Role Call

Happy Father's Day Steve Bryant. Happy Father's Day Jim Swanson. 

I got the shakes real bad.

I won't lie, since deactivating my Facebook account Friday I've been experiencing a surprising degree of separation anxiety. I had not considered just how much I connected with others through the service. I suspect my experience is compounded by my break from grad school and the PTO season at work. Nonetheless, the identity and affirmation I've drawn from social media is revealing. Going cold turkey has been unexpectedly challenging. 

To ease the transition, I've chosen to read more. Oh, and blog more... 

Tell Me of Your Dawn (Advanced Writing Workshop Timed Freewrite)

Tell me of your dawn.

Mine is the most spectacular of processions. From the cold, hard horizon rises an endless array of dazzling songs of light. Whites and blues join the melody of yellows, oranges, and reds. The grandest lights bellow deep alternating hues. Others harmonize so brightly they become one glorious chorus. All while, ribbons of celestial clouds dance across the rich black stage—their soft gracious limbs extend out amongst the procession. It is a magnificent thing to behold.

Inevitably the parade becomes an escape. The oppressive lid ushers them below. Dark and featureless, it devours their notes and leaves only silent indifference. An icy, graveyard of stillness. The barren landscape lost. The very space between dies.

Share the parts of your night.

I can not recall it, but I sense these things were once different. Could warmth once have existed? Could this tomb of immovable landscape have flowed? Could it have thrived? Could something have eclipsed the glory of the dawn? I can not recall it.

I know I am losing myself with each heartless night—my song falls softer with each heartbreak. I wait. I long for your response. Once I knew you. I sense I love you. But now, I only know of you. And that is becoming not enough.

My body is unmoving. A lifetime has passed since it danced. Inside my limbs, the weakening call to move is met by comatose rebuttal. Muscle, tendon, and bone languish. Flesh plays the corpse. Only my eyes betray the life that beats still. At dawn, my eyes open wide. Often, tears choke but never rise to the surface. And at night, in that graveyard my eyes press closed.

That is when it searches me out. It haunts me.

How splendid are your halls? Describe the wonders that fill your palace.

The smallest spark persists within me. In my depths, it is cradled. I sense it was a gift from you. Such precious colors flicker from this faint star. Its warmth draws me closer. I follow deeper and deeper hearing its hushed song. Could it be like abundant waters that have receded into the depths? Not gone, but absent.

Tell me of your dawn.

That Guitar (Advanced Writing Workshop Timed Freewrite)

I won’t lie. I tell as I see them. But I don’t see nothing.

That isn't entirely true. I see ghosts. They drift and jump and float about my face the way mud and clay and peat feels under my feet. There are greens and blues and something red.

I see more than most. I see because I hear. Oh, and I feel. How I do feel! I feel their heat. I feel their whispers. I feel their waves and crashes. I feel their tears fall and hide in the rough floor. Tears that squeeze under splinters and along long, narrow cracks. I sometimes find them. I touch them on my lips. They taste warm and salty.

I like most when I feel that guitar. Except, that’s mostly at night. I don’t favor night. That’s when the big ghosts come. They fill my face. They perch in the corners and grow as the fire cools. They dance perverted around the lantern. I close my eyes, but I feel them. They keep trying to pry my eyes open. They run their fingers across my eyes. Poking. I don’t favor them. I just scrunch my face tight and listen. I listen for that guitar till I can feel it. Then I follow it. Sometimes it takes me too far, and I’m in the cold and damp out past our steps. Happens more than I care to say. But his words bubble up to save me. I feel him pulling me back to where I can lean down again. It always ends too soon. And worst, I can feel it coming. A step is missed, and soon his tapping gets soft. Then I’m carried away to bed.

That’s when I scrunch not just my face but my body too. The ghosts cover the door, and I can’t see nothing. Sometimes I forget fast. Other times I feel that guitar. Sometimes it whispers to me, and I try to whisper back, but I’m afraid of them big ghosts. But I always end up forgetting. Sooner or later. And then I remember. The big ghosts are gone. I’m thinking they forget too.

When I remember at first, I don’t see nothing. I can’t feel past my urge, and I fight it. But she helps me. She listens for me. I wish she’d stay close as she can be. I sometimes cry when I feel her warm go. Makes my inside heavy and stuck. But she talks to me. Oh her words. I wish I could find them on the rough floor and touch them on my lips. Sometimes she hums a song. But she never sings. It’s okay with me. I let her tune carry me out past our steps. Out there are white and yellow ghosts. They sway and flutter. Sometimes I creep to our steps. I let my feet down. Oh, I don’t get too far. I just want to feel that tune out in the open. That ends too. And I feel it coming. First, it’s the ghosts. They lose their warm. And then they go altogether.

