Southern Belles

Three ladies, all probably about the same age-upper-twenties-but at different points on the path to middle age stepped onto the elevator to the parking garage, a slow old thing that shook and shimmied its way down through four stories worth of terrain.  The alpha female, and also the prettiest-no coincidence, that-remarked to her two friends, one more so than the other, about her eyebrow lady, the one that manicured the eyebrows of all of the local celebrities, and through whom Raven had met them.  Raven’s eyebrows were not unattractive, though normal-looking, which was a fair summary of her in the entirety.  A glossy brunette with a few “tasteful” highlights and a permanent tan, Raven was attractive enough to take home the tomcat of her choice from any of the local bars.  She cast her brown eyes, despite the weight of her eyeliner and mascara, at Shanda, her number two.  Shanda, also not unattractive-though less not unattractive than Raven-nodded mutely, as her role required.  Shanda had the great distinction of being terrifically undistinguishable: a man-even one with the elephant’s memory-would inevitably forget her features immediately after she left the room.  Nonetheless she was passable enough to scrape by on Raven’s leftovers at the end of a long night.  As usual, Rosaline was being ignored-not actively, mind you.  Rosaline stood at five feet three inches if she rose up on her toes.  Her body had already begun to put weight in the places that women will, though she hid it well by wearing mostly black print sundresses in the summer-which, in turn, caused her to sweat profusely at times-and slacks and jackets in the winter.  Compared to the other two, Rosaline was unkempt, though not slovenly by any means.  She simply suffered from split ends, a pasty complexion, and moles on her neck.

Raven went on, “You wouldn’t believe who was in Cari’s shop,” going on to name some minor celebrity that was either past his prime or had never had one, depending on the definition of prime.  Carolyn’s, or Cari’s to the familiar or pretentious-often both-was indeed a spa of some distinction, in fact, the best in Wilmington, North Carolina.  It was true that most celebrities in Wilmington frequented the shop when not shooting; when in-production, the producers would have the appropriate people flown in from Hollywood.  The Wilmington celebrity, typically from a spin-off sitcom or made-for-television movie, was lower rate than that among the Angelinos or New Yorkers, but the locals were thrilled regardless.  Raven’s connection, through Carolyn, was crucial to her self-esteem.

As she prattled on about the peculiarities of some male semi-celebrity, Rosaline felt neglected and began to grow desperate for some acknowledgement from Raven, or Shanda if Raven was unwilling.  “I’m going to dye my hair,” she blurted.

“You’re going to color your hair,” Raven corrected.

Rosaline, wide-eyed, trembling at the acknowledgement, “No, I’m going to dye all of it.”

Raven slipped, as she was prone to do, into irritability, “No, you mean you’re going to color all of it.  Dying is what it is called when it’s done poorly.”

The elevator buzzed, indicating that it had reached its destination.  The doors slowly opened as Rosaline admitted, “Well, I’m going to do it myself, so…”

Raven shook her head and stepped off of the elevator, giving up.  Shandra, seized her opportunity, “So, what color are you going to color it?”

The elevator’s doors shut behind them and the carriage was empty and still, smelling faintly of discount perfume.

250 Word Sentence – Anger

It is unbelievable to me that Harry Winters-a partner who is competent at best, but in all likelihood, merely adequate-has the pluck, the audacity, the sheer propensity for obscenity to delegate to me-of all people, a hard working schmuck that puts his head down and works while at the office instead of gabbing and parleying and trying to move up the corporate ladder-the bulk of a project, nay, the entire project, and then turn around to poor old Salisbury (the codger is lucky if he doesn’t have to be spoon-fed and sponge-bathed) and take credit-full credit, mind you-for the work I’ve done, when he hadn’t even looked at the . . . why, I wish old Salisbury had had the presence of mind, feeble or no, to ask him one question, just one, any question: that’s all it would have taken to reveal Winters’s complete and utter ignorance with regard to the details-hell, even the basic gist-of this project; oh, I would have love to have seen that, by God, and I would even be willing to bet a month’s salary (although to Winters that is probably a paltry week’s worth of labor-if you are willing to refer to stealing another man’s work and soul labor) that he wouldn’t have been able to answer even the most basic question, uninformed enough that even old Salisbury’s feeble mind would have probably been able to pick up on the complete and voluminous ineptitude.

A Change Gonna Come

The apprehension began as a little ball in Charley’s stomach.  He had seen those brooding eyes several times, always either briefly or in his periphery, but he had seen them.  There could be no mistake.  A man so cold and callous surely could not be here, Charley thought, after all, this is heaven.  So unnerved, Charley walked around the woods all day, scratching his head and squinting.  The little ball of apprehension grew until it roared.  He was positively starving.

Charley headed into civilization to get some food.  Through the woods, he walked, more hurriedly than usual.  He crossed the field to his family’s breakfast spot and was surprised to find it crowded.  Usually, he and his family could sit in a booth and have the booths to either side empty.  Today, he walked in and saw people lining the walls waiting to be seated.

