Tag: author

Here’s one for you lovely people who are actually following threegoodwords.
I’m really excited about that, by the way. Really excited. Hugs and kisses all around! – Unless you’re not into that kind of thing. Then I hope a firm handshake will do, a really sincere one too.

Thank you and Merci beaucoup!

 

So… here it goes.
And yeah, I have no idea where it’s going…
Suggestions are more than welcome :)

 

  

 

 

Small Things

In the woods, a long day’s journey into night is much ado about nothing. Cut wood furnishes a space of warmth where the Hunter lies sleeping on a woven rug. Water is crystal and cold reflecting stars in a pale of echoing iron. The next day, a Saturday, he will drive down into the Valley and restore himself as one of them, redeem his solitude with his silent presence. When the moon is high he joins other strangers in a wood-panelled room, watching flying spheres on a screen while others played geometry on the green. After a drink, he leaves, relieved, seclusion is his only solace, the Hunter does not disturb. The stars are bright and the High Plains empty, far from sight.

The man in the woods has a dog he calls Hunter. They live in a cabin with a furnace and no running water. Every Saturday, he drives down into the Valley and goes shopping in the general store, a few cans of dog food, meat, vegetables, canned fruits, fresh apples and a newspaper, nothing more. Once a month he goes to the local pub, orders a beer and listens to the gossip. He rarely looks neglected and is generally considered to carry the smell of the forest with him. His dog Hunter never leaves his side, a large beast with dark fur and light brown, vigilant eyes. Since no one knows the man’s actual name, he is called Mr. Hill. The woods run up the main hill before the High Plains. It is a name he has accepted, at least he has never complained. No one knows as he rarely talks, except to Mr. Hopkins who owns the general store and it is never more than a little small talk about the weather and the woods. When he is in the pub, he just sits at the counter and drinks his beer, or watches a game of pool. Nobody speaks to him and he doesn’t say anything. Some of the young boys in the valley like to dare each other to ride their bikes up to the cabin, as a kind of test to be allowed into one of the various neighbourhood cliques. The youngest of the Andrews even went so far as the porch, but then Hunter saw him and started barking which sent the boy in terror back down to the Valley. Since then he’s the coolest Andrews in town.

Few can say when exactly Mr. Hill came into the Valley. He came in a truck, a used but fairly new blue pickup truck. He was said to ask in the town hall about properties that could be sold and back then Mr. Jenson still had the plot up in the woods with an old cabin on it, which the newcomer bought in the end. For a long time Mr. Hill kept on buying supplies and if you took the main road up to the Peak, just before it turned into the Plains, you could hear sawing and hammering coming from the cabin. It all happened in one summer, or so Mr. Hopkins says. From the beginning, Hunter was with him, a faithful shadow with watchful eyes.

*

There are rumours about the man in the woods, that he is the son of a rich family, a criminal, a convict who managed to escape and now could use the money he had stolen. Others say he’s an artist in seclusion, a writer looking for his words. Or maybe he’s a monk from some secret order and practices odd rituals no man should see. There are many rumours about him, but even when they’re whispered from mouth to ear, everyone who hears them knows that they’re just stories told to keep things interesting, the truth was certainly, surely, truly, you had to believe it, it was something else entirely.

* * *

In a box on the mantelpiece, there is a memory he stores to keep forever out of the way. It is a memory of an apology, of a meeting in the middle of the night, of the most explicit ‘I’m sorry’ known to man. It is four pages long. He never sent it. By the time he came to the last stop, he lost his nerve. It wasn’t the apology that had kept him from sending, but what made it necessary and the consequences that it would carry, once it was pronounced, once it was read, once it was said. So he folded the sheets into an envelope and slipped that envelop into a pocket of the large backpack he had already packed. He whistled after stepping out onto the porch and Hunter came bounding down the lawn. They left that hour. He was sure never to see that street, that city or that house again.

When asleep worlds opened and he stepped into a room he never recognized but always knew was his own. She was already there, faceless yet with the same shape and smell, a scent close to cinnamon and other things part of a winter morning. She would lean back and stretch out on her back, he would hold her hips and descend. Slowly he would move within her, enveloped by heat until his head ached, the light broke and he woke up sweating. Usually it was early in the morning when he opened his eyes, the sun just peaking over the lower crest in the east. In the beginning it happened almost every night, but now days would pass before he stepped into that room again. He had stopped dreading sleep and somehow managed to accept it. Sometimes however, he would wake up, see the sun, close his eyes and be sucked in again, deeper and deeper until he reached the end and the heat became a painful point that stretched at the horizon where it flared and he woke up again and had to remove the shorts he was wearing.