That’s when I start to feel them most. Their heat. Their whispers. Waves and crashes. Blues and greens and something red. I wonder why they come and go. Why they don’t stay. But then I start feeling that guitar.

The Middle — How I found myself there and struggled in form to it. (Advanced Writing Workshop Timed Freewrite)

From where do I come? I have no answer. I go everywhere. I am a sojourner.

I have felt the heat from the desert boil me. I have felt the bite of the tundra freeze me. I have lost my way deep in the jungle. And I have howled across open plains.

I fall and crash. I rumble.

I meander.

And there are times when I collect myself. My dark belly moors these still moments and spans. It is there, at my very bottom, I am cold and motionless. My innards hang featureless and comatose.

Layer on layer covers my slumber.

Parts of me drift and drive, yet I return. I compress into myself and slumber.

Though, rarely can I be still. It is inevitable that I move. I do not resist the pull from beneath me and the flow from within me. I am alive when I dance! Swirling, tumbling, rolling, moving along.

Under the brilliant eye’s gaze, I dance. I arch my spine. My limbs weave. Joyful tears swell and fall through the air. Under his gaze all of my movements shimmer.

From mountain peaks I plunge. Steep gorges are my tracks, and widening valleys are my ways. The arching horizon will always be my destination. I lay out my palms upon the earth and stretch out my fingers. I press into the warm ground. I push against it. I feel it give and move along with my body.

In his absence, I dance. I bath in the cool blue cast and wander the blanketed night. My heart is quieter though my pace remains.

I am a sojourner.

My dancing releases me. I come to myself, and here I swell. I leap. My eyes open wide and I see more of myself than I ever have before. My mouth gapes. I am overwhelmed by something new and deep. Something powerful. Violent.

I explode. I throw my hands up, arms jutting into the air. My locks are a mist in motion. Again. Again. And again. I slide away and then surge forward. I explode! My dance is vitality. It is energy. Violence.

Lap after lap. I collect myself. Drunk.

What is this? Parts of me taken. What is this? I feel parts of me fouled.

My dance is interrupted.

I see them gathering to my side. One extends a touch, and I slide along her rough, dry hand. There is something to it … So I smile and continue my dance. I am drawn out. Again and again. Relentless, they cause me to stumble. But I continue to dance.

As I dance, their presence grows. They have now crowded my way. They have intersected the horizon. More touches. More and more touches. They go everywhere.

I am their captive. They continue to draw more of me away.

Now, I linger in their shadows and stumble along hard edges of their steel and concrete. They corral me amidst their trophies of grass and trees and sculptures. They force me to dance in cages beautiful, dreadful.

Here the brilliant eye’s gaze is stern and unwavering. I lie still under his gaze. I recoil amidst his fumes. And they draw more away.

Here in his absence, I wallow. My exhale is foul. And In the icy blue cast, my complexion is an oil slick.

They pour into me their bitterness and their mistakes. They demand me to carry it away. But the weight of it all, how can I dance?

Exhausted. I am languid.

Once more they gather to my side. Afraid to touch, they begin to cry. I see their tears, big drops of me. Now I know.

They are a part of me.

But my cooling kiss can no longer sustain. It has evaporated. In its place expands a greater thirst.

Zed

I know what it is to scream in desperation at the dark. I have felt the flood of foolishness backfill my gut even as my rage dries impotently at my feet. I've kicked and scratched at death only to huddle near the ground like a whimper. Yet here I am. More baggage, more responsibility than I could have ever conceived. Around me shakes and topples towers on seemingly firmer foundations. 

Responsibility (Advanced Writing Workshop Timed Freewrite)

There is a reason I’m up. Yet I’m looking everywhere else to deter the formulation of the reason. It’s still soft and in pieces. I woke early before the sun to expand the time before I have to lay my hands on it. Somehow waking early turns back time. In the quiet and stillness there is a sense of pre-birth, a comfort from the world’s slumber. The chilled air pushes me back into my cocooned mind. My neck missing, limbs somehow shorter, I am compact. Later the warmth of the sun, the waking air will unpack me. I’ll be held accountable. Not now. The warm grays are the closed eyelids of more vibrant, active colors.

