I will not die here. I am not my father, nor my brother. I am not Enid. I may not even be a Grimwalt. I scanned the yard once more. That damned unholy orange lawn jockey. He’s out there with his ugly lantern to call all dead things home.
It was a large stuffed Stitch doll. My son has gotten it as a present it terrified him. He would not have it in his room. It was decided that Doc might liked something that he couldn’t tear up right away. And we were right, Doc LOVED it. He loved it in the way male dogs show their adolescent affection to legs and objects and other dogs. Stitch was his bitch. He loved it so much and so hard that the head fell off.
This time of year I drive to a quiet place. A deserted parking lot is best. I turn off the car and I sit. Sometimes I ugly cry and question everything aloud. Sometimes I play a few songs. But mostly I let myself feel the cold. It’s like another person. There is a realness to it that pushes any illusion of this life away. Its bite, its clarity, its sharpness. Stillness. Chillblains. The Nordic rune Isa and its inert steadfastness. The blankness of fresh ice. The clean slate of mirrored surface calm. Layers of dark between the surface and the “deep down”.
But no, she was as she had been at 17, their first time. And now, on her 50th birthday, they were old hands at this love business. He marveled every time at her unchanging body. Something deep in his brain ached because time had begun to map his face and body. He was dying on her.
Movies playing out in my head where Hell’s inhabitants, grotesque and full of evil intent, came through that corner and up through the laundry chute. Some of them took the stairs to savor their journey of malevolence and meditate on my destruction and how tasty I would be.
Categories: Memories, Short Stories, Stories about Food • Tags: bread, childhood fears, chocolate, Halloween, Kelly Freas, killer robot, Queen, Queen of Hearts, rye bread, Superhost, The Sentinel, We Will Rock You