* * *

Dana poured hot coffee into the cup and saw into the face in front of her. He hadn’t shaved for the past few days, and his hair was invisible under the tightly meshed scull cap. The fingertips of his gloves were cut off, his nails neatly trimmed. Dana noticed that his mouth was perfect, lips, tongue, teeth and all. His eyes were clear, but they never seemed to see her. Christie had called him ‘sweet’, but Dana felt there was nothing about him that had sugar in it. He had perfectly smooth dark skin, and high cheek bones. If she hadn’t seen the books she’d thought he was someone from the streets. After writing down the next order, she tried to get a glimpse of what he was reading. Babylon Revisited, she couldn’t see who the author was. He was sunk deep in his reading. Then, a bit suddenly, he sat up, pulled something small and blinking out of his pocket, gave her a small smile and said ‘’Lo’ into the phone. It was a slim silver piece that must have cost a lot of money. His voice was deep and smooth like the chocolate syrup she poured over the pancakes. She spilled some over her finger and licked it before thinking. Quickly, Dana looked around if anyone saw. Only he did, he was watching her, talking into the phone. He smiled again, a flash of white. Perfect. Dana wiped her finger clean on her apron and asked Christie to pass on the order. It was seven in the morning. She wanted to give him her number and ask him to see her at nine o’clock that night. But before she found the courage to hand him the slip of paper, he had already paid his bill and left through the door, books in his backpack and that slung over his shoulder.

* * *

‘You know that I love you, right?’ she says, and C. knew that tone, it meant they’d fuck in the next five minutes. She knew he needed to study, this exam was important, but that was Nisha for you. She thought he was fighting the inevitable, that there was no point in trying as the ‘real C.’ would get him in the end. ‘You street, babe, an’ street stays street, even if the pavement’s made o’ gold n’ diamonds.’

‘Nisha, I really need to do this.’
‘Oh, come on, take a break.’

She had her mouth at his ear while she stroked the back of his neck. C. pulled his head away to say,

‘Tanisha, please. This is important.’
‘Come on baby, you can’t study forever.’

He looked at her, she was wearing those panties and that t-shirt that showed her nipples even when it was hot. Fuck. Why’d she always have to look so good? He pushed back his chair, she pulled off her underwear and straddled him. Nisha was a hungry kisser, and hasty with her hands. There was no need to do anything, she knew what needed to be done. Everything was quick and easy, C. needed only to lean back and let it happen. He watched her, she removed her shirt and her tits bounced real nice, they’d get all huge when she had a kid. She never forgot the Trojan though, Nisha was a careful girl. She asked him if he was liking it, he said, ‘Yeah,’ coz, ‘I really need to study, Nisha,’ was not an option. C. came easily, Nisha chuckled after she was done, smiling, ‘That was good,’ kissing him all over. C. smiled and Nisha laughed again, nice. She got off him a while after, C. got up and pull off the T, pulled up his sweats, walked to the bathroom and threw everything away. He didn’t recognize the face in the mirror. He probably should shave again.

*

J. should be here. It’s snowing again. Course with all that happened… but he should be here. They say he’s up in the hills somewhere, locked up in the cabin going crazy with all those trees. Nisha said she heard it from Jackie who said Tori had it from Ed or somebody from that crowd, anyway he’s gone. I can’t read anymore. What time is it? Twelve thirty. Nisha should’ve left me the fuck alone. Fucking her always throws me off my flow. Now she’s out with her girls and I can’t finish up Fitzgerald for nothin’. Wonder if Dr. Michaelski knows how it is to read ‘Negro’ all the time and have everyone wail its ‘great literature’. It ain’t bad, mind, but still kind o’ crap too. Half o’ them wasted or depressed, but it’s not like any of those books are actually funny, and everyone’s always tryin’ to kill themselves or accidentally off themselves anyway. Weird people. Maybe it’s the money, makes you all twisted inside. And no one’s human unless you’re like them and even when they’re tryin’ to be funny they’re still being – snide, yeah that’s it. Except Shakespeare, he got it, Othello’s definitely my man. Shouldn’t have killed her though, but with some Iago all up in your face what’s a brother to do? He got it though, those old English usually do, it’s all about how people are really, like Wilde makin’ fun of everybody but all stealth, y’know, puttin’ ‘em down and makin’ ‘em laugh at the same time, smooth. They had the beat, they knew about style. The new ones kind o’ lost it though, too busy with themselves to actually start tryin’.