I’ve come to the edge of the land or to the tip of the water. Its lapping does not expand its breadth. It only signals a deep, deep weight along the horizon. It would blacken and freeze my world. I almost wish it would rise up as if on a hinge and fold down over me. But that is its draw, its magnitude is unmovable, always in motion onto itself. It will not come to me.

Standing still, then stamping my feet, then receding back into the edge of my warmth—I stare past the scene. I note the tight shadows underneath the tumbling froth of droplets falling from the top of the rhythmic laps. I note the smooth shifting contours beneath the water as ambers, greens, blues slink in stillness under the cold wet.

Turning my back to the breeze landing ashore, then standing still, then stamping my feet, then adjusting my shoulders to press my neck to the fibers of my collar—I stare past the scene. I note the soft feathers of the reeds huddling into one another as the chilled blow of the breeze slides along their necks. They lean away. Their stiff stalks unwilling to lie down.

Standing still, then stamping my feet, then squinting and feeling the cold of my eyelids press—I stare past the scene. I note the heartless forms and slabs that lean together as structure; they too seem compact in the morning chilled air. I note slender knotted fingers frozen in a stiff perch; their black silhouettes yearn to curl back towards the ground if allowed only to recoil at the touch of the cold earth.

While noting these things it has taken shape. While throwing my gaze as far and deep as I could it has come into focus. I can no longer stand still. I stamp my feet. Jut out my neck. Walk towards the waking world. I pull myself towards the warmth and color and fear and worry.

Don't Eat the Paste (Advanced Writing Workshop Timed Freewrite)

Sun is peering through high set windows. Its rays stretching across a floating lattice of dust particles. The furthest extension of the light spreads across the surface of thick wood varnish. I suspect it is here, and elsewhere, where the smell originates. I’m alone as I walk the interior hallway, but it is full of thoughts. Sprites of my distant past are caught in periphery and lost just as quick with the threat of my focus. The smell of the place pulses with each inhale and the vapors grow in vibrancy and detail. There is a blurring swirl and a muffled cacophony wrapping around my head. With each step I’m slowing my pace becoming more lost in the hallway. And now I’m standing still, unable to reach the end, to enter back into real time.

I came here for a game. My son’s game—he is playing in the large gymnasium at the other end of the middle school facility.

There is a voice speaking. It’s familiar. There is authority and uncertainty in it. I’m obligated to listen. I’m scared of being found out if I don’t. What are its words? I can’t make them out, but I owe it something. With each inhale my sense expands making my eyes widen. It’s so familiar. I’m a child hiding inside this shell. The warmth of the light is gone. Or it never made it in. The cold rises from the floor and bakes my discomfort.

My wife is elsewhere chatting with our friends. My younger sons are hunched over their tablet and my daughter is exploring the insides of bleachers.

I take a step. I stop as if corrected. I can’t make out the words. What didn’t I do? Will I be confronted about what I did? Smiles and eyes and then more indiscernible words tighten around my head. I’m confused. What am I supposed to do? I don’t know how to try.

There is a smell of craft materials, wood, and industrial cleaner. Every school I’ve stepped into seems to have this smell. The chipping steel lockers, the worn commercial-grade wall tiles and speckled linoleum floor tiles, the hooks and cubbies, benches and stackable plastic chairs, and wire-reinforced glass panes all exude this smell.

In front of me is a boy. He is general round and soft. His eyes are hesitant. He is standing still but I see him fidgeting inside. He is jumping, laughing, shouting, waving, punching, acting, watching, all while standing still. It’s me in fact. That stupid mess of hair and stripped shirt stained with juice–I can feel the cheapness of the clothes. They fit all wrong. I… he doesn’t like it here. Why here?

They want something. They want something. What is it that they are asking for? I don’t know what the task was. Is it due today? It’s not fair. I didn’t know. I wasn’t listening. His brow is tight. My brow is tight. He is physically shrinking. I’m pulling into myself. The more he becomes still, the more my energy coils.

Steps behind me evaporate my state. I’m staring down the hallway towards small metal doors propped open. A warm yellow fills their frame. The steps are closer now. I hear a mother’s voice, a child’s voice. I hear a baby’s noises.

I step forward and walk. I pace with the steps behind me. I don’t turn. Now the sounds of the gymnasium are pulling me forward. Soon I’m walking into the sounds and warmth of the gymnasium. I see my family and I decompress. My shoulders smooth and my neck extends. I quicken my pace across the open court. I see smiles and eyes and I say “Hello my dears!”

The boy is gone away.

