The boats that carry the dead are like the traghetti that cross the Grand Canal in Venice. In between the scant bridges black gondolas will carry you across the salt void for half a euro. But you must stand beside the other passengers. The old man in the soot-colored suit with glazed eyes. The kid in the uniform. There is no law to require you to stand. No sign to apprise strangers of the custom. Of course standing in a small boat may be a challenge with the water’s chop, but you’ve come this far to get you ticket punched, this is the last thing you will be asked to do.
I kept walking home. I really didn't think anything about taking the alleyway, I tried to vary my patterns of walking home so “they” wouldn't know where to expect me to go. I guess I should have thought about it a bit more that night. I guess “they” really did exist, contrary to what that quack told me in our sessions.
Something shifted in the air. It felt unnatural but I couldn’t quite determine why; it just seemed a bit off. It was probably just in my head. I had been having off and on dreams of voices and plots. I found myself wondering if I should go back to the shrink I had fired last month. I really didn't like him much and suspected he may have been doping me but he did seem to help a bit. A bit of paranoia crept in but I brushed it off without really thinking. I didn't think I'd been off the pills long enough for the fog to return along with the delusions.
The alleyway was the perfect place for it to happen. I still don't really know how I got here, but I know it was something about the alley. I can't remember past the alley. Now I am here but I don't really know where that is. It feels like its been forever. From what pieces of conversation I can hear I think he conspired with them but why would he do that? Was he pissed about being fired? Maybe its just the paranoia and fog. It must be another nightmare. Damn these nightmares. I wish I could wake up.
One of them is coming in and bringing me food. He pours a glass of milk and sets the carton on the counter. I shriek in horror. “Missing Person”, it says. Below it is my picture. Its not a dream.
Glancing down toward the rolling ocean of the dunes I see a line of camels in caravan fashion winding their way toward the oasis with its requisite palm trees. The beasts plod along on their specialized feet. Where are the people, Nomads or herders? And there, just across the Mediterranean the guide idenity lifted as umbrella or flag to signal the group that it is time to move on seem to be absent their owners. The flags move and zig zag, the umbrellas tour the tower of bells, the fountains stacked with marble bodies, churches and cobblestoned alleys. Where are the holders of the umbrellas, those clutches of tourists in tennis shoes and sandals? The barge in the canal passes without a captain, bicyles and scooters scamper like spiders over the streets of London and Rome, into the heart of Amsterdam. Whistles toot and birds cry out with interest. Mist rises from the marshes and moors. A bagpipe mourns the passing of the inhabitants of this northern place and any place. Horses and a stray cow round the corner into 45th & Broadway, they have taken New York city. As they pass each theater the marquee lights dim and then brighten. A better class of patron has come to see the show where suits and dresses debate on stage, watches on chains are spun and tunes raise the roof. A rabbit sits down in the first row. A donkey trims its bow. It's a new day since the troublesome sapiens went missing.
More and more of them, every day it seems, the acrid stench of their burning, the accidental bawdiness spraddled on the roadways of the world, every day they go missing,
women stand in the doorways calling and they do not return, the keening can be heard all the way to the stars, but it’s nothing to the jovial gods hullabaloo-ing
beyond the clouds, ruddy-cheeked drunks. The souls of the missing flutter above the bones of the earth, rags torn from cooling hearts.
The tiny little headstone was tucked far back on the plot. Rough hewn stone not longer readable, cover with moss marked the spot of someone that was loved. Loved enough for their family to spend hard earn money on a marker for the grave. Now one had to hunt for the site. Most passed it by, on their way to their loved ones. Time takes everything. And turns it to something else. A loving memorial now little more than a rock. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
No one knew when Little Ray disappeared that autumn afternoon in 1977. His mother, still in her bathrobe, sat at the dining room table strewn with dirty dishes and unread newspapers. Her impending suicide was still a few years away. She was so engrossed in her troubles that she did not see Little Ray walk right past her and out the front door. Instead she continued to stare blankly at a sepia stain on the wall.
Little Ray spent most of the day up in his room. He paced from the window, where he watched the rain and wind whip leaves from the oak trees, to his twin bed, and back to the window again. He’d pulled the sheets and blanket away from the foot of his bed and sat on the one dry spot that had been untouched by his bed wetting.
Back at the window he saw the boy from down the street looking up at him. The boy gestured with his hand for Little Ray to join him. Little Ray shot down the stairs and out the front door without his jacket, without saying good bye to his mother.
And just like that, Little Ray went missing without anyone knowing. Part of a longer short story -- email me if you want more: fraserglenn@hotmail.com
6 comments:
Missing Persons
The boats that carry the dead
are like the traghetti that cross the Grand Canal in Venice.
