece. Jasper watched as she reverently hot glued the hair to a couple barrettes. When the glue dried she put the comb-over over her own hair and looked in the mirror. Oh, won’t her classmates be jealous.

X. A Night Built for Riding

Grouchy rode hedgehog deep. The woods was silence and hoof beats. The sky was kissed with stars. And on they went. On and on. Further then either had been from home. It felt good. Clean like the cold lake. Free like a sky kissed with stars.

Grouchy mirrored her breath with Hedgehog. She was a good horse, fast and strong. She slept at night and worked during the day. Except for tonight. Tonight they crossed lines. Awake late into the night, the farthest they’d been from home.

Grouchy’s hands curled tight around the mane. She had never ridden without a saddle. It was easy to ride like this. Why had she not done this before? All the reasons that came to mind were not her reasons. They were explanations from other people. Other people who called her “Grouchy” when she would rather be called anything else.

The path broke open to the lake, which held it’s reflecting glass to the sky. The night bent down to the water, so that one could not tell where below ended and above began.

A Story About a Phone

“Do what you do and do it well.”

That’s what Pappy Pedro said. I couldn’t keep him on the phone for more than a couple minutes at a time. I'd complain for a minute or so before he cut me off. He'd re-share his one piece of advice, say good-bye and hang-up the phone. He’d always been terse, but I think his hearing was leaving him. I’m surprised he could even hear the phone enough to answer it. After he'd gone, I’d listen to the dial tone for a moment before I put the receiver back.

Funny thing was, these calls made me feel better. When I first got to college I made them every couple weeks. Lately I’d called him once a day. I hadn’t even wanted the old phone when I moved into my dorm, but Pappy insisted. “Kids have phones now.” All the things he didn’t understand embarrassed me, but explaining them would have been worse. So I just said "Thanks," and planned to throw it out when he left.

It looked like one of those phones with the part that spins around. Or like the phone that was in that hotel room that me and my mom and my brother stayed in for that one week. I kind of like how it looked, the white plastic yellowed with use. I think I kept it because I could imagine I was in a hotel, which felt comforting like home and reminded me that this was temporary, so I should just enjoy it.

My roommate, Flynn dressed himself in clothes that begged for people to look at him. He had more scarves and hats and sunglasses and other things than I had regular clothes. Flynn was always telling jokes I didn’t get or making fun of me or both. He thought the phone was cool, but I couldn’t tell why exactly. Maybe because it was old, and old things were cool, except people. “Does it work?”

I plugged it and the phone came to life. Is this was how it was supposed to work? Flynn theorized something about the connection not being turned off and it was free or something. “Try it,” he said.  I dialed the only number I knew. Pappy Pedro answered.

Hello.

Hello.

Who is this?

It’s me.

Me who?

Me, Pappy.

What do you want?

Nothing I guess.

Then why are you calling?

To see if the phone works.

Does it?

It does.

That’s good.

Yes.

I have to go.

Okay. Goodbye, Pappy.

Goodbye.

Flynn looked at me. “That’s awesome.” How do I know when he is serious?

I thought of that first phone call when I looked at the phone now. I had already called this morning. But so much had happened. I really needed to hear his voice. Maybe just this once I could have two phone calls in a day. I wouldn’t do it all the time. I don’t need that much help. Just some encouragement, even if I know what it was going to be. I looked at Flynn’s alarm clock. The red numbers told me it was after 5pm. He was probably already drinking, but he wouldn’t be drunk. I felt suddenly mad at Pappy. If he stayed on the phone longer I wouldn’t need to call twice, like some sort of baby. It was his idea I should come here in the first place. I didn’t want to be here with all these people who don’t say what they mean and look at you funny and laugh.

A Story About Rosemary

She liked that she could still smell the Rosemary on her hands. By pretending to itch her nose she could keep the smell nearby, even as the backseat threatened to be overcome by the aroma of gasoline. The dirt road bounced her around knocking her knees and shoulders into the hips and elbows of her cousins. She wanted to look back at the old house one more time, but she wasn’t sure if she was allowed. Even if she was allowed, she wasn’t sure weather it would be physically possible to turn around with out smashing up into her cousins and their pretty dresses. So she kept her head forward and slightly to the left, toward the cousin she liked more, and stared out the window and pretended to itch her nose as the scenery grew less familiar.

