Two new pieces of short prose I've written lately. Lately as in "today." Considering how often I write prose, it's a bloody miracle.
Kosher
Once upon a time, there were three little pigs who lived in a quiet town full of other kinds of talking animals. As is usually the case with siblings, they were all very different, which manifested in their choices of abodes. One built his house out of sticks; another built his house of straw. The youngest built his out of brick.
As you might guess, there was also a wolf in the town (there is always a wolf), but the pigs had nothing to fear from him, as he was an Orthodox Jew. Every day, he shuffled past their houses on his way to the center of town with nothing more threatening than a casual wave.
Thus, the pigs lived long and happy lives, and raised large families. But the wolf lived alone all of his days, and each Sabbath stood in his synagogue and dreamed of the taste of just
one
slice
of
bacon.
All in a Row
It's a cool, overcast day, with a heady breeze blowing, as we walk the paths of her garden. Flowers grow haphazardly, sometimes bushes and vines nearly over-grow the paths, but everything is so beautiful. There are even flowers growing from the cracks in the cobblestones.
Her knowledge of horticulture is astounding, and for the past two hours she has talked of little else. Once she was so famous that even yak herders in Outer Mongolia knew her name, and her smile caused hearts to fall and shatter at her feet. But that was when she was young.
Now, she is not so young, but traces of her beauty still cling to her, so ephemeral that they vanish if you took too closely, or for too long. Yet, despite her precipitous fall from grace and the hard years afterward, she still smiles. She has her flowers. They are her foothold. And frustratingly, she won't discuss anything but them, even when I ask her questions on other topics during this interview. I've humored her, but I want to know more--how does she feel about her creative work? Does she still sing? Is there any chance of her attempting a comeback? Anything. Anything but flowers.
She points to one specimen, proudly waving white, flaring blossoms in the wind. "Those are silver bells, also known as the snowdrop tree, or Halesia carolina. Now, this one," she continued, bending down to briefly caress a plant growing at her feet, "is the Prosthechea cochleata, also known as the cockleshell orchid, or just cockleshell. And these--"
"Excuse me," I interrupt, before she can get to the next row, which is a surprisingly well-ordered line of what appears to be giant sunflowers, "I wanted to ask you some other questions. I mean, not just about the garden. Though it is very nice."
She looks surprised, but she stays still, looking at me for once, rather than over her domain. "Of course. Of course you can ask." She smooths her long skirt nervously and wets her lips. "Be my guest," she says, in a voice that is anything but inviting.
"Well," I say cautiously. She seems like a bird that is on the verge of being startled into flight. "There's not a lot that's known about you. About your childhood." She looks stricken, so I quickly change the subject--"Or about your love life. Our readers would love to know whether or not you have a special man in your life. Or woman," I add judiciously. Takes all kinds, as my mum always said.
She stands there, still looking at me, for a very long time--no, she's not looking at me, she's looking through me, and her blue eyes are clouded over with some far-off memory. I wait eagerly, my recorder at the ready, for her response. But then she comes back to herself, her forehead creasing as she scowls in the way that surely earned her the "contrary" reputation she's carried for so many years. Then, just as quickly, she sighs, and all the cruel years trace lines in her face, making her exactly what she is--a woman old before her time, bereft of almost everything.
"No," she says finally, sounding near tears, even though her eyes do not look watery. "No. There's no one special. And there never was. I...I think this interview is over." With that, she turns on her heel and leaves, skirts swirling, just leaving me there in her garden. The wind picks up again as she opens the back door and walks into her house, letting the door slam closed behind her. The flowers move with the wind, and if you tilt your head just right, they are singers, dancers, sirens all. I stand there and watch them until security comes to escort me off the property. She was lying. She had to be.
No comments:
Post a Comment