If you wish, go around back to the kitchen door to pick up food, he was told.  He did so.  In the back of the building was an oak door, sliced in half horizontally.  The top half was open, revealing a flat-top and some griddles.  Charley was dished with a meager portion of bacon and hash.  I hope there’s more, Charley said.  There isn’t, we’re too crowded, come back later.  Charley walked back toward the woods and scarfed his food.  By the time he reached the tree line he had nothing left.

When he arrived at the cabin, he found Ness still in bed.  He sat on the edge and stroked her back until she craned her neck and smiled meekly at him.  Her pretty face sagged from her skull a bit, pasty but flushed.  What is this, Charley asked.  I don’t feel well, she responded, did you bring me anything to eat.  Charley allowed his fingers to penetrate his thick mop and scrape against his head.  No, I’m sorry, love; let me get you something.

He could have died again.  His selfishness never ceased to amaze him.  He took off in a bolt toward town, allowing his body to reach its running homeostasis.  He gradually lengthened his strides until he nearly soared.  Back at the kitchen door, he received another small ration.  He carried the portion in a small brown bag as he loped back to the cabin.  He wiped stinging sweat, mixed with tears, from his eyes.

Here, my love, please eat this food.  I’m sorry I did not think to bring it before.

It’s okay, dear.  Thank you.  Is this all there is.

Yes, they are rationing it out.

Strange.

It was strange.  The food had always been portioned, but there had never been too little.  He had also never been hungry until that morning.  Nor had his wife.  After checking to see if his wife needed anything else-she did not, just sleep-he excused himself to the woods, to walk and squint and scratch.

Backyard

The family boat sat on a trailer in the back yard.  It had been unmoved in such a long period of time that it had sunk into the ground up to its axles and weeds were sprouting from every available opening.  A Chevy Camaro was similarly marooned, resting on its axles.  Near the Camaro was a cube of cinderblocks, about eight feet by eight.  Originally, the blocks were intended for a new shed, but it had yet to be built.  And when it was finally started, Dank would surely die before it was finished-probably from the bite of one of the black widows resting in the cracks.  The old shed it was intended to replace rested unevenly on the ground.  The lean to the left made the shelves on the right unusable.  The shed’s roof had worn through many years ago.  When it had first worn out, it was simply covered with a piece of tarpaulin.  Subsequently, whenever the tarpaulin wore thing, Dank would tie another sheet over it.

One Event, Five Descriptions

1)

 

Mack was a hustler, always bumping into people on the street as he tried to read his morning paper and walk at the same time.  He refused to slow down for anyone or anything.  Too many things to do, he would say, and life is too short.  This morning was no different, except in consequence.  While exiting the city bus, he missed a step and tumbled to the pavement.  Embarrassed and shaken up, he looked around to see if anybody-anybody important, at least-had noticed his fall.  Of course, everybody had seen it, and it had caused quite a stir.  A young blonde woman in professional attire, looked at him in amusement, a tiny pucker somewhere between a smirk and a smile.

 

2)

 

Maximillian J. Hollandsworth, the Third, developed a reputation about the community as an exceedingly difficult man to converse with; his obligations at a given time always exceeding his friends in terms of quantity, he was singularly unable to focus his attention on any one person or object for more than a few moments.  This facet of his personality poorly equipped him with the faculties required of a strong driver: he was eternal, both in his suffering and his insufferability.  The city bus provided a much more feasible alternative, allowing him to both peruse the previous day’s events and return the morning’s phone messages simultaneously-much to the ire of those unfortunate enough to be in his adjacency.  Unparalleled in reading efficiency, Maximillian would routinely finish the first three sections of the Wall Street Journal before reaching his stop at Chesterton Station, a typical commute lasting approximately eighteen minutes.  On one particular morning, the bus reached its terminal two minutes early, which gave Maximillian cause to smile.  He rose and began to proceed to the front exit of the bus; he kept reading, as he had nearly finished the third section of his newspaper.  Just as Maximillian began the first sentence of the penultimate paragraph, he stepped out when he should have stepped down and collapsed into a pile of flesh, fine wool, and newspaper.  Bugger, he thought, as he looked around and gathered up his scraps of newspaper.  Despite, being the universe’s perfect expression of perpetual motion, he stopped.  For the first time, he noticed a beautiful young professional, who was smiling at his mishap.  Embarrassed, he stooped to gather the rest of his scraps and hurried away.

 

3)

 

Must hurry.  Can you not move any faster?  This bus makes me want to rip out each one of hairs on my thickly laden head.  What a waste.  Imagine, to squander the two minutes that this bus granted us.  This bus, not just on time for once, but ahead of schedule.  Look here.  The damn high-risk debt market is still plummeting.  The Journal says that it could cause a recession.  A recession?  I think not.  I think-God damn it!  My fucking arm must be broke.  Did I miss a step or did somebody push me?  Oh, look at this paper, ruined.  Son. Of. A. Bitch.  Did anybody see this?  Obviously.  Everybody is staring at me.  Move it, you sons of retarded monkey fucks.  Look at this bitch, chuckling at me.  Like you’re so much better than me.  Move out of my fucking way, I need to get to work.

