Fiction

Sitting in his study with his nose in a dense chapter of a massive book, which detailed the Haitian slave revolt and how many white people they killed to earn the right to live, up the spiraling staircase that had ribs like a snake’s; soaking in the peach complexioned walls' warm glow, Clovis caught the smell of his wife in a draft coming through his door. It was windy outside so her scent caught a hold of the invisible waves coming through the windows and went about the house swimming. He had become used to her scent (that is, the scent which came crawling under the cracks of her cavern); a medley of hand sanitizer and bleach which sat heavily in the air and could make the head throb if inhaled too deeply. For years she had been growing stale, hidden from the sun, finding depression and insanity in her shadowy silence.

Their relationship was a rusty foreign object that had the effect of hollow nostalgia, but other than that was derived from no real desire or love. Whether Clovis knew it or not, he played a hand in the destruction of his wife’s spirit, which was a delicate flower left dry and untouched; Clovis was unconcerned as the wires in her brain criss-crossed, tangled, and left her afraid of the world. She had morphed, over the course of ten years, from a quiet and nervous girl into an agoraphobic germaphobe frozen in fear by sidewalks that winded blindly and streets with metal death traps and people with all of their pockets and the hidden evils within them.

The shaking-anxious hypotheticals beat her to a pulp. She couldn’t leave her room. She stopped seeing Clovis, though it pained her to lose her only friend, as she was afraid of his skin and his clothes, which were contaminated by the world. She slept all day, and Clovis brought food to her room in the morning and at night. This was when they saw each other, if only briefly through the open crack of the door. They didn’t speak to each other. She had the crushing impression that she had broken her husband with her own dysfunctionality, that his reserved detachment was a product of her rejection of him, and that she had become nothing but a burden. Her self hatred pulled her deeper into her isolation and took away her tongue. She felt she had troubled him plenty, and found solace in the fact that he had not divorced her after all this time.

Yet Clovis stayed, even though she was disgusted with herself. This fact forged in her mind an abstract and false image of Clovis; rich, opaque and glowing glass and that had a saintly radiance, which was warm and wholly wasted in her presence; dim and lame as her spirit had become.

In reality, the detachment and lack of care Clovis expressed for his sick wife came from utter lack of interest. He had married his wife because she asked him too, and because it stopped people from talking about him like he was gay, which he detested. He didn’t have a problem with her; she was a nice agreeable girl who was quiet and never embarrassed him too much, and she wasn’t a slut like all the other girls in his town. She fell head over heels for him while he fed her shallow love that only served to preserve his image: that of a normal man. Once her father died, a year after they married, she received a large trust with enough money to sustain them for a thousand years, and the deal was sealed. With the money they had purchased a house , where he found a job that satisfied his desire to pass judgement and began to covet the expecting eyes of students.

His relationships reflected his lack of care, and exposed his natural essence; one of jealousy, frustration, and self absorption. He derived no pleasure from talking with people, except when the details of the conversation revealed that he occupied a more prestigious place in the universe. Little findings, like Professor Thornton’s infertility or the Chancellor's diabetes diagnosis, brought him a sense of ease and serenity. News of a peer’s promotion or some dollop of fortune unexpectedly dropped in one’s drink simply pissed him off. Other’s pleasure was his rage and resentment, as he lacked the faintest idea of how to have any fun and life, and found legitimate enjoyment only in the collection and memorization of dates, historical figures, and all the intellectual weaponry which he pulled from the leatherbound books that lined his shelves. He learned not out of genuine curiosity or a love for the exploration of the past, but so he could lord his knowledge above those who didn’t have it, and soak in the sweetness of a perceived intellectual distance. In most environments he stuck out as a pretentious asshole, but in the great gothic towers where he spent his days, his academic zealousness and stoic nature made him a respected (although unapproachable) individual. Many believed him to be a near genius, as he was knowledgeable to the point of absurdity, and his students' scores reflected a great capacity to teach. So Clovis rested comfortably among the other professors, some of whom carried the same pretentious aura as he, and never found much conflict except in the violently pathetic rage that filled his bones from time to time and persisted in eroding his frame with its caustic presence.

The man had no relationships of intrinsic value, and he did not desire them. He felt his lack of companions was no hole in his soul, but a sign of his maturity and seriousness. Clovis believed this to be the jewel of his being. Ever since he was a young boy in elementary school, Clovis came to the conclusion that the social habits and joys of people were not for him, that they were, in fact, wholly undesirable, and that he was uninterested in what people call fun. The only thing that aroused within him an emotion comparable to joy was the feeling of victory and domination. In winning imaginary self conceived battles of moral character and stature, in making more money than the rest, in rewarding the deserving, in punishing the stupid; these were the moments when he felt glad to be alive.

