parishioner with whom it was rumored he was having an affair, some said that he had caught NATHAN WHITESHIRT and she engaged in an act of execrable obscenity in the confessional.
a ccident
"Look at the dead girl," Marie said, or that's what I thought she said. I replied--mm'hm--and the moment was past.
We were eating at Webster's and the girl and her parents were in the booth across from ours or, rather, the parents were in the booth. The girl, maybe nine or ten, was twirling in the aisle like a ballerina. "Look, mom," she kept saying. "Look!"
The parents didn't spare her so much as a glance. They looked haggard, and ate in silence. The man, balding and pale, had a look of concentration on his face. He ate voraciously and noisily, but betrayed no enjoyment. The woman was plain, her hair crowded into her face. She winced at the girl's entreaties, but otherwise looked as blank as the grille of a car.
I looked again at the girl, trying not to stare openly. I wondered if I hadn't misheard Marie. The girl looked wispy and somehow transparent, like a moth whose wings have been rubbed free of dust. She was so pale as to seem almost translucent, but betraying on her arms intricate webs of pale blue veins. There were dark circles around the girl ’s eyes, most times obscured by ringlets of hair so blond it looked almost white. Her hands were bony and looked fragile.
"She's a little sparkplug," Marie whispered. I'm sure that's what she whispered.
Suddenly there was a burst of static from the restaurant's speakers, which 'till then had been playing some local station too low to hear. The lights in the restaurant brightened, the girl spun madly in the aisle, and a thrumming surf music riff seemed to pass from the back of the dining room, over our table, to the front. A loud, low voice murmured something unintelligible, shaking the plates and glassware on the tables.
Then the power went out. Once my eyes adjusted, I could see everything fairly well, thanks to the streetlights, which were still on. People at their tables were looking around. Some stood and looked at the windows towards the shadowy turnpike. The family across from us continued to eat, as though nothing had happened. But now the girl was seated with them, staring agape at her plate, where a breaded king crab floated in a miasma of oil like a crusted bug in a long abandoned wading pool.
a world of lucretias and ledas
In a copse of trees near the river a young girl plays with a grey, exsanguined doll, bending its arms and balling its hands into fists. The doll's head hangs limp, a swollen purple tongue protruding from between black lips.
In the river is a man on a boat. The boat bobs in the water. The man can hear the sounds of the water lapping on the shore. The sun hangs high in the sky, enveloped in morning haze. A bird screeches. The man sits, hugging his knees, shivering. His breaths come in rasps. Suddenly he stands and steps silently off of the boat, slipping like a knife into the water. The ripples rock the boat slightly, then fade. The surface is again still. The boat drifts slowly towards shore.
I am standing on the banks of the river in my topcoat, leaning heavily on my cane, acorns and incarnadine leaves falling around me like rain. My kerchief, stuffed into my side pocket, is soaked with saliva and vomitus. I can feel it through the fabric. My shoes are caked in red mud. Somewhere behind me the town is waking, people wandering out onto the streets, shopkeepers uncloaking displays and unlatching doors. Somewhere, a woman is screaming as she runs barefoot through shattered glass to an empty crib.
I had awakened early, in darkness, my cat Leopold stretched across my stomach. I shoved him aside, went into the bathroom to evacuate my bowels. My stools were deep black and long, like spears. I dressed by lamplight and walked out onto Elm St. The sky was black. As I walked through and past the town, the sky went a deep blue that signaled the
a ccident
"Look at the dead girl," Marie said, or that's what I thought she said. I replied--mm'hm--and the moment was past.
We were eating at Webster's and the girl and her parents were in the booth across from ours or, rather, the parents were in the booth. The girl, maybe nine or ten, was twirling in the aisle like a ballerina. "Look, mom," she kept saying. "Look!"
The parents didn't spare her so much as a glance. They looked haggard, and ate in silence. The man, balding and pale, had a look of concentration on his face. He ate voraciously and noisily, but betrayed no enjoyment. The woman was plain, her hair crowded into her face. She winced at the girl's entreaties, but otherwise looked as blank as the grille of a car.
I looked again at the girl, trying not to stare openly. I wondered if I hadn't misheard Marie. The girl looked wispy and somehow transparent, like a moth whose wings have been rubbed free of dust. She was so pale as to seem almost translucent, but betraying on her arms intricate webs of pale blue veins. There were dark circles around the girl ’s eyes, most times obscured by ringlets of hair so blond it looked almost white. Her hands were bony and looked fragile.
"She's a little sparkplug," Marie whispered. I'm sure that's what she whispered.
Suddenly there was a burst of static from the restaurant's speakers, which 'till then had been playing some local station too low to hear. The lights in the restaurant brightened, the girl spun madly in the aisle, and a thrumming surf music riff seemed to pass from the back of the dining room, over our table, to the front. A loud, low voice murmured something unintelligible, shaking the plates and glassware on the tables.
Then the power went out. Once my eyes adjusted, I could see everything fairly well, thanks to the streetlights, which were still on. People at their tables were looking around. Some stood and looked at the windows towards the shadowy turnpike. The family across from us continued to eat, as though nothing had happened. But now the girl was seated with them, staring agape at her plate, where a breaded king crab floated in a miasma of oil like a crusted bug in a long abandoned wading pool.
a world of lucretias and ledas
In a copse of trees near the river a young girl plays with a grey, exsanguined doll, bending its arms and balling its hands into fists. The doll's head hangs limp, a swollen purple tongue protruding from between black lips.
In the river is a man on a boat. The boat bobs in the water. The man can hear the sounds of the water lapping on the shore. The sun hangs high in the sky, enveloped in morning haze. A bird screeches. The man sits, hugging his knees, shivering. His breaths come in rasps. Suddenly he stands and steps silently off of the boat, slipping like a knife into the water. The ripples rock the boat slightly, then fade. The surface is again still. The boat drifts slowly towards shore.
I am standing on the banks of the river in my topcoat, leaning heavily on my cane, acorns and incarnadine leaves falling around me like rain. My kerchief, stuffed into my side pocket, is soaked with saliva and vomitus. I can feel it through the fabric. My shoes are caked in red mud. Somewhere behind me the town is waking, people wandering out onto the streets, shopkeepers uncloaking displays and unlatching doors. Somewhere, a woman is screaming as she runs barefoot through shattered glass to an empty crib.
I had awakened early, in darkness, my cat Leopold stretched across my stomach. I shoved him aside, went into the bathroom to evacuate my bowels. My stools were deep black and long, like spears. I dressed by lamplight and walked out onto Elm St. The sky was black. As I walked through and past the town, the sky went a deep blue that signaled the
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