Mountain Bike (Advanced Writing Workshop Timed Freewrite)

October 27

That was really something special. Big, fluffy flakes falling all around us. Climbing elevation into deeper and deeper snow yet we never slowed our pace. We never worried about getting in over our heads. It went by so fast. Before I knew it we were on our way back, covered in mud. I remember you snapping that picture at the pass. The lookout was rendered a blank, gray canvas by snow flurries. You had a huge smile on your face.
I’m still muddy. But now it’s dried into clumps and water stains. I’m pretty stiff too. Let me know when you ready to head out again. I just need a little air.

November 19 

Congratulations! You’re actually doing it. You’ve been talking about grad school forever. All those times we laid at the top of Evergreen Mountain and talked to God about it. You kept asking how you were going to do it. I was beginning to think you were all talk… I’m glad you proved me wrong. We’ve always made it through the rough stuff. And even if we didn’t; we got back up. We should get out and celebrate.

November 25 

So good. Thanks for letting me come along with you and your mom. I can see where you get your love for the outdoors. She didn’t seem to mind the cold at all. Just picked up her pace and soaked in the views. Too bad we couldn’t have stayed out longer. The wind wasn’t that bad, and the mud didn’t bother me.

December 25 

I heard you and the family this morning. Sounded great. The kid’s excitement was obvious. Good job, dad. So, are you taking any time off? Maybe before school starts we could head out together. It’s been awhile. You walk by and don’t even look at me. Just the other day you reached right over me and didn’t seem to notice I was there. I’m caked with mud; it’s not the best thing for me, you know. Well, merry Christmas.

January 27

I saw you got your skis out this morning. How was it? Be honest. Probably wasn’t too bad; you took the kids with you. Look, we need to talk. It’s been over a month and I’m still dirty. And I need some air. All this is not good for me. We could talk on the way to work. It doesn’t have to be a big thing. Maybe just on the way to the store. I’d be okay if the kids came along.
I remember when you were committed. Every Tuesday and Thursday at 6:30 am. I could set a watch by it. Those cold mornings before the sun broke the horizon, we saw deer and elk, but never a single other person. Don’t you miss those times? Don’t you miss playing on rocks, racing down trails, staring out at distant peaks and deep forests?

March 17 

Have you just given up? I think you’re purposely ignoring me. I see you went skiing today. You just threw your wet gear on the floor in front of me and walked away. No hello. No smile. Did you even enjoy skiing?
Are you enjoying anything? I see you staring at the wall a lot. And you’ve got to take it easy on the kids. They’re just kids, you know? Maybe we should all get outside for a bit. We could head down to the park.

April 15 

So now I’m not allowed in the house? I mean it’s a nice shed, you did a nice job. But come on… I’ve always been inside with you. You know what they say, “Out of sight, out of mind.”
Have you noticed days are getting longer? Maybe we could get away for an early morning. I just need a little air. I don’t even mind being dirty. Let me know. Okay?

Past, Present, Future (Advanced Writing Workshop Timed Freewrite)

Against the sidewalk her soles click with a confident rhythm. Her jacket and uniform shudder softly with each step. The up tempo pace is right on schedule—she is not late, in fact she is early. I’m a step ahead she sings to herself. A thin firm smile appears. Her eyes glimmer. She straightens her back and raises her chest.

Two blocks from the bus stop to her building. It takes 15 minutes. The winter had made the walk down right miserable at times, but spring now bathed the old brick facades in soft pink. The air is crisp. She feels the chill of winter being shaken off. There is an electricity in the air too. Trees and plants are budding. Birds chatter.

The key slides into the lock and the bolt moves with a pleasant weight. Inside the small vestibule the dust hangs in the air. The pink of the morning frames diagonals in the lazy dust particles. Her shoes make a different sound. They’re tinny. Their echo in the vestibule pulls the dark chipping wood closer.

She pauses for a moment beside the door. Looking up the steps she pictures her two daughters clutching blankets and stuffed animals. Their mouths relaxed and open inhaling and exhaling deeply. Sunlight seeping into their room from behind the baby blanket hung in front of their window. She thinks of her son. His eyes looking back at her then looking at the ground. His jaw loose pulling the skin down from his soft cheeks. His thick hair a black mop on his head. She wishes he would do something with it.

Her sister she knows is crumpled on the couch. Her butt will be lodged high into the back of the middle cushion. Likewise knees driven down. One arm tucked in her chest and the other dangling over the edge with finger tips near a fashion magazine. She chuckles at the thought of her sister with a crook in her neck, hair in her face, clutching a mug of coffee. She is excited to tell her the news.