 

4)

 

Gather ‘roun’, kiddos.  And bite yer tongues, I’m a’go’n'a tell ya a story ‘bout how yer great-gran’pap met his wife o’ sixty years and o’ seven babies, including yers truly.  Y’see, yer gran’pap, ‘fore he seen the light, was city-folk.  A’bustlin’ roun’ the Big Apple like a ‘coon hound after a jack-rabbit.  E’ery mo’nin’, he’d a’git his stories from the bus’ness paper while ridin’ the bus to work, yammerin’ to hisself the whole time about the stock-market this, debt that.  Oh, how he did love those papers-like a piglet in fresh-laid shit.  Well, then, on this one partic’lar mo’nin’ he found hisself antsin’ to get off the bus so’s he could get on to work, up on the Wall Street.  But, he a’couldn’t keep his’n eyes off his stories.  Well, the result’n’ mess is that he found hisself ass over elbows on ground after fallin’ down them there steps.  Well, he looked up, about as beet red as a whore in church, and a’who was it he seen?  Why this b’utif’l wom’n all drussed up like a bus’ness man, I reckon about the only woman on the whole of Wall Street.  And she was a’smilin’ at him, he bein’ all lit up like a deer in headlights from the ‘barrassment.  Don’t you know, from then on, they didn’ forget the other.

 

5)

 

This is the first day of the rest of your life, Mack told himself as the bus pulled into the station.  He checked his watch, delighting in the fact that he was early.  If I can just finish this section of the paper, he thought, I’ll be off to a fine start.  Caught between thoughts of billable hours from his daydreams and the realities of the struggling debt markets in the paper in front of him, he failed to find the step as he tried to exit the bus.  End over end, he fell until he collapsed in a heap.  At first, he felt only disappointment: What a way to squander a head start, he thought.  Then he looked around and saw all eyes on him, and some mouths agape.  He felt the heat first build up behind his ears and then spread to the rest of his face.  Oh Lord, he thought as his eyes fell upon a striking blonde professional, attired in a snug-fitting jacket and business slacks that showed her curves.  She was smiling at him, or was it leering, he thought.  Not today, he thought, gathering his scraps meekly and shuffling away; for once, slow and deliberate.

The Penultimate Paragraph

Janice walked into the room and immediately felt that something was amiss.  The shades were drawn down, shutting out the mid-afternoon sunlight that generally poured through the large windows at the head of the bed.  Very unusual.  The master bedroom was perched at the top of the house like the jewel of a crown, so would-be peeping toms could see little more than the ceiling from street level.  As a result, the curtains were generally left open during the day.  The room had a slightly musky smell to it: her husband’s fragrance, combined with sweat, and . . . something else.  Tom shouldn’t have been home yet.  She flipped on the overhead light and noticed that the scarlet comforter duvet cover was rumpled up from the foot of the bed, revealing brown sheets-Tom’s choice, not hers.  She smiled as she remembered the argument over the sheets: Tom had chosen the brown ones to put on their wedding registry because she kept pestering him to have an opinion about something-anything.  She walked to the closed bathroom door across the room, placed a hand on the cool, brass knob.  So Tom had chosen the ugliest sheets he could find to make some point that was lost on her.  Janice placed her head against the bathroom door to listen.  She didn’t change the registry and, sure enough, somebody bought them the brown sheets.  It was something that they still laughed about, eight years later.  Janice knocked, no answer.  She felt an unexplainable buzzing in her head.  She turned the knob.  She felt flush, and too warm.  She opened the door.

The Missing Rug

A University of North Carolina Tarheels throw rug went missing from the house, a vacant 1960’s-style home that was being renovated for sale.  Tara, the owner of the rug-and house-interrogated the contractor.  A finger-in-face and spitting-and-hissing interrogation.  The contractor vouched for his men-all good people, he said-but promised to talk to each of them, and suggested that she may talk to the realtor in the meantime.  Tara dismissed the suggestion, the realtor, she said, was respectable.

Empty Hand of God — Collected

The first thing Charley Overton noticed-other than his initial surprise at being in heaven-was how trim he looked.  As he stood before the great golden gates, flung wide open, he quickly ran his palms down the front of his body, noting his firm abdomen under the white, linen shirt.  His belly did not spill over the top of his linen khakis as it had when he was alive.

Only after this initial inspection did he turn his attention to the utopian vista spread out before him.  Immaculate golden gates rested easily on their golden hinges, leaving open a passage-about the length of ten men-between two great Corinthian marble columns.

From where Charley stood, in the passage, he saw a metropolis of grey, gold, and green.  Grey marble structures-architectural phenomena, really-gilded with gold, were separated by vast stretches of thick grass, the greenest he had ever seen.  The streets, narrow and clearly meant for pedestrian traffic, were marble as well.  Even narrower walkways led from the streets to the buildings, each lined with deciduous trees in full bloom.  The sweet, slightly pungent smell of lilacs and orchids and such-these lined the walkways as well-drifted about his nostrils, beckoning him to enter.