On either side her cousins seemed to take up more room than was possible stretching along the vinyl expanse of the seat as it flowed off into the distance. The AC struggled to reach the back seat and the three of them grew increasingly uncomfortable. Or at least she did. Maybe these girls were used to it. Maybe they were the kind that don’t sweat, they just faint.

It wasn’t fair to call her Aunt a large women. Not fair to whom she was uncertain, but it was something her mother said and she thought of it now. Her Aunt turning toward the back of the car reminded her of something out of a nature documentary, like a spry hippopotamus turning around in car.

A Story About the Family Somnambulist

“I don’t know what I’m doing up.”

Dilby had been sleepwalking again. I found him in the kitchen holding a melon in one hand and a butcher knife in the other. As usual he had managed to take off his clothes and put them back on incorrectly. His legs were in the arm holes of his shirt, while his pants where wrapped around his neck like a scarf. He wore a sock on the hand that held the knife.

“Why don’t you go back to bed then.” Dilby nodded, and shuffled off.

This had been a nightly occurrence for almost a month now. And each time, I’d ask him what he was doing, even though, at this point, I knew what was going on. The sleepwalking was characterized by the re-arranging of clothes and Dilby in the middle of the kitchen prepared to eat something, bread or cheese or a stick of butter. And every time he tried to go at the food with the butcher knife.

The first time I saw him I laughed out loud. Dilby doesn’t joke around much, but this is the sort of stuff that makes him laugh. If he was funnier he’d be doing this on purpose. What’s funny is that it’s exactly the sort of thing he did when he was younger, right after the family dog died.

A Story About Dry Dock

The waves cap white. The boat tips port to starboard and back. A cloud pulls back its curtain on the moon, and below a luminescent road run in our direction. We stand on deck, braced, watching. We listen to the only sounds, water on hull and our own breaths. How long have we been gone?

We planed to sail down the east coast over a month. If I could remember where we last stopped I’d know how far we had gotten. All bucolic New England towns look alike. I couldn’t even remember where we had dinner. If the rocking of the boat didn’t stop I’d soon have a reminder. I told my brother and sister to go below, that nothing was wrong. They hadn’t listened to me since Portsmith.

A month after the funeral, Tom and Jenny came over with the nautical map and bottle of wine. Neither of them understood the markings, but I had read enough to orient myself. It’s easy for me to fall into professor mode. So I explained what was what. After we finished the second bottle, we went out to look at it.

I purchased it two years back. Growing up we had this one sail dingy we would take on the lake. A modest yacht felt like the person I wanted to be.  I bought the first one I saw and a pile of books on ownership, maintenance, and sailing. Every time I paid the dock fee I felt a little bit lighter.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have taken my brother and sister to see the boat. Jenny started in first.

“I thought it would be in the water.”

“Well…”

“Didn’t you say dock?”

“This is what I meant.”

Tom drank from the wine bottle.

 “Nothing sadder than a dry boat.”

A Story About Edward

The first day he came to stay with us, we thought he was an enormous prat. He flung peas at Henry when my mother wasn’t looking. And on two occasions he called me “Girl.” As in, “What do you think you are doing, girl?” We were told to be nice to Edward. We were told the Edward had a hard go of it. Although we were never told exactly what he had a hard go of. Nothing seemed to justify what a rude and vile boy he was.

We were perfectly fine when it was just the three of us – my little brother, Henry, my mother Georgina and me, Penelope Ann Miller. Our father had been off fighting a war for some time. We saw him on holidays, and he would tell us how he had built schools and hospitals for all the children who didn’t have any. Whenever we would see a school out the car window, Henry would proclaim to anyone that could hear him that his father had built that school – I don’t know if he was lying or if he honestly believed that.

The day Edward Smee moved in, I was relieved to find out that at the very least I would not have share a room with him. That misfortune would land on my brother. When he showed up on our doorstep he had a suitcase on his left side and a black eye on his right. Henry gave me a nervous look and I touched his should for comfort. The first words out of Edwards mouth were, “What are you looking at, Girl?” I disliked him immediately.

