This is Her

A Story by Anormaldog

A short story about interior moments that will never end.

His eyes closed, letting the shallow tears go down his sunk in cheeks. Inside, bits of leftover meat kissed the cavity, as if the rooster they had sprung from would crow 3 times.
Eggs were cooking on the stove, choking on the lack of oil, yearning to be turned, circles upon circles, waiting to be taken from the fire, I was their teacher. So I moved, flustering every fiber along the way. I added meat and thought about how nice she looked, even though her husband never addressed me. Pick me up they said, take us with you, like a horde of jackals clawing on the neck of the still breathing antelope.
My clothes still fit, borrowed a long time ago from Mr Parker Upstairs. He never asked for them back.

It kept me going, that urge to fly beside her, I would have nailed her every bit making sure she is comfortable alongside herself.

I walked out and closed the door. My small shoes squealed as the wind blew trying to make me turn around. The leaves marked the road through the grass and I passed several buildings that were sinking their once proud foreheads into the ground, showing their asses to the sun in a sign of defiance. They do not care about their neighborhood, turning on themselves like a dough that is stretched beyond its limit only to be balled again touching its toes, a circus act for everyone to see.

It all has to come down to something, a moment in which you have to give way or be passed.
“Come through here, go along those hills, you know about them right?"
The voices coming from the school seem happy. I think they renovated the side of the wall, it was falling apart a while ago, they took out the sand it seemed to stretch so far away, oh how lonely is despair:
“Fill high my bowl with Samian wine and I will always think of this.”

They latch on, digging and going, churning dying and then coming back faster and faster with their home so far away, a claw inside your flesh maybe hearing how to them someone is always listening.

And these pictures of students on top of walls like they were kings that shed light through their creations. All seeing all knowing their eyes gaze the darkness of this hallway stamping out each step as it moves in front of the other.

A Holy Island to go inside, victims that are waiting to be plucked and gobbled up, herons of their time, regrets and bitters, close your eyes, your mother will be with you soon enough.

I open the door, and they are waiting, some with mucus ridden noses, others thinking of how the sun will hit the ball pit during recess. My own for a while, how deep should I sink them: Go, run, run that it all you can do, and then swing your hands and score, nothing compares to winning as long as God is on your side.

The clock stretches its limbs towards me, like all the clocks have always done so. Time makes me sweat, and so do they. Innocents waiting for their feast.
“Can you help me with this sir?”
Counting has never been his strong point, but he goes at it every day. I was like him, picturing numbers and symbols, until Miss P, showed me how low I was on the food chain, a simple equation: Plus 2 Minus 2�-0. His glasses are waiting for my response but the zinging of the bell moves inside my head and I tell him to go outside.
My finger touches the window. I look at the fields of gold beyond the border and wonder about how the barley used to grow back home, when we used to walk barefoot alongside your smile.

I did not come on my knees begging for another chance, but they have cut the lamb, disregarding my own work, or has the lamb offered itself to him, maybe that is my fate, to have everything taken by a brother. Walking out the class I see people, maybe parents who have waited for their offspring, with a stomach so riddled, clenching like a fist I put on my best smile and walked by. Woe to me or woe to him. As I reached the outside door, a woman approaches:
“Sir can I have a word?”
“How can I help you?”
“I am looking for Joseph, do you happen to know where he is?”
“He is outside playing.”
“Thank you”
This is her.