Charley stood, scratching the scalp under his brown curls, deciding what to do.  For quite some period of time, there Charley stood-scratching, squinting, thinking.  After a moment, he retreated from his position between the gates to a leafy, undulating shade tree that beckoned to him from a stone’s throw away.  He dropped down on his haunches, scratching his back against the tree’s trunk, which was the thickness of four drums of oil, bound together.

So many questions, he thought.  He tried to reason his way through the situation.  The first issue, whether this was actually heaven, or simply hell just disguised as heaven.  His reasoning came around in a circle on this point.  Since he had no way to prove heaven from hell, he had to move on.  Second, whether-granting that this was indeed heaven-that he should assume he was invited in just by virtue of his presence in that particular spot, or whether he should wait for somebody to tell him to come in.  Again, he found no solid answers.  He could not recollect how he got to his particular location.  He was not any more able to review his life and make a judgment about his inherent goodness.  Do I even know, he wondered, what I would have been judged on?  No, clearly not the province of a human, especially one as biased as me, he thought.

Only after reasoning in circles for the better part of an hour did Charley attempt to notice his surroundings.  He found that he was in something of a vast courtyard.  The tree he was squatting under was roughly halfway between the gates and the sheer stone face of a mountain.  The walls of the civilization arced toward the mountain face from both sides of gate, meaning that Charley was essentially in a vast courtyard-dotted with large and leafy trees, similar to the one casting its shade over Charley.

He wandered out from the tree to the mountain face, checking for hand or footholds, weighing the possibility of climbing the rock wall.  From end to end, he examined the stone face.  The rock was cool and smooth to the touch.  Charley rubbed his hand against the rock and it slid gracefully across.  The wall had the appearance and feel of polished marble.  He found no potential handholds, so he headed back to the tree, considering a climb in the other direction a long shot.

The tree’s shade slowly danced around Charley, gradually expanding until shadow encompassed the entire courtyard, when the sun began dipping around the mountains to the-apparent-west.  Movement from the gates, drew Charley’s gaze.  They slowly swung shut.  Despite an initial urge to leap up and run through, he decided that the prudent course was to wait.

Almost immediately, the curly-headed thinker regretted his decision.  Where the daytime temperature had been so comfortable as to not register as a thought at all, the night time was noticeably more frigid.  Charley drew his arms in from his sleeves and hunched his neck, like a defensive turtle, to preserve some warmth.  He sat under the tree, squinting and thinking, for most of the night-unable to sleep due to the sheer absurdity of his situation.

No answers did Charley have by the time the sun rose and the gates slowly swung open.  Again Charley waited, hoping for a guide of some type to materialize.  He was content to wait out the day, thinking, and go in by the evening if nobody came by that point to direct him.  But then he thought of his wife, his sweet Ness.  Despite initial hesitation, and the brief thought of this being a trick, he found that motivation enough to move forward.  Surely, if this is heaven, he thought, my wife will be waiting for me.  And if not, he speculated, then at least I’ll know that there is no heaven for me.

Inside the gate, he paused again.  He realized that he had no idea where to go.  In front of him, civilization sprawled out into a valley.  With his back to the gate, he could see a network of walk ways diverging in front of him.  In the distance in any direction, he could see the hazy outlines of mountains.  Dense forests and then wide grassy fields served as buffers between the civilization and the mountains.  The smell of lilacs filled the air, a scent that reminded him of his wife.  Timidly, he walked.

He turned right at the first walkway he came to.  The smell of lilac intensified but was not overpowering.  The walkway led to an enormous marble building that reminded him of his city’s courthouse, except that it was not dilapidated.  As he walked, he noticed for the first time fruit in the trees that lined the walkway.  It aroused an appetite in him, though he was not hungry.  I had better not, he thought.  And he kept walking.

He swiftly padded up several low steps and pushed through the great oak doors that guarded the palace.  They glided open smoothly and silently, revealing a reveling mass of people, writhing in pleasure to the sounds of a string quartet.  The people-beautiful, all of them-moved in rhythm, the men similarly attired to Charley, the women in white sundresses.  He was unnoticed as he swam through the crowd.  He glanced upon the faces of the dancers.  A man pursed his lips while pleasure forced his eyes closed.  A lady looked through him with lazy, unregistering eye-lids, as though she were high.

He saw no sign of his wife, nor of anyone familiar to him.  He felt stiff and jerky among the well-oiled dancers, so he left the building through a smaller oak door on the backside of the building.  Pressing on, he saw a young couple spread out on the grass feeding each other grapes.  He shuffled over to the couple and stood over them.  They did not notice him for a moment, and when they did, they were unaffected.  They looked up at him, neither in disgust nor expectation; they simply gazed upon him wordlessly.

I’m not sure what to do, he said

What do you want to do, they replied.