Henry, perhaps on account of having to share a room, had a more optimistic approach. He took every punch and flick of the ear, as if it were some kind of joke. Maybe if he laughed enough Edward would get bored and move on. I was unwilling to be so patient. It was true that I sometimes picked on Henry, but he was my brother, and I wouldn’t let some strange boy rag on him. “Listen here Edward Alexander Smee,” I said. I learned from my mother that when you really mean business it requires the use of a middle name. “I won’t do to have you kicking and flicking anyone in this house.” Edward looked at me for a long time. I wondered if he was trying to figure out the best way to hit a girl. And then, eventually, he said, “okay,” as if that was all that was required of him. He picked himself up and into his room.

“You really shouldn’t be so hard on him.” Henry said. “He means well.” I didn’t know what to say to that. And all I could do was watch Henry as he followed Edward into the room they shared together. When I told my mom about it, she said something about how it was good for Henry to have another boy in the house. A boy might be nice, I thought, but Edward felt like a wild animal. As if to prove my point,

A Story About Sleeping it Off

Headlights shone through the front window. I had fallen asleep in the living room. The clock on the microwave read 3:14. Instinctively, I whispered my wife’s name. “Cindy. Cindy are you there?” The car sounded like it was still running.

My clothes were a rumpled version of what I wore to work yesterday. My shirt was un-tucked and my fly undone, which I must have managed in my sleep to myself more comfortable. I put myself together, even pressing down a cowlick in the front hall mirror. I couldn’t find my shoes, so I took off my socks so they wouldn’t get wet in the grass. I went to unlock the front door and hesitated for only a moment. Should I grab something, like a baseball bat or something? Certainly that’s not the life I’m living.

Outside, it was hard to tell what was going on. The street light obscured the interior of the car. It didn’t look like anyone was in there. The bumper had smashed up against a low retaining wall in front of our flower bed, steam rising from under the hood. The back wheel carved a mud hole out of the grass. I realized something I already knew – this wasn’t my car. This wasn’t my wife’s car. I don’t know why I thought Cindy was out here or that John had taken the car in the night to hang out with his friends.

I know cars like a Sea Captain knows bicycle brands – I know they exist. But this one seemed familiar. Our neighbors a few doors down had that party Cindy dragged me too. The guy, the husband, what was his name, was so proud of his car. This car, whatever it was. Something about this made me feel brave, or at least, braver.

Here’s me, barefoot in a suit, on my wet grass, leaning into the window of a lightly crashed car. Two figures, the one in the passenger seat was smaller – Georgia, who would sometimes babysit for us. There was blood. I pull on the handle. Locked. I go around to the other side.

A Story About Hands

Juniper and Daniel climbed in. They held their mewing packages tight against their chests. How do you hold a kitten so it won’t make noise? Not so tight it hurts, but close enough that it feels safe. “Firm but light” Daniel said. And Juniper repeated that over and over in her head. “Firm but light.”

Daniel’s ward seemed to have settled. “How did he figure it out so quickly?” Juniper wondered. He always had a way with animals and secretly she figured he had a way to speak with the tiny cats. He promised milk and fish and naps if it would stay quiet. He must have found a way to explain that if Mama found out it was the bag for them. It hard enough for Juniper to understand Mama and why she was the way she was, let alone the bag and how it also meant the river and never coming back. When Daniel explained it to her he had been so very patient, that’s what she admired most about him.

The little one in her hands had begun to paw it’s way free, so Juniper squeezed tighter. She had immediately named her kitty Orange Blossom, because of the color. Just as quickly she had regretted her impulsive decision after Daniel studied the other and seemed to pull it’s name from the animal’s soul. “Gwendolyn” he whispered. As Orange Blossom wriggled more, Juniper wriggled more until a sense of unease permeated the cupboard that was their hiding spot. “Stupid Orange Blossom, don’t you get it?” Juniper thought. “If Mama finds you…” Daniel caught her eye, “He knows you’re scared.”

They’re had much ado in the previous weeks training not to be scared. For Juniper it was best to start with the breath, then the heartbeat, then maybe picture a nice place. The order didn’t matter too much. But the effect was the same. The feeling of being a few sizes larger and connected to something larger than the tiny rock inside her where her soul lived.

When Orange Blossom had relaxed into the crook of her arm, when Juniper realized that she had finally relaxed herself, when the whole of the house held it’s breath as the doorknob had begun to rattle and twist.