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May 12, 2005
Untitled #1 (a quick fiction)
My brother and I are running out over the shallow grade, past the abandoned dentist's office. We have our sticks and grass-stained chins, our matted hair. The sun is low and warm between dark spotted clouds.
When the day crawls back under a rock, we climb through a crumbly fence and find a back porch to sleep beneath. Then my brother tells me about the fire trucks that used to scream down Central, past 40th and the station house and just kept on going until you couldn't hear the sirens anymore, just the cackle of panicked blackbirds and suspicious raccoons. He says our parents had an old record player and lots of records with songs about star-men. He says silver jet planes will find us soon and fly us out East. That pilots are very brave and skilled, and have special suits and helmets that protect their skin.
I usually fall asleep when my brother tells me stories. Sometimes it gets late and I can't sleep. I just lay awake and watch the satellites burn up and fall out of the clear black sky.
In the morning, we pee into the weeds against the side of the house. The sun is up and bright like the edge of a broken bottle. We walk around a bit, then sit and throw acorns at mailboxes. We hear horseshoes on cement: another carriage full of white-cloaked acolytes, clip-clopping down the avenue.
We start running again down the wide streets, wordless, in and out of the empty houses with open doors.
posted by dana at May 12, 2005 09:26 AM