Still can’t work. Maybe some coffee’ll do. J. made some great espresso. He had this original Italian thing that nobody could work but him. He’s been writing to Aly they say, but that doesn’t sound like J. Then again, living in a cabin in the woods doesn’t sound like J. either. If he’d be here, we’d watch a game, drink some beer, get some pizza and maybe end up joining the others in some club downtown. Or we’d hang out in some place, check out the girls, and just talk like we used to. You can really talk to J. he hears you out, lets you go all the way down to that first thought, y’know, the one you started out with but couldn’t get to coz you had to explain the whole back story and so forgot why you started. You don’t need to explain things to J., he gets you straight. He doesn’t start laughin’ unless you’re bein’ really stupid. He’s easy, man, cool. And he’s good with the girls, he never said or went all 5.0 on you. He’d even help you pick out the right one if he was in the mood. He’s level, J. Yeah, he should be here. Wonder what he’s doing all up in those trees.

* * *

Dear Jake

Thank you for your letter. I’m doing fine. It’s been a bit busy these days, but it’s okay, I can cope. Work’s fine – everything’s fine really. It’s snowing again, so that’s nice. I hope you aren’t too cold up there. I don’t know if I could do that, all alone in the woods. Well, with Hunter, I guess you aren’t all alone, but still. I think I always need people around me. I really haven’t seen the others much though. I always feel odd when I’m around them, it’s like stepping back into a pair of shoes I’ve outgrown, if you know what I mean. I like them all, don’t get me wrong, I like them a lot, but in a way, it really doesn’t make sense to spend more time with them, you know? I think that’s over. It’s sad, but I guess these things happen. Life goes on, right? I’d like to see Carmine again though, but I hear he’s busy with his exams, so I’ll leave him alone, you know how he gets if you disturb him. Otherwise, there really isn’t much to say. I’m fine and it’s snowing, so that’s nice.
Thank you for writing, it was a real surprise, and a very nice one.
I hope hope you’re all right.

Alya

* * *

Reading, he can see her sitting at her desk under the window, the street full of cars and noise beneath her. Her lamp on, the desk stacked with books, magazines, papers, pens, make up and small bottles of nail polish, all scattered around her laptop. He can see it clearly, her right leg curled under her body, her left foot flat on the floor. At home she rarely wears socks, only jeans, a top and maybe a sweater if it’s cold and those slippers made of fake fur. She’s probably drinking something out of her huge mug she bought in a one of those stores, a big purple thing spotted with yellow flowers with white circles in the middle. It’s phenomenally ugly, but she loves it. It has a small chip at the side when it fell while she was doing the dishes. He’d already hoped it crashed, but she caught it in time. He can see how she holds her pen lightly, stopping every now and then, wondering what else she could say to him without saying too little. Every now and then she pulls back a strand of her hair she tied in a loose ponytail at the back of her head. Then when she’s finished she looks at the letter, reads it through, thinks about it and then signs it, folds it and puts it into an envelope. She won’t send it till the next day, she’ll think it over a little more before she actually puts a stamp on it and slips it into the mailbox.

The sky is a crisp blue when he walks out with Hunter. The trees are high and dark, the snow heavy and spotless white, silver and clear on the edges. His feet crunch the crystals, his footsteps echoing in the silence. Hunter races forward and bounds back, his red tongue hanging out of his open mouth like a sad flag on a windless day. Now and then he thinks of throwing a stick, but ends up keeping his hands in his pockets. When he reaches the cabin he will make himself hot coffee, heat up the soup he still had, fry the steak, bake the potatoes and use the rest of the cream for the sauce. No vegetables, he doesn’t feel like anything healthy, except maybe backed beans. He wants to grow fat. So fat that no one will recognize him, but with Hunter around that won’t work. The beard helps though. Everyone in the Valley thinks he’s at least thirty years old.

