A Story

Here's a very short story I've cooked up in the past month or so.


The Wall

Even with all the anxious stress, the unending torment, the psychological weight that burdened his steps as he inched closer to that self-constructed barrier, he was glad to finally be approaching the wall again. Its brickwork of awkward sadness and painful memories brought a single tear to his eye in remembrance of the jilted, sorry eve from whence they'd last parted paths, nearly three years before. The wall was still strong and its grout work still lay as intricately as the day it was built. Neither wind nor rain had eroded away the brightness of the heated rock, no outside influence damaging enough to scar its strong face.

He pressed his hand to the last brick he could remember placing into the wall and whispered to it. I hope all is well.

Moments later, after his amorous breath floated over the roughness, an unexpected crack worked its way across the wall and opened a slit of light shining through from the other side. It was the first time since he’d erected this wall that he had seen this sun, and it warmed his heart. It shown as bright as he’d remembered onto the field bristling with softness he’d forgotten amongst a tree whose fruitfulness seemed too ripe to disturb.

Suddenly filled with a happiness long since vacant and content with the sunlight that had been shown upon him, he parted ways from the wall onto his path of daily chore. Milling and grinding, reaping and sowing, bailing and hauling, no chore of his day could tire the energy afforded by his reacquired sun, and at the end of the day, when no more work could be done he returned home, still satisfied.

The next morning, upon returning to the wall for another blessing of sunlight for the next day’s chores, he found the wall intact. A new stitch of cement where his crack had been, his tiny sunlit hole patched up. The wall had been repaired overnight, reinforced by some other bricklayer. He was again left unknowing of the other sun’s brightness, the other field’s softness and the other tree’s fruitfulness. He was left to live out the rest of his life in exactly the same manner as before, only he himself able to recall the slight glimpse of what life was under that sun. And the wall remained intact.

Unapologetically Sorry

For twoday, I'd like to snare a beef snort borey...

On A Sunny Afternoon In the South of France by Pyle Bother

“A slab of your leanest 12oz., please.”

The Butcher’s eyes took their time in registering my face, something I’d eventually get used to in the next week or so when there would actually be something of substance to stare at. Some discoloration was sure to be expected, maybe a slight deformation in the long term, but now in its early stage nothing too out of the ordinary, visually speaking. There was a touch of tenderness about the socket though, and a little swelling, a fact that had resulted in effectively putting me in my current location. As much as I despise old wives' tales the prospect of immediate soothing was all to pleasing, and once the Butcher felt satisfied with what he saw and turned to chop, I was allowed to wince to myself as I took a seat near the window. I began to figure. I figured there would be other opportunities. I figured there would be other women. I figured there would be other Tuesdays. I figured the cost of my steak. I figured I had the cash. I figured I would soon lose the meaning of the word figured, but then I figured I didn’t really care so much, as I don’t really use the word figure, or any of its variations, regularly enough to really miss it for the amount of time it will gone from my memory. I figured how many times you’d actually have to use a word before it’s meaning is lost. Then I figured 13.

“One 12oz. Sirloin, anything else?” The Butcher’s voice crackled like a chest cold through the bland meat market.
“No, sir.”
“12 Euro.”

The change in my pocket was two cents short, but I don’t think he cared. He’d read enough of my Life Story by now to know that “Two Cents Short” was only Chapter Three. Sensing the amounting pity, I unwrapped the Butcher’s handy work, slapped the beef over my left eye and headed for the door.
Standing in the warm sun, squinting my uncovered eye, I began to wonder. I wondered what benefit placing a section of dead cow on my bruising face did. I wondered how long it would take to swell shut. I wondered if maybe I should have ducked. I wondered “what now?” I wondered… I stopped wondering. I wanted to keep that word around for a while, it seemed useful, so I started to wander.

.The Bend.