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This is a crot piece that I have been working on for some time. It contains three different perspectives: A friend, A husband, and a dying wife. I hope you enjoy it.

Golden leaves paint the world a dirty autumn over my childhood schoolyard.  I was always a maid, never a queen, though I know that I had the potential of at least a duchess.  I sit on the swing bronco, legs spread.  Slightly rocking, I pretend I’m not getting any pleasure.  The twins sit on their swings like they did when they were proper children, looking away from anything that might hold their reflection.  I lip a cigarette and my insides smile about my vandalism. 

 

The hospital bed in the middle of the living room replaced the coffee table they had gotten from their wedding shower.  Dave eyed the Chinese jade urn dazzled with gold trimming and thought how wonderful smoking really was.  He fingered through old pictures he would give to the girls for the collage.  He could hear her labored breathing from the living room but knew it wasn’t her last one just yet.

 

Brilliant gold and green Chinese script danced in her vision.  She heard them calling her home.  She was tired but pleased that the angels around her were using a quiet tone.  She wondered if they were talking about how dirty her nightgown was because those angels like to gossip.  She smiled as her eyes were sinking to sleep because now she knew that God was gold green and Chinese.

 

I can tell Laura gained weight under her t-shirt by the way she is hunching herself over the swing.  Danielle says nothing and stares under the slide where she used to let that boy who moved to New York look up her dress and every time she let him look she felt like the prettiest of all the little women.  I thought of how I haven’t heard them laugh in a long time and soon remembered how scandal scars stains and lipstick have a way of silencing people after a while.  Laura asks me what she is going to do when it happens for real and I as usual have nothing to say.

 

He remembered the day he first touched her forehead.  It had the life of a Hampton marsh at the service of a gold pink purple and vicious red horizon.  The faint lines engraved on her forehead deepened over the years, but sometimes he thought of how they could have been a prophecy of slammed doors misplaced books crusted stovetops four husbands plastic curtains Carlton Lights corner-store eyeglasses unlucky scratch tickets itchy sweaters and all of her Uncle Bobby’s. 

 

In and out, open and shut.  Her eyes wouldn’t listen so she just punished various buttons for morphine.  She knew it wasn’t the fault of the morphine, as she herself began her slow death forty-five years ago with a deep inhale and an exhale that made her feel like Bardot.  She wondered if God was full-blooded Chinese, as she was worried her mother might have offended him deeply at their first meeting.  She tried not to worry about it too much and decided to kill her little time by figuring out how many Uncle Bobby’s she really had. 

 

My cigarette is nearing the filter and I hold my pose because it is when I feel the prettiest.  I mechanically ask how they are doing for the sixty-fourth time and I receive more pressed-lip surrenders.  The wind blows my dry black hair into my wet mouth, reminding me that I am not a machine.  We talk of b*****s, cousins, and the woes of swallowing and speed f*****g, high school, side ponytails, anything and everything but cancer, mothers, or Danielle’s track marks.

 

He held the picture of his dearest on the day of his sister’s wedding.  It was before her hair turned that strange strawberry gray and long before prophecy was carved into her brow.  Her lips pulsed scarlet, rapids of blood moving the life beneath them.  Rhinestones adorned her black gown and evening gloves and her short black hair radiated something of a calm deep dusk.  He thought of how her youthful elegance remained in her face, reminding him that she was a true daughter of Sicily.

 

She dreamed of the twins sharing a single snake body.  They still had their wild black hair but their eyes took on the ferocity of a cobra.  She was standing upon a lonely dock over a serene lake when the faintest ripple caught her dreaming eye.  The snake-twins slithered on water towards her, dragging a pack of Carlton’s tied to their shared tail.  She closed her eyes only to have them wrap around her neck and slowly chew on her ears.  There was a tingling she enjoyed all too much.  When she tried to praise them for her sweet deafening state a single stream of blood and smoke poured from her mouth, splashing on her rigid toes.