I want to know what I’m supposed to do and where I’m supposed to go.

You can do whatever and go wherever pleases you.

I don’t know where anything is.

You will find everything in time.

What is that building over there, he gestured toward the faux-courthouse.

That’s a lounge, they said.

Charley continued on, unsure of whether he had received any information of value.  He spied a path that veered away from the city, headed toward the foothills of a mountain, cloaked with trees.  His earthly instincts propelled him down the path and he soon found marble walkway giving way to a well-trodden dirt trail as he slipped under tree cover.  Squirrels, rabbits, and deer tumbled through the forest, some intimidated by his presence, others nonplussed.  The deciduous trees were fully in bloom and the conifers were stocked with cones.

Along the trail he saw a cluster of rustic cabins.  He circled around the first cabin, noting its sturdiness.  Slyly, he peeped in a window for signs of inhabitation.  Though fully furnished, he saw no sign of life inside.  He circumnavigated the cabin again, looking in each window as he went.  He noted a plush bed with a stark white comforter, a wooden stool, a guitar in stand, and a stone fireplace from one vantage point.  From another, he spotted a padded chair and a full bookshelf, four shelves running almost corner to corner.

When he found himself back at the front of the cabin, he tried the door, gently depressing the tongue above the handle.  The inside latch lifted smoothly and the door drifted open.  He stepped inside, closing the door behind him.  He wandered from one end of the bookshelf to another.  It was filled with great literature from every culture, all in English.  The Holy Bible sat inconspicuously on the second shelf.

Out of curiosity, he sat on the bed.  Immediately, pangs of warmth ran through his body, compelling him to lie down.  Within minutes, he was fast asleep.

When he awoke, his wife, a beautiful brunette was running his fingers through his curly hair.

Ness, is it really you, he cried.

Yes, my dear.  I have waited for you so long.

My love, I’m so sorry for letting you die.

There was nothing you could do, my sweet one, it couldn’t have been helped.

But if only I had been there, maybe he would have taken me instead.

Hush, my dear.  Don’t fret, I have been at peace for a long time now.

Charley buried his face in his wife’s lap and wept.  She stroked his head and cuckood him as he sobbed.  Eventually he looked up and saw that love still lived in her eyes, and he knew that everything would be all right.

***

The morning following, Charley awoke with his wife in his arms for the first time in eighteen years.  For more than an hour, he lay satisfied with inhaling and catching the scent of her hair.  He resisted the urge to pull her tightly to him, for fear of waking her.

It was only when he moved to get up that he became cognizant of where he was.  He slowly slipped his arm out from under her and quietly slipped on his clothing, which was still crisp and clean.  He padded outside into the early morning dusk.  The air was damp and pungent, but pleasant nonetheless.  To his left, the trail in front of his cabin headed back to the civilization; to his right, the trail meandered through the forest toward the mountains.

Charley allowed himself to go right.  Songbirds warbled their good mornings back and forth as he strode beneath them.  The trees began to thin out and then gave way altogether.  The land cut off severely, plummeting into a sparkling lake.  On the other side of the lake, the mountains began in earnest, soaring upward to jagged, white peaks.  The sky behind the mountains gradually brightened until the sun peeked over the rocky apices.  The sun glowed menacingly red with traces of pink, and it seemed more three-dimensional and certainly larger than it did on Earth-almost as though it were scratching its back against the mountain peaks.  Relief flooded the valley and Charley inhaled.

He startled when a hand rested his shoulder.  Spinning back he saw his Ness, who was wiping sleep from her eyes with her free hand.  She smiled at him, her lower lip jutting slightly and her eyebrows raised as if she had just asked a question.

He smiled back, Ain’t this something?

It is, husband.  This is heaven.

I know, but this is my first morning: the sun, the mountains, the lake-look at that lake!  I’ve never seen such water.

You should take a swim.

I’d love to, but that must be hundreds of yards down; it would take all morning to get there.

Just dive in.

From here, I’d be crushed.

You won’t, you couldn’t be.

On your word?

On my word.

On her word, Charley took a running start and hurled himself off the edge of the cliff.  Arms and legs wheeled and kicked as he fell, but before impact he pulled them straight to lessen the impact.  With a whoosh, he sliced through the surface.  With a slight adjustment of his legs, he was able to arc himself back toward the surface.  With only a few strokes he was able to emerge to the surface.

Laughing uncontrollably from the adrenaline, he called up to the top of the cliff, How do I get back up there.

The answer echoed faintly, Climb.

So Charley climbed.  He was surprised by the deftness of his hands and the strength in his entire body.  His hands sought out small crevices and ridges, and he would effortlessly hoist himself up: sometimes by his arms and legs, sometimes by little more than his fingers.  Before the sun had fully risen, he found himself at the top of the cliff.  More surprisingly, his clothes and hair were immaculate.  So, he thought, this is heaven.