* * *

Dana smiles when she sees him walk in. He smiles back, quick and easy and orders coffee again. She asks if he wants anything more, the bagels are very fresh. He thinks about it and then says, ‘Yeah, why not.’ She does everything herself, grateful Christie is busy with the other customers. She pours the coffee and watches him add two sugars and some milk. She serves the bagel, and watches him cut it open, smile at the steam and spread it with butter. He takes a bite and smiles after he swallows, before turning to a stack of pages he brought with him. They are crisscrossed with written references, many lines highlighted with a neon marker. He looks very concentrated and Dana envies him his silence. More customers come in though, she has to focus on them. She can’t help a glance or two while she takes the orders, he’s still reading with that concentrated look, deep in the words in front of him, oblivious of the noise and the business around him. There’s a frown between his eyebrows and Dana wonders how it must be when he’s angry. He looks calm, and with such a deep voice she can’t imagine him getting loud. He would never raise his hand to a woman, of that she is certain. Dana turns back to the order she wrote down and blinks away a memory that welled up out of nowhere. She smiles at the customer in front of her, a business man who just wants a quick coffee to go. She gives him what he wants, he pays more than he needs to and says ‘Keep the change’ before hurrying out again. Dana looks back and sees that he’s stopped reading. He’s taking out the money he needs to pay. Christie is closer to him, and again, he gives her the money. He packs his things, shoulders his bag and hurries out, still deep in thought about something. Dana wants to say goodbye, but the next customer asks for her attention and she has to smile.

* * *

‘You look happy,’ is the first thing Nisha says when I walk in. Well, I guess I am happy. The exam wasn’t half as bad as I thought it would be. If I got all the answers I think I got, then it’ll probably be a B, if I’m good enough maybe I’ll scrape an A. That means I could apply for that grant, that’d really be some help and why the hell’s Nisha in the kitchen?

‘What’re you doing?’
‘Cooking?’
‘Cooking?’
‘Yeah, y’know, using pots and pans.’
‘Why?’
‘Aly’s comin’ over, so I thought I’d make something, y’know, special.’
‘What’re you making?’
‘Lasagne?’
‘Cool.’

Lasagne’s hard to fuck up, and if everything goes wrong there’s the pizza or Hong’s. So, my baby sister’s comin’ over. Probably didn’t tell due to the exam. Sweet. She’ll probably bring brownies or that chocolate cake, Aly’s a god with chocolate cake. Man, that’d be too awesome.

The doorbell rings, I open the door, and there’s my baby sister with her – ‘Yes!’ She laughs, I can’t help the grin, we hug, she’s my baby sister and I haven’t seen her in a bit too long. Probably should’ve checked up on her more, but after that talk I thought it’d be better to stay away for a while, she needed some time on her own. Now she’s back though and brought her chocolate cake, awesome. This day’s just level man, yeah.

*  * *

‘Alya Bellamy?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m Mrs Andrews from St. Martin’s Hospital.’
‘Mrs Andrews?’
‘Yes, I’m a nurse. I was asked to call you. Do you know someone by the name of Jake Mallory?’
‘Jake?’
‘Jake Mallory?’
‘Yes. What’s with Jake?’
‘Mr Mallory insisted that I call you.’
‘Yes, but why?’
‘He can tell you that himself. – She’s on the phone.’
‘ – Aly?’
‘Jake?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Where are you?’
‘In St. Martin’s – ’
‘What happened?’
‘That’s not important. How are you?’
‘I’m fine Jake – why are you in a hospital?’
‘That’s not important. How are you? Is it still snowing?’
‘I’m fine Jake and it stopped snowing yesterday. Why are you in a hospital?’
‘I’m fine, Aly. I just wanted…’
‘What?’
‘I just wanted to…’
‘You wanted to what?’
‘I just wanted to hear your voice, that’s all.’
‘But Jake – ’
‘Miss Bellamy?’
‘Yes?’
‘Mrs Andrews again. I’m sorry, but I think that was enough for now.’
‘But – ’
‘Goodbye, Miss Bellamy.’
‘Jake?’

*  *  *

The dark had risen in the morning. Suddenly it all made sense. Nobody needed him. Worse, he had destroyed everything. A life, his life. Gone. There was no point left, it was just gone, forever. After that it was easy to peel out the razor blade. But for some reason Mr. Hopkins decided to bring him his shopping as he was on his way to the Plains. The old man had opened the door and seen him lying in a pool of blood. Fate seemed to like him. The next thing he knew, he was staring at Nurse Andrews stern face while she checked the drip. A doctor, female, pretty, came in every now and then. Then he remembered her and all he lived for was her voice. He still knew her number and had waited, eyes fixed on the phone while Nurse Andrews called. Now he had her voice in his head and he could sleep again. It was all they could do to help him overcome the darkness inside, absolute in its nothingness, perfect in its void, so overpowering that they had to let Hunter sleep on the floor next to him in the end otherwise he would have gone medieval on all their asses, really, what was the point?