Clovis sat in his study, with the low hanging face of his thick mahogany chair under his desk holding him tightly tucked in the space, and decided he would like to sip something. He went downstairs, past his wifes lonely room which swelled with the toxic smell, and made some tea. He went back upstairs and continued reading. He was still reading about the Haitian revolution, and had come to the conclusion, where the Haitians killed their captors but ended up not knowing what to do with their new found freedom. Slaves aren’t fit for governance. Too many illiterates. How the hell did the French lose!

The light outside, which had once been sweet and warm, became sick as it emanated a graphite glow. The ripples and borders of the clouds found each other and tightly covered the sky, a slew of grey blankets sewn together and stacked like smoke, so that it felt like the earth might suffocate in the space between. His house sat lonely, isolated on a plot of land on the outskirts of the city of Oxford. The location was picked out by his wife, who wanted to distance herself from the city while maintaining the opportunity to venture out and overcome the fear, which controlled her even then (though ten years later, the fear had found victory, and the city had become a hellscape). Their home was out of reach from the honks of the automobile, the cacophony of Friday night get-togethers, the stumbling steps of the blasted, and he was grateful for silence. Never one to leave his house in search of new experiences and entertainment, he had nothing to gain there, and the “fun” of it all would only serve to hurt his quality of sleep. The silence was not enjoyable in itself, as is a piece of pie or a kiss, but was unnervingly neutral, like a void of consciousness or a tree’s sense of humor. Looking out at the city, on this cold cloudy night, the only thought that pulled any excitement from his withered boring heart was the approaching school year. In only a few days kids of old and new would come flooding into the university. Some of them would be smart, some stupid, some serious, some foolish, and he would judge them all, and they would feel his judgement very strongly, and some would crave it, and most would hate him, but above all, he would try his hardest to be the filter between them and the world, and he was a very fine filter indeed. He moved to the window sill and watched out over the shadowy plains, stretching out into the horizon like a shapeless form, and breathed in the fresh air. He didn’t even realize how strong the smell of bleach had become until his nostrils left what had become a chemical rich trap, and he could feel the burn caressed by the soft air of the sky. He had many thoughts about what to do with his wife. While he did not mind feeding her in the day and sharing the house with her, those chemical smells could really get on his nerves. Often he would burn incense in his room or study to fight the stench, but the powerful odor of bleach never ceased to overpower it. It dominated the house with a fiery presence of sulphur rising from the cracks in the deepest crevices of hell, filling the lungs of wiry red demons and their evil circuits. Yet he could do nothing as the money and the house were tied up in her family, and they had taken great lengths to ensure that he would not be able to make off with too much of it (unless, of course, she died, though he was too nervous to go so far). To him, the pain of the smell was plenty of payment for his life, which he could not maintain without his wife, and so he continued to make her meals and allowed her to buy bleach from amazon, which came twice a week in a large plastic barrel. So Clovis leaned out into space, letting the cold air cleanse his nose, while he imagined the dark and sleeping giant of Oxford, bustling with new students lost in its ancient corridors. He relished the first day of school, marked by the seizure of sixty students and the tying of invisible chains to their destiny. Then he felt his penis stub painfully against the wall below the windowsill, and realized he had an erection.

A man lonely as dawn whistles and walks. His black hat is merely a shadow under the full moon. He is going somewhere, or perhaps going nowhere, but there is no hurry in his stroll; time follows his agenda. He is a modest man, with enough to be comfortable but nothing more. A kind heart beats soundly above blackened lungs, in tune with the slight thumping of midnight footsteps.

This particular evening the man chooses a different path to walk, replacing bright city streets with a sleeping neighborhood. His whistles echo throughout the road, cling to the dark night air, and nestle under the soft hue of dim streetlamps. Maybe it is the way the moon illuminates houses in slumber that make him walk this way. Or maybe it is quicker. The streets here are wider and calmer, and at night when the quiet people sleep, they act as a rather nice place to go for a stroll. And that is precisely what the man does.

It isn’t until five or six blocks into his stroll that the man begins to notice no difference in the houses. Each one has slightly different coloring but all the windows, doors, and grass are the same. Cookie cutter houses, he thinks. On the eighth block, tucked away in the middle, lies a home that doesn’t follow the rules. It is old and cozy with a stone fountain and a garden. A small picket sign stands near the fountain, acting as a road sign giving directions. The man draws near and quiets his whistling. He bends over to read the wooden marker; “Ladybug Garden.” How odd. “Fairy Garden” and “Butterfly Garden” the man has heard of. But never has he seen one filled with those squirmy little round bugs with too many legs and too much red. The man doesn’t care much for insects, so he stands up, cracks his back, resumes the tune he was whistling, and walks away.