She takes the first flight of stairs quickly. Here in the stairwell the building is darker. The glass ceiling above the fifth floor is caked with dirt that diffuses the sun and casts a brown shade on the walls. She rounds the second flight of steps slowing on the third flight. The dark wood is well worn and dull. Here the air is stale. By the fourth flight of steps she is using the hand rail. Three steps from her landing she is startled by him. Mr. Alvarez I think she says to herself.

He stares down at her. His entire body is set in a rigid hunch. The dull rumpled clothes are cartoonish. He appears as a caricature to her. He opens his dry mouth and rolls his jaw slowly. He says nothing.

“Good morning Mr. Alvarez.”

A low dismissive grunt.

“Spring is most definitely here.” She pauses. “The bus driver said the city gardens are bursting; the tulips are gorgeous!”

Nothing.

“Well if you will excuse me. I am going to head to my door.”

“Your boy. He’s the one with the mess of hair.”

“Yes.” She chuckles. “I’ve been after him to get a haircut.”

“He should mind himself. Tell him to stay off the roof. He’s no business up there.”

“I’m sorry. I…”

“It’s dangerous. He could fall over the ledge.” He huffed. “I hear him running about up there. Don’t know what he’s doing.”

“Mr. Alvarez!” she declares. “I am sure he is quite fine. I will speak with him. Thank you for your concern.” ending brusquely.

“It’s no wonder with his mother out all night…” he mutters.

Red flushes her face as she glares up at his looming figure. A thousand words tumble through her mind. Her lips quiver trying to organize her response. Her grip on the rail presses the blood from her hand. His listless frame seems to fill with black. His face fades away. She feels her eyes drawing back at the edges. They strain. Crashing into her tumbling words she hears other voices. Shouts and accusations. Questions and cursing. She is shrinking. Falling back down the steps. Her head is swimming.

Suddenly she burst out, “What about you old man! What are you doing up there? I hear you dragging around furniture day in and day out. What are you up to? You crazy bat!” She heaves to inhale. “You hide up there all day. Never once have you shown a stitch of kindness! Never once have you asked about us! You think you’re better than us? What are you doing up there dragging around God knows what?” She is now spent. The previous day’s shift followed by the long night shift now catches up to her. She is exhausted. She is fighting back tears. He will not see her cry.

He only half hears her. He is lost, thinking where it might be. Did he look behind the record console? Did he put it in a shoe box… or maybe that envelope? The envelope with his wife’s handwriting—where was the envelope? Why can’t he remember?

He sees her panting. She is looking at his shoes. Is she crying? He remembers his wife’s cry. She gasped and shuddered when she would cry. The woman below him cries into herself. Softly.

She pushes past him and races to her door. Keys fumble in hand. The keyhole refuses to cooperate. Her sister sweeps the door open and she plunges through. The door slams with a dead weight.

He stands still trying to remember the photo. The details fill in, black and white, slightly out of focus at first, then color, then focused. He sees her looking up at him. Smiling. Her eyes squinting in the warm noon sun but they still gleam. She is bent over a planter with trowel in hand. Her gloves are speckled by moist dark earth. He remembers the cool breeze on the rooftop. The white pillows of clouds on the horizon. He clutches the memory, but it begins to fade.

Peter (Advanced Writing Workshop Timed Freewrite)

The whistle gathered itself inside the kettle before its voice peaked at the tip of the pour spout. Peter let it whistle for a moment unwilling to take his hands away from the proximity of the stove’s flame. His body was hunched slightly towards the small appliance. Eventually the scalding water was poured into a tin mug. He held it in both hands even though it was uncomfortably hot. Peter gazed out the large window and down to the low brick buildings and cobblestone street. He looked past the scene disregarding details only noting gray angular shapes and empty spaces in the early morning light. He was looking into his thoughts.

Peter turned them over and over in his mind. It was difficult to hold them still. One side of his thoughts felt lightweight, easy to handle, optimistic. But just as they seemed to take root and fix his view the thoughts turned over. The other side became unbearably heavy and oozed through his mind’s grasp. It spread out and folded behind itself. He lost the whole view and parts began to blur. He could feel his insides sinking. He turned from the window.

A lamp flicked yellow across a haphazard table. A small meal of cold meat, pickled vegetables, and stale cheese alongside a small collection of letters interrupted its featureless surface. The handwriting with its familiar long, angled strokes activated his body and Peter moved in close to the letters sitting down and lowering his head till face and the upturned fold of the top letter almost touched. There was intimacy being so close to the words and phrases. It stirred his insides. Peter shifted in his seat. The food was a satisfactory distraction. He nibbled at the vegetables and gulped the cheese and meat down. His warm drink washed his mouth of the pungent tastes and thick grease.