They were on the snow, boards hard and glistening under their feet, the sun high and bright like a pinball in the sky. Carmine was grinning, telling him something about the bar he’d found the other day with girls that made your mouth water. He just smiled, turned and boarded down the slope, wide swings, feeling the wind and the cold with the sun covering everything in icy light. Carmine was right next to him and they were writing waves down the mountain. At the bottom he looked back up the slope and thought the patterns looked like a totem pole. When he turned around again, he was in a club and this young girl, blonde, was pressing her perfect body against his. She took his hand and pushed it between her legs and smiled when he felt how wet she was. He smelled her scent, it was filling his head, demanding he fit himself inside her, she promised to be impossibly – but the thought of feeling her made him nauseous and he turned and ran to the toilets where he puked into the washbasin and saw something small, round and twitching in the red broth. He pulled at the umbilical that was coming out of his mouth but it wouldn’t stop and he realized it was his tongue he was pulling out and woke up with a start when he felt someone cut it.

He put a hand to his mouth, his tongue was still there. He fell back into his pillow and stared at the ceiling, stark white in the morning light. He knew then that no matter what he did, she would never forgive him, and inside a thousand lights were blown out, wax sticking to the ashes, embers collapsing to piles, dust returning to dust.

*  *  *

Dana was tired, but she didn’t have anything left in her fridge. She walked into the next store, pulled out one of the baskets and quickly walked down the aisles. She saw him just before she reached the cashier. He was arguing with a young woman, the kind who knew she was sexy, spunky and just perfect for someone like him. His eyes were fixed on her, seeing nothing else but the perfect beauty in front of him. They were arguing quietly, he looked frustrated, she sounded angry, but in that pouting, four-year old way. It was obvious that she would eventually get her way. Finally, the woman leaned into him, kissed him, playfully and lovingly and he smiled, rolled his eyes, and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. They turned a corner at the end of the aisle and were out of sight. Dana walked to the cashier, paid her groceries and walked home. She envied that woman’s entire life for the rest of the evening and couldn’t enjoy the pasta dinner she had been looking forward to all day.

Two days later Dana was still a little sullen, when, to her surprise, he walked in, in the middle of the day, and ordered the lunch menu, a coke and a cheeseburger with fries. He was carrying four books with him, they all looked very important. He smiled at her again, an open smile now, he looked relaxed. He even said, ‘Hi.’ Dana just smiled, and asked if she could take his order, and he picked out everything easily. He walked and talked like somebody who knew his place in the world. Dana couldn’t take her eyes off him, only to feel Christie nudge her side and grin when Dana looked at her. Blushing, Dana concentrated on the other customers, but was quick to bring him his order when it was done. He didn’t touch the books, but read a sports magazine which made Dana smile. She felt he’d taken a step towards the world she knew. She still read the book titles, one by one, For Whom the Bell Tolls, Shakespeare’s Plays, Book of Illusions, and something that started with Portrait. She couldn’t read the rest. Dana wondered how long it took him to read those books. The only one she recognized was Shakespeare’s Plays. She had been part of Romeo and Juliet in high school. She had been the mother, who didn’t have to say much but just look pretty. Dana had been pretty then, and she still was pretty, but rarely had time for make-up except some kohl, what with waking up at seven and coming home at nine, she rarely felt like going out during week days. She only dressed up on Saturday nights, when she went out with Samantha and Christie. They first went to a bar and then to a club, where either Sam or Christie found a guy they spent the rest of the night kissing and having sex with in their apartments. Dana rarely took someone home, she didn’t feel like that anymore. After Rick, she didn’t feel like that any more. He had killed every desire in her, all her willingness to let her guard down again, except maybe with him and his clear eyes, high cheekbones and really perfect skin.

In high school, there had been that football player, Dean D.J. Jackson, who looked just like him. Not the looks really, but they had the same feel to them. He always treated you nicely, D.J., he never called you names and always asked you how you were doing if he knew you. He was a gentleman D.J., even if he was deadly on the field. But in the halls, he didn’t care if you belonged to the crowd or not, as long as he knew you, and Dana had known him, since they were put together for a project in their science class. They’d met up for three afternoons in the labs and he’d been what Christie would have called him, ‘adorable’. Dana never forgot him, and here was another one who had just the same feel. She wished she knew his name, but before she could pluck up her nerve to say something meaningless and pleasant, someone asked for coffee and a salmon and cheese bagel. By the time Dana was finished with that order, a few more came up, and when she finally had enough time for a short chat, he was on the phone, quickly taking out some money, which, again, Christie took, tip and all. A moment later, he picked up his books and was gone, still talking on his phone. Dana sighed. Every time he left like that, she had the really strong feeling that she would never see him again. She really should have said something, but now he was gone.

* * *

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