Just as Charley had begun to wonder about what to do next, Ness spoke up, We should go see your parents.  Guilt forced its way through Charley’s body, flushing out the endorphins from the free fall and subsequent climb.  What a terrible son, he thought, I hadn’t even thought of them.  As he hung his head despairing, Ness laid her hand on his back, It’s ok, things are still new.  He picked his head up and looked at her and was reassured.

Hand in hand, they walked the trail toward civilization.  As soon as they exited the woods, they veered sharply right and crossed a grassy field toward a wood and brick lodge.  The grass grew variably, some of it as high as Charley’s shin, other of it didn’t clear the top of his shoe.  Looking behind him, Charley saw that he and Ness had left no kind of trail.

The lower half of the lodge was bright, red brick and smooth, gray mortar.  Neither had any pocks or other signs of weathering.  The upper half was plankwood, painted a fresh cream color.  The building, about as wide as three men laying head to toe, was accented by dark oak beams running from brick to roof at the corners and once per side.

The oak door swung inward gracefully, and Charley paused at the sight of his mother and father sharing a booth over two cups of coffee.  They looked as young as he remembered them in his mind-from when he was a young boy and his father was as vigorous and his mother was feisty.  His father had short, pointy hair that refused to be tamed, even in heaven-brown with a sprinkling of gray.  His father’s face was much like his own: hawkish nose, pointed chin, wide set eyes.  He was as trim and lean as ever, dressed identically to Charley.  His mother had a head full of irrepressible brunette springs.  Her round face and button nose gave her a girlish quality.  But her naturally thin lips gave her an air of severity, especially when disappointed by some misbehavior from her only boy.  However, when she looked up to Charley, her lips gave way to her broad, toothy smile.  She sprang to her feet, hair bouncing wildly as she threw her arms around him.  His father rose slowly, trying to mask his excitement as he drew near and put his arm around his son.

While his mother rubbed and doted, his father looked on proudly.  They finally all sat down at the table, a lacquered oaken number.  As they settled, a handsome man set a plate in front of each of them, each with modest portions of bacon, eggs, toast, hash, and fruit.

Before digging in, Charley mused that eating was probably not necessary.

His mother interjected, Now there, Charley.  You know a good meal nourishes more than just the body.  Though the body no longer needs it, that does not mean it’s pointless to eat.

He felt like a teenager as he nodded mutely, then shoved a forkful of hash into his mouth.  Crisp and savory.  The bacon, crisper and smoky.  Eggs, moist and buttery.  Toast, crisp and fluffy.  Fruit, fresh and moist.  Though he had not been hungry, he felt sated.

Let us walk into town, said Mother.

The family agreed and walked as a unit.  Though the sun did not oppress, the family made use of the shade from the leafy, street-lining trees.  Walkways joined and split from the path chosen by the family, as a river sheds and regains tributaries, more frequently as they neared civilization.  Soon, people were milling by them in all directions.

For an instant, Charley started as he spotted a familiar pair of dark, brooding eyes in the crowd.  He stood still as he scanned the crowd trying to find them again, but did so to no avail.

What is it, Ness murmured in his ear.

It was nothing at all.

His father secured an empty bench and beckoned to the rest.  Charley’s mother sat beneath his father’s resting arm.  Then Ness.  Then Charley on the end, intently scanning the crowd.  Ness and his mother gabbed, the ebb and flow of conversation slowly gaining momentum until words babbled out of the lips in a ferocious rush.  Charley listened to the rhythms of speech without hearing words.  Silence grabbed a foothold and all eyes went to Charley.

Mother spoke slowly, a clear indication that she was repeating something she had just said, Charley, would you like to see the rest of the family.

Sure thing, Mother.

The family rose together and headed through the heart of the city.  A few children tossed a ball back and forth, every three or four throws running backward a few paces until they had to coil their bodies and whip the ball with all of their strength to get it across the vast space between them.  A stocky blonde overthrew his companions and the ball caught a marble walkway that escorted it fifty yards before depositing it in front of a marble spire.  As Charley passed, he squatted to pick up the ball.  He planted his feet, coiled his hips, and let his arm be flung by the torque.  The ball sailed through the blue sky, true, finding its way to one of the smaller boys, who gave Charley a meek smile and a short wave before turning back to the game.

That was a nice toss, Charley, his wife cooed.

He always was a fine ball-player, Father asserted.

Charley craned his neck to see the top of the spire.  Due to its continuous-but slight-tapering, from its base, it seemed to disappear into the sky.  Charley could touch two corners by spreading his arms wide.  He pressed his face against the cool, smooth marble.

Father raised his ropy forearm slowly and extended a stubby finger.  He pointed at another courthouse-type building, once again marble gilded with gold, about a quarter of a mile away.  That is our destination, he said.  Shall we race.

Charley began sprinting without giving warning.  Father reacted instantly, furiously pumping his arms and legs.  Charley soon found his stride and felt himself slicing through the air effortlessly, slowly putting distance between him and his father, whose legs were wind-milling frantically.  Charley began to revel in the feel of a body in motion, functioning perfectly and efficiently, when he was nudged from the walkway by a giggling Ness.  By the time he recovered, Ness was bent over on the front steps, doubled with laughter.  She laughed so heartily that he could not help but join in.  Soon Father and Mother were afflicted, and the whole party laughed together.