Her father was still. His body rigid under the many blankets and quilts. His gaze was fixed to the ceiling as if the movement of his eyes might alert the day to begin. His ears pulsed in the silence of the predawn. He could hear the cold hanging in the air. His wife lie motionless next to him, her warmth small and persistent. The room was getting slowly lighter, shades of cool gray were melting away and the browns of the little wooden mantle awoke. The cream of the walls began to appear. A sliver of yellow slid across the window pane. For a few moments the room was bathed in an orange hue. But the cold refused to relinquish its hold and the orange faded away. Now the shadows began to evaporate as the day’s light slid into the room.

He refused to move, his thoughts fixed on his daughter. Their love was not in question. He recognized its familiar sounds and motions as well as its silence and stillness. Had he not loved his wife so he might have diagnosed his daughter with an illness. But there was no mistake. Thought it could be a mistake. The world could be mistaken. Certainly none of it would pause and adjust for these two youths. He arched his back and clenched his fists.

He accepted Peter. He even justified Peter. The young man would alleviate her father’s own failing body. No longer could he punish his frame with relentless hours of toil to produce what his family needed. Nor could he rely on orders to come as they always had. The effortless momentum of his world was stumbling and swirling in eddies of unrest. Peter might be the able hands and sturdy back that could allow him time to think. Allow him time to unpack it all and put it back together. With great effort he rocked himself up and onto the edge of the bed. His wife’s eyes opened and watched him quietly. He would need to hurry he thought to reach the station on time. There were tasks to complete. Today Peter would arrive on the train and tomorrow… Maybe he could put it all back together again.

---


His head rolled back and forth with the swaying of the passenger car. Its watery weight felt detached from the rest of himself like a large melon inside a sock. Maybe it was the roof rocking back and forth. Puffs of frosty breath spurted erratically from his open mouth. His back skewed a ridge between two worn valleys in the wooden floor. Bits of something floated aimlessly in the air. At first he thought it was snow, but a bit perched on his swollen tongue and didn’t melt. The sound of the train rolling along the tracks seemed strangely muffled from his low vantage point. The train’s pace responded to invisible terrain. Steady, then slowing, then quickening, quickening more–his eyes widened and he felt the extremities of his limbs awake and react on their own. As the train steadied they fell asleep once more. He was beginning to shiver from the cold.


On the platform a few soldiers stared at him in the absence of the train. Their gaze was naked–they had nothing else to possess them. Eyes gray and round. Puffy red noses. Lips stuck to pathetic looking cigarettes. Their cold stare was meaningless. The pitiless cold of winter was far worse. His eyes looked out across a gray scene of formless clouds and comatose fields with dark stands of trees. Nothing out there moved. He swayed a little, but the fabric against his skin was too cold for him to move much. The whistle from the train split the air, but then the cold swallowed it up. People began to shift. A weathered, hunched woman gathered her tattered fabric bundles. A mother pressed the backs of two small boys gripping her heavy overcoat around her thighs. And the soldiers moved their weight from the wall to their rifles.


He couldn’t tell what time it was. The bits in the air seemed to have stopped moving, suspended and lit by brighter light that moved over and around and behind them. He heard a whisper. It was something like newsprint crinkling, but then it was gone. Time was making the passenger car go in circles. It ran down the rails only to follow the car ahead back to those same parallels. He heard the whisper again. It was like silver shimmering. It rose and fell like water. His eyes finally closed. The muffled sounds moved farther away and the train kept circling. He felt his lips moving and heard the whisper again, but he couldn’t make out what he was saying. And then it stopped.


The nests of men crying revolution had riddled the train with bullets. Their machine guns had showered the engine and passenger cars and box cars so that wood splintered and glass shattered and iron perforated. The upholstery had popped and puffed sending bits of stuffing into the air. But the dynamite never heaved the final blow. The train bumbled past the ambush with its handful of passengers slowly dying or dead. It stumbled through the terrain as if looking for a place to collapse and sleep though it had no mind to know how to stop. So it kept going. Past vast browned fields. Past dark sober trunks with arms and fingers spread out achingly in the cold. Gaining speed down mild slopes and slowing as it neared the crest of small ridges. The formless gray clouds and wide flat horizon seemed to suck the train forward towards no destination. It was a restless procession of emptiness.