In between the scant bridges black gondolas
will carry you across the salt void for half a euro.
But you must stand beside the other passengers.
The old man in the soot-colored suit with glazed eyes.
The kid in the uniform.
There is no law to require you to stand.
No sign to apprise strangers of the custom.
Of course standing in a small boat
may be a challenge with the water’s chop,
but you’ve come this far to get you ticket punched,
this is the last thing you will be asked to do.
I kept walking home. I really didn't think anything about taking the alleyway, I tried to vary my patterns of walking home so “they” wouldn't know where to expect me to go. I guess I should have thought about it a bit more that night. I guess “they” really did exist, contrary to what that quack told me in our sessions.
Something shifted in the air. It felt unnatural but I couldn’t quite determine why; it just seemed a bit off. It was probably just in my head. I had been having off and on dreams of voices and plots. I found myself wondering if I should go back to the shrink I had fired last month. I really didn't like him much and suspected he may have been doping me but he did seem to help a bit. A bit of paranoia crept in but I brushed it off without really thinking. I didn't think I'd been off the pills long enough for the fog to return along with the delusions.
The alleyway was the perfect place for it to happen. I still don't really know how I got here, but I know it was something about the alley. I can't remember past the alley. Now I am here but I don't really know where that is. It feels like its been forever. From what pieces of conversation I can hear I think he conspired with them but why would he do that? Was he pissed about being fired? Maybe its just the paranoia and fog. It must be another nightmare. Damn these nightmares. I wish I could wake up.
One of them is coming in and bringing me food. He pours a glass of milk and sets the carton on the counter. I shriek in horror. “Missing Person”, it says. Below it is my picture. Its not a dream.
Glancing down toward the rolling ocean of the dunes I see a line of camels in caravan fashion winding their way toward the oasis with its requisite palm trees. The beasts plod along on their specialized feet. Where are the people, Nomads or herders? And there, just across the Mediterranean the guide idenity lifted as umbrella or flag to signal the group that it is time to move on seem to be absent their owners. The flags move and zig zag, the umbrellas tour the tower of bells, the fountains stacked with marble bodies, churches and cobblestoned alleys. Where are the holders of the umbrellas, those clutches of tourists in tennis shoes and sandals? The barge in the canal passes without a captain, bicyles and scooters scamper like spiders over the streets of London and Rome, into the heart of Amsterdam. Whistles toot and birds cry out with interest. Mist rises from the marshes and moors. A bagpipe mourns the passing of the inhabitants of this northern place and any place. Horses and a stray cow round the corner into 45th & Broadway, they have taken New York city. As they pass each theater the marquee lights dim and then brighten. A better class of patron has come to see the show where suits and dresses debate on stage, watches on chains are spun and tunes raise the roof. A rabbit sits down in the first row. A donkey trims its bow. It's a new day since the troublesome sapiens went missing.
Missing Person
More and more of them, every day it seems, the acrid stench
of their burning, the accidental bawdiness spraddled
on the roadways of the world, every day they go missing,
women stand in the doorways calling and they do not return,
the keening can be heard all the way to the stars,
but it’s nothing to the jovial gods hullabaloo-ing
beyond the clouds, ruddy-cheeked drunks. The souls
of the missing flutter above the bones of the earth,
rags torn from cooling hearts.
The tiny little headstone was tucked far back on the plot. Rough hewn stone not longer readable, cover with moss marked the spot of someone that was loved. Loved enough for their family to spend hard earn money on a marker for the grave. Now one had to hunt for the site. Most passed it by, on their way to their loved ones.
Time takes everything. And turns it to something else. A loving memorial now little more than a rock. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
No one knew when Little Ray disappeared that autumn afternoon in 1977. His mother, still in her bathrobe, sat at the dining room table strewn with dirty dishes and unread newspapers. Her impending suicide was still a few years away. She was so engrossed in her troubles that she did not see Little Ray walk right past her and out the front door. Instead she continued to stare blankly at a sepia stain on the wall.
Little Ray spent most of the day up in his room. He paced from the window, where he watched the rain and wind whip leaves from the oak trees, to his twin bed, and back to the window again. He’d pulled the sheets and blanket away from the foot of his bed and sat on the one dry spot that had been untouched by his bed wetting.
Back at the window he saw the boy from down the street looking up at him. The boy gestured with his hand for Little Ray to join him. Little Ray shot down the stairs and out the front door without his jacket, without saying good bye to his mother.
And just like that, Little Ray went missing without anyone knowing. Part of a longer short story -- email me if you want more: fraserglenn@hotmail.com
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