On the tenth block, the man begins to tire. He sits straight down in the middle of the road and tucks his legs under his arms. He gazes at the houses on either side of the street and chuckles; perhaps the people sleeping inside are cookie cutter people, like gingerbread humans in gingerbread homes. He shakes his head and shifts as he feels a pebble poke his underside. He feels around and grabs hold of the nuisance. Arm outstretched, pebble in hand, the man is just about ready to throw the small rock to the side of the road when he notices a delicate string dangling from his closed fist. He brings his fist close to his face and opens the aging palm. In the center of his open hand rests a silver chain. On it, a small, red ladybug. He holds up the necklace in wonder. There are four black dots on each side, and the chain is slightly discolored. Whichever child had once owned this pendant might be devastated by its loss. Or maybe they do not yet know it is gone. He stares at his palm and lets his thoughts develop. They probably all know each other, he thinks; it won’t matter which house the necklace is returned to. He stretches out his legs and stands. House number 1023 has a porch light on. Better a place than any to place the necklace. At least here it won’t get lost again. The man hangs the small necklace over the door handle and heads back down the street. His feet hurt and it is time to go home.

Back on the eighth block, the man passes the ladybug garden. Here he stops again to take in the house; red brick and a tile roof, a garden walkway and a porch swing. The neighboring house stands taller and tanner. There is no porch swing and the lawn is clean-cut. Not a single flower or picket sign lives in this yard. He looks back over at the ladybug house. Perhaps the people living here are different from their neighbors and do not get along. Perhaps they are different from all of the neighbors, even the ones on other streets. The man turns back towards the way he has just come from, towards the tenth block. Hanging from the door handle of house 1023 is the ladybug necklace with a silver chain. He reaches out to grab it and delicately places it in the pocket of his dress pants. He strolls to the ladybug garden once more. There, he hangs the necklace on the small picket sign. He turns and heads down the street, towards blocks six and five, four and three, two and one. He leaves the silent neighborhood and walks along a brighter road that leads to his cookie cutter apartment. His hat is tilted slightly, and he whistles while he walks, content with the company of the moon.

Tim Dawson is the type of man to tell the same stories to everyone he met. It isn’t on purpose, necessarily, but he had a few favorites. So he tells the waiter at the cafe about the trout he caught in ‘87, tells his grandson the one about the moose he saw last year. He tells stories of his students from when he was a history teacher and goes into just as much detail about each of the rocks he’s found over his lifetime.

He speaks loudly, the crows feet wrinkles around his eyes growing more intense with each boisterous laugh as he jokes with his grandkids. The smile lines by his mouth grow much quicker, though, from the forced smiles that he makes when people tell him that he’s talking too much, the ones that never quite reach his eyes. People call him an otter, from the comfort and kindness that he radiates as well as the way he carries his favorite rocks in his pocket to show anyone who might be interested.

Recently he’s been forgetting those stones, though, leaving the house with empty pockets and tired eyes, the stories he’s grown so used to telling being lost over the years. The garden he spends days in, watering and cultivating has become dryer and grayer as he forgets exactly which plants need what. He feels his mind slipping, and his family hears him tell the same stories not every few days to a new person, but every few minutes instead. He loses the memory of that awful rhubarb pie recipe, but nobody says anything when they realize he’s suddenly started putting sugar in it. At least now it’s edible, they think, even if it’s no longer the recipe they’ve all grown used to.

The shimmer of day and night leaked into my bedroom. The sun saying “good morning”, the moon saying “good night”. It brought warmth to my plants, and I bathed in it’s glow. It hides behind the mountains at the end of day, so the moon gets a chance to give the earth its glow. Morning feels like a cozy blanket and a warm mug on your palms as you sit by the fireplace. It sounds like the crackling of the burning wood. It smells like autumn leaves and petrichor. Night feels endless. It tastes like the first sip of water after a month without it. The night is there for the same amount of time as the sun, and yet we want more of it. It brings us sleep, so we savor it, but the second the sun gives us the first drop of its glow, we want to take it away and can’t wait until we can fall back asleep. The sun's glow: we underappreciated it, the nights shine: we hunger for it. The earth is busy during the day. The shadow it casts on my bedroom floor is strong and demanding. When the sun shines, it gives people a sense of urgency. Cars zip past my house in a hurry, the sounds of motors in the background. The earth is calmer at night. Less cars, less noise, less people, less urgency. It’s quiet. The shadow it casts on my bedroom floor is weak but gives a strong presence. The sun gives me a spotlight to dance under, while the moon gives me a sense of wonder. I walk through my house multiple times a day and know its model like the back of my hand, but when the darkness gets me, I get lost in a familiar place.