They pushed through the door, still winded from laughter, and came upon an entire mass of people.

This many, Charley asked.

Yes, back many generations.

The men, handsome and straight, walked about from person to person, each paying or receiving deference from a family member.  A small nod or a blink, enough to signify the respect from one generation to another.

A man walked up to Charley that could have been Father’s doppelganger.  The same unruly hair, but somewhat squatter in stature.

Grandfather, Charley mumbled.

Hello, child, Grandfather tendered.

They embraced, and Charley saw his grandmother standing behind, gracefully waiting for her moment.  A hearty Welshwoman she, they embraced tightly while she ran her meaty fingers through his curls.

From some corner, tones from a guitar flew through the room.  The acoustics of the room added resonance to the tone.  Soon, a few people began singing, then most of the room joined.  The laughter and singing continued late into the night, when finally Charley and Ness slipped out so that they could lay together once again.

Reunited

Let us walk into town, said Mother.

The family agreed and walked as a unit.  Though the sun did not oppress, the family made use of the shade from the leafy, street-lining trees.  Walkways joined and split from the path chosen by the family, as a river sheds and regains tributaries, more frequently as they neared civilization.  Soon, people were milling by them in all directions.

For an instant, Charley started as he spotted a familiar pair of dark, brooding eyes in the crowd.  He stood still as he scanned the crowd trying to find them again, but did so to no avail.

What is it, Clytie murmured in his ear.

It was nothing at all.

His father secured an empty bench and beckoned to the rest.  Charley’s mother sat beneath his father’s resting arm.  Then Clytie.  Then Charley on the end, intently scanning the crowd.  Clytie and his mother gabbed, the ebb and flow of conversation slowly gaining momentum until words babbled out of the lips in a ferocious rush.  Charley listened to the rhythms of speech without hearing words.  Silence grabbed a foothold and all eyes went to Charley.

Mother spoke slowly, a clear indication that she was repeating something she had just said, Charley, would you like to see the rest of the family.

Sure thing, Mother.

The family rose together and headed through the heart of the city.  A few children tossed a ball back and forth, every three or four throws running backward a few paces until they had to coil their bodies and whip the ball with all of their strength to get it across the vast space between them.  A stocky blonde overthrew his companions and the ball caught a marble walkway that escorted it fifty yards before depositing it in front of a marble spire.  As Charley passed, he squatted to pick up the ball.  He planted his feet, coiled his hips, and let his arm be flung by the torque.  The ball sailed through the blue sky, true, finding its way to one of the smaller boys, who gave Charley a meek smile and a short wave before turning back to the game.

That was a nice toss, Charley, his wife cooed.

He always was a fine ball-player, Father asserted.

Charley craned his neck to see the top of the spire.  Due to its continuous-but slight-tapering, from its base, it seemed to disappear into the sky.  Charley could touch two corners by spreading his arms wide.  He pressed his face against the cool, smooth marble.

Father raised his ropy forearm slowly and extended a stubby finger.  He pointed at another courthouse-type building, once again marble gilded with gold, about a quarter of a mile away.  That is our destination, he said.  Shall we race.

Charley began sprinting without giving warning.  Father reacted instantly, furiously pumping his arms and legs.  Charley soon found his stride and felt himself slicing through the air effortlessly, slowly putting distance between him and his father, whose legs were wind-milling frantically.  Charley began to revel in the feel of a body in motion, functioning perfectly and efficiently, when he was nudged from the walkway by a giggling Clytie.  By the time he recovered, Clytie was bent over on the front steps, doubled with laughter.  She laughed so heartily that he could not help but join in.  Soon Father and Mother were afflicted, and the whole party laughed together.

They pushed through the door, still winded from laughter, and came upon an entire mass of people.

This many, Charley asked.

Yes, back many generations.

The men, handsome and straight, walked about from person to person, each paying or receiving deference from a family member.  A small nod or a blink, enough to signify the respect from one generation to another.

A man walked up to Charley that could have been Father’s doppelganger.  The same unruly hair, but somewhat squatter in stature.

Grandfather, Charley mumbled.

Hello, child, Grandfather tendered.

They embraced, and Charley saw his grandmother standing behind, gracefully waiting for her moment.  A hearty Welshwoman she, they embraced tightly while she ran her meaty fingers through his curls.

From some corner, tones from a guitar flew through the room.  The acoustics of the room added resonance to the tone.  Soon, a few people began singing, then most of the room joined.  The laughter and singing continued late into the night, when finally Charley and Clytie slipped out so that they could lay together once again.

First Breakfast

The morning following, Charley awoke with his wife in his arms for the first time in eighteen years.  For more than an hour, he lay satisfied with inhaling and catching the scent of her hair.  He resisted the urge to pull her tightly to him, for fear of waking her.