 

We were walking through the damp summer air, slightly chilled by the rain.  Laura had been bitching about the bugs.  The house is making itself known every step we take and I am swallowing every jab in my throat.  The wet green trees loom, pitying anyone who has to face life.  The ramp Dave had built for her is endless in how many ways it twists your f*****g guts.  Soaked and useless, every step I take it creaks with the pain of five generations.  I tell the girls I will wait outside, that I have had my goodbye.  The girls nod silently and walk into the living room, kneeling by the intruding hospital bed.  I pretend that I can see peace in her face, but I am only looking through the screen door. 

 

Dave held her hand the way he did at his father’s funeral.  Her breathing was reduced to little gasps, her hand clutching in rhythm with her dying breaths.  He thought of when he divorced her sister how many times they made love in their new den with no furniture.  His tears distorted his vision for the better; Her face no longer carved with wrinkles but was as creamy as the day he first kissed her cheek.  He remembered how he would lay awake at night to worship the small of her naked back.  He closed his eyes with her hand in his.  He yearned for her back, his Lena, missing her so much that he forgot the color of her eyes.

 

She was awake now, never put much stock into dreams.  She could hear the script calling her closer, Chinese God.  Everything seemed to be dimming, blackening each moment.  She saw the twins.  She did not know if she was really talking, probably not.  I forgive you for everything.  I do not regret taking you both in for a minute.  I hope you get married and have children.  I hope you love them with everything you have.  Take care of Papa, but let him think he is in charge.  Don’t drink too much.  You both have enough tattoos; do not get one for me.  Watch your cousins.  Try reaching out to your birth mother.  I hope you will love your lives.  Remember to pray every night.  She saw Dave in her vision.  Her Dave.  Remember the nights we stayed up when my sister went to sleep.  Remember Hampton Beach and the love we made by the marsh.  Remember all the love we made.  Take care of the girls, you’re in charge.  Be nice to Chinese people.  Remember our wedding and the whispers that we laughed off.  Remember our fights.  Remember to be patient with the girls; again, keep a close eye on them.  Remember my prettier days.  Remember our life, remember our love, remember my brown eyes, and remember the time you first touched my forehead.

 

Her world went black; she smiled at her fading.  She was thinking of tulips in May, Christmas mornings, five-cent soda-pop, soft sand, St. Joseph’s choir, plastic placemats, wooden dance floors, old dogs, weddings, births, miscarriages, four husbands, rosary beads, hopscotch, and every last one of her Uncle Bobby’s. 

Author's Note

It needs work. I am submitting this to some journals fairly soon so any feedback you have would be wonderful. Thank you!

Reviews

[Sean]

if you're going to submit it for publication, you should just make sure you're happy with it. As long as you've said all that needs to be said, it'll be fine. Good luck.

[.]

This was an interesting story. It was fun to read. You have very nice descriptions that kept me engaged with in the story. Created very nice images. None of them seemed old or over used. The story seems to be a nice framework for the three perspectives that you've created. The only thing is, there isn't much of a story here. You did a nice job with the three characters, but isn't much unity to the three. One question I wondered was why did you pick these people for the perspectives. Currently, it doesn't seem to matter who you pick. You could have a husband, ex husband, grandmother, it doesn't really matter who you have. So there needs to be a sense of importance to why you have picked these characters and these perspectives. What will help with that is creating more of a story out of what you have here. That will also give your story an impact. The story as a whole reminded me a little of "As I Lay Dying". Overall a really neat story, and a good framework for the perspectives. I'd just like to see these different people and their point of views brought together with a story. Fun read.

[Wildecat]

This really touched me, a wonderful story, a definite pleasure to read, now to wipe the tears from my eyes.

[Elzereth]

An amazing story! So emotional with a bittersweet ending. You did a wonderful job and I look forward to seeing more of your work. I love your descriptiveness.

"Golden leaves paint the world a dirty autumn over my childhood schoolyard."
This was the line that stood out for me the most.
Welcome to the Cafe! :)