Posts published in “Fiction”

Sigh.  Sheryl had stared at the back of Bobby Eriksson’s head during second period math every day for the whole semester.  Basically forever.  Throughout the seemingly unending trials of sophomore year—geometry, driver’s ed, fighting with her parents over curfew, the looming SATs—the back of his head had been her one shining point of light in the darkness.  His golden locks were the north star as she ventured through the wild, wooly lands of high school beset on all sides by rogues and bandits and beasts of the wood.  Bobby was the perfect boy for her too, she just knew it.  He was kind and handsome and very fit, but he was also sensitive and loved drama and dancing.  He dressed impeccably and never hung out with all those stupid football meatheads at lunch.  And he was such a lady’s man!  Always surrounded by girls after school, singing and discussing fashion.  Cultured, genteel, sensitive, charming, magnificent, Bobby’s name filled her dreams and the inside of her trapper keeper.

“So…uh, what is Morris dancing again?” Layla asked the man sitting in front of her second hand, obsolete, VHS camcorder.  

“It’s a traditional English dance.  My group does it at Renaissance Faires across the country and sometimes as far as Canada.”

“Yeah…cool.  Could you say that again, like, ‘Morris dancing is…’  We’ll edit this video later to get my questions out, so if you could answer my questions by restating them, that would be super helpful, ok?”

“Oh yeah, of course.  That’s good.  It’s like a documentary or something, right?”

“Yeah, sure, something like that,” she said and waited for the pony-tailed man to start again, but he just sat there looking at her like an expectant puppy—well-meaning and confused, but obviously too stupid to survive without help.  “So, what is Morris dancing?” she asked, this time with what she hoped was not too much of an edge in her voice.

“Oh jeez, right, sorry,” he said and cleared his throat, “Morris dancing is a traditional form of English dance.  My troupe dances a border-style morris.  We’ve travelled all over the United States and Canada, performing mostly at Renaissance Faires, but we occasionally will perform at schools or various other heritage festivals.  The real dream of ours is to get over to England to perform with some of the troupes over there.  It would be a real honor since none of us are natives.”

“This instant coffee tastes like total fucking shit.  I’m serious,” I told my mom.  “Really.  Why do you buy this crap?”

“It’s cheaper, honey.”

“But, like, coffee is one of those things that it’s, like, good to spend money on.”

“Times are tough, sweetheart.  Everybody’s made sacrifices.”  That was always the line she used to justify her terrible taste and inability to stock the house with a decent cup of coffee, but I knew she was full of shit.  A decent pound at the grocery store—and I’m not even talking about like gourmet coffee or whatever—is what, like 2 dollars more expensive than this instant abortion she forces on me every time I come home?  Fucking A, mom, what the hell.  It’s like, I travel so fucking far from college to come home and see her over Christmas when I could be in Cancun with my boyfriend and this is the welcome I get?  Unfuckingbelievable.  Is she just trying to push me away?  Am I invisible?  Do my needs not count?  

Oh dark Mistress!  Destroyer of men!  Drinker of still living blood! they called to her.  We beseech thee to vanquish our enemies with your sword!  Reave their skulls!  Crush their bones!  Dance in their viscera!  That last one she liked quite a bit.  But she needed time to decide if she would hear their pleas.  Would she be a virtuous benefactor and avail them of their problems, bringing peace and tranquility to their miserable peasant lives?  Or would she turn her whip on them and grind them beneath her blood-stained boot?  Shall she save them or shall she be the instrument of their demise?  Choices choices!  She turned to Puce, her unfortunately named Elven companion, and then thought better of asking him for advice.  Elves were always so dreary.  For once, she’d like to meet an Elf who wasn’t all, “The forest is dying” this, “Nature is screaming” that.  How about a flagon of mead once in a while, guys?  Like, relax, man.  The trees are going to be there.  Lighten up.  She looked past Puce to Skinflint, the rogue who came and went pretty much whenever he wanted.  He was picking something from his teeth with a dagger which just grossed her out to no end.  Where else had that dagger been?  She had no problem wading knee deep through the blood of her enemies, but, jeez, keep that filthy thing out of your mouth.  Even she had limits.  She turned to the other side to ask Grisham, the not-all-together mage.  He made eye contact with her, and then tore his eyes away.

Snow sat fat and heavy on the ground outside the cottage.  Winter whispered its silent elegy for the green of spring and summer.  Trees sat barren, gray battered obelisks showing only shades of their former verdant glory.  Color had drained from the world, the sky and ground matching pallid sheaths, shadows and smoke and ice and clouds.  A crow announced himself to no one.  A pale man trudged through the snow drifts, face down, beard covered in ice formed by the freezing of steam from his nose, a swirling vortex surrounding his head with every breath.

He pushed the door to the cottage open and stepped inside.  In the fireplace, the struggling flames danced and jumped at the influx of air from the outside but quickly resumed their lingering death as the room settled.  He pulled off his coat and brushed out his beard and wrapped a dry blanket around himself.  He touched the coffee cup on the table to feel for warmth.  Cold.  He would have to make more.  Dissatisfying.  He threw a new log onto the fire and collapsed into his ragged upholstered reclining chair.  

The alarm clock blared from across the room and Philip got up without opening his eyes, turned the goddamned thing off and collapsed back onto the bed.  Then he realized he was still drunk.  It was one of those pleasant post-drinking mornings where he didn’t wake up directly into a hang over, but rather that blissful middle ground where the tiredness of a late night out carousing with friends and not-friends was gone, yet the bleary minded bravado and casual sense of indestructibility remained, a calm, warm glow cast on the morning.