It was only when he moved to get up that he became cognizant of where he was.  He slowly slipped his arm out from under her and quietly slipped on his clothing, which was still crisp and clean.  He padded outside into the early morning dusk.  The air was damp and pungent, but pleasant nonetheless.  To his left, the trail in front of his cabin headed back to the civilization; to his right, the trail meandered through the forest toward the mountains.

Charley allowed himself to go right.  Songbirds warbled their good mornings back and forth as he strode beneath them.  The trees began to thin out and then gave way altogether.  The land cut off severely, plummeting into a sparkling lake.  On the other side of the lake, the mountains began in earnest, soaring upward to jagged, white peaks.  The sky behind the mountains gradually brightened until the sun peeked over the rocky apices.  The sun glowed menacingly red with traces of pink, and it seemed more three-dimensional and certainly larger than it did on Earth-almost as though it were scratching its back against the mountain peaks.  Relief flooded the valley and Charley inhaled.

He startled when a hand rested his shoulder.  Spinning back he saw his Clytie, who was wiping sleep from her eyes with her free hand.  She smiled at him, her lower lip jutting slightly and her eyebrows raised as if she had just asked a question.

He smiled back, Ain’t this something?

It is, husband.  This is heaven.

I know, but this is my first morning: the sun, the mountains, the lake-look at that lake!  I’ve never seen such water.

You should take a swim.

I’d love to, but that must be hundreds of yards down; it would take all morning to get there.

Just dive in.

From here, I’d be crushed.

You won’t, you couldn’t be.

On your word?

On my word.

On her word, Charley took a running start and hurled himself off the edge of the cliff.  Arms and legs wheeled and kicked as he fell, but before impact he pulled them straight to lessen the impact.  With a whoosh, he sliced through the surface.  With a slight adjustment of his legs, he was able to arc himself back toward the surface.  With only a few strokes he was able to emerge to the surface.

Laughing uncontrollably from the adrenaline, he called up to the top of the cliff, How do I get back up there.

The answer echoed faintly, Climb.

So Charley climbed.  He was surprised by the deftness of his hands and the strength in his entire body.  His hands sought out small crevices and ridges, and he would effortlessly hoist himself up: sometimes by his arms and legs, sometimes by little more than his fingers.  Before the sun had fully risen, he found himself at the top of the cliff.  More surprisingly, his clothes and hair were immaculate.  So, he thought, this is heaven.

Just as Charley had begun to wonder about what to do next, Clytie spoke up, We should go see your parents.  Guilt forced its way through Charley’s body, flushing out the endorphins from the free fall and subsequent climb.  What a terrible son, he thought, I hadn’t even thought of them.  As he hung his head despairing, Clytie laid her hand on his back, It’s ok, things are still new.  He picked his head up and looked at her and was reassured.

Hand in hand, they walked the trail toward civilization.  As soon as they exited the woods, they veered sharply right and crossed a grassy field toward a wood and brick lodge.  The grass grew variably, some of it as high as Charley’s shin, other of it didn’t clear the top of his shoe.  Looking behind him, Charley saw that he and Clytie had left no kind of trail.

The lower half of the lodge was bright, red brick and smooth, gray mortar.  Neither had any pocks or other signs of weathering.  The upper half was plankwood, painted a fresh cream color.  The building, about as wide as three men laying head to toe, was accented by dark oak beams running from brick to roof at the corners and once per side.

The oak door swung inward gracefully, and Charley paused at the sight of his mother and father sharing a booth over two cups of coffee.  They looked as young as he remembered them in his mind-from when he was a young boy and his father was as vigorous and his mother was feisty.  His father had short, pointy hair that refused to be tamed, even in heaven-brown with a sprinkling of gray.  His father’s face was much like his own: hawkish nose, pointed chin, wide set eyes.  He was as trim and lean as ever, dressed identically to Charley.  His mother had a head full of irrepressible brunette springs.  Her round face and button nose gave her a girlish quality.  But her naturally thin lips gave her an air of severity, especially when disappointed by some misbehavior from her only boy.  However, when she looked up to Charley, her lips gave way to her broad, toothy smile.  She sprang to her feet, hair bouncing wildly as she threw her arms around him.  His father rose slowly, trying to mask his excitement as he drew near and put his arm around his son.

While his mother rubbed and doted, his father looked on proudly.  They finally all sat down at the table, a lacquered oaken number.  As they settled, a handsome man set a plate in front of each of them, each with modest portions of bacon, eggs, toast, hash, and fruit.

Before digging in, Charley mused that eating was probably not necessary.

His mother interjected, Now there, Charley.  You know a good meal nourishes more than just the body.  Though the body no longer needs it, that does not mean it’s pointless to eat.

He felt like a teenager as he nodded mutely, then shoved a forkful of hash into his mouth.  Crisp and savory.  The bacon, crisper and smoky.  Eggs, moist and buttery.  Toast, crisp and fluffy.  Fruit, fresh and moist.  Though he had not been hungry, he felt sated.