XXXXIX.
He sits alone. Only colors. Companions. Observations compounded by meaning. Lack of clarity.
Vines creep up the wall. Buds open. Pink petals unsheathe from the heart of foliage.
Who accounts for them? What attention is needed? Erase the clouds. The buildings. Clean water. Reduce everything to inclusive bits of memories. What is left? What remains intact? What can withstand complete destruction?
There is a time before his birth. A time before anyone. Who was there to claim the sand? Who was there to feel the ocean rush between toes.
Ocean recedes into itself. It breaths its own exhalations. For how long?
Pegs number the days. Brackets rest on his knuckles. He counts them with suns. The exchange of moons. Wrinkles crease the beginning of a year.
Is water eternal? What is meant to last beyond existence?
His stores and supplies. Vague hope of Goodness. Built on the foundation of skeletons. Liquid bursts through pores. Erupts through cob-webbed cavities. Plummets down an endless spire. Across the shelf of space. A tiny discharge swallowed whole by the throat of blackness.
XXXXX.
He meets a person. Knows them for years. Then never sees them again. There is more than one way to die. These things happen.
***
Outside Miss Sally's bedroom. His feet adjust. The floor creaks. He pushes the door. Gentle open. A vertical wing.
Miss Sally asleep. Wheezing. Her dreams. Nocturnal sludge that drowns her breath. She rolls over. Throws off a sheet. Some internal mechanism adjusts her body without consent.
It is cold. Sleet glued to panels of the house. On the floor. He crosses his legs.
An hour passes.
Miss Sally coughs. Lurches up. Coughs again. Inhales loudly.
"Are you alright?" he says.
"I'm fine," she says. "It's only the weather. Get back to bed." He fills her glass of water. He leaves the door open.
He crouches on the stairs. He listens to her cough. The sound clipped short. Her hands thrown over her mouth. Muffled thumps. Later, he barely hears her whisper
"Why did you leave...why did you leave me..."
XXXXXI.
He holds Madeline's hand. She bobs with excitement.
Pole and tackle in his left. Hooks. Weights the size of pebbles. Red floaters. Worms. Bread. All the necessities.
"Do you have the knife?"
"Do you think we'll really catch something?" Madeline says. "It's not too cold?"
"We'll catch a fish."
Dirt path. Trees pass their sides. Wind shifts their coats. Madeline moves closer. Water flows ahead. An opening stream. The secluded section of city. Enclosed by walls of green. The water. A stream of letters on a white page. Shining. Moving forward.
"I can taste the water just by looking," she says. He sets the box on the ground. Opens the latch. Dresses the rod. Ties off the hook. Hooks a worm through the belly.
"How long do you think it'll take?"
"Step back."
He casts out line. A plop in the water. Madeline kneels on a rock. Her eyes intent on the surface.
YOU ARE READING
The Nameless Man
Short StoryAfter stumbling into a small village, a man finds it hard to leave when he encounters a woman and her daughter. As their intimacy grows over the years, it becomes clear that he'll have to choose who's heart to break or leave forever. In his quiet mo...
