A Breath of Fiction

Mineral

  Section VII

  Sand

  The grains of sand clung together as if their lives depended on it, which perhaps they did. After all, what is a grain of sand by itself?

  “What’s wrong?”

  “My foot hurts.”

  Together they were a writhing octopus, a pod of dolphins, a beautiful mermaid, a mighty fortress, a terrifying dragon.

  “Well, you were on your feet all day.”

  “No, it’s not sore. Something in my shoe.”

  They rose into the sky, defying all reason. Grain upon grain, until suddenly the heap becomes a sculpture, becomes art.

  “Probably sand.”

  “I rinsed my feet twice. It feels more like a rock.”

  When the pictures had all been taken and trophies passed out, the beach cleared, and the water began to advance.

  “Just a grain of sand. I could barely see it.”

  “Told you.”

  The invading tide gained courage as it crept ever closer, first scouting the terrain, then laying siege, then taunting.

  “Stupid sand castle contest. Felt like a piece of glass in there.”

  Finally, rising up like inexorable fate, a foaming wave collapsed over the remnants of all the day’s effort. Octopus, dolphin, mermaid, castle, dragon—all were subsumed into fate. And the shore was smooth and silent and still.

  Fine

  He woke disoriented—the new bed, the new room, the ring on his finger. The strangest feeling was the black dress socks still on his feet from the day before. Realizing his feet probably smelled, he decided to leave them on. Abbie was already in the shower, so he decided to make coffee. The coffee pot was one of few appliances in the kitchen, a carryover from his college days. Later, they would be opening the gifts and maybe replacing it. The pot was gurgling and spurting when he heard Abbie get out of the shower. He found her sitting at her vanity, combing knots out of her long curly hair.

  “You’re up,” she said, looking at him in the mirror.

  “Coffee’s on.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Look,” he said, “I’m sorry . . . about last night.”

  “No,” she interposed, turning to face him, “I shouldn’t have—”

  “It’s fine. It’s just . . .”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t—”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m so glad you said that. That’s what I was thinking, but I didn’t want you to be . . . disappointed.”

  “It’s fine.”

  The words hung in the air with a sad sense of finality.

  “Sounds like the coffee’s done. Want a cup?”

  “Sure. That would be nice.”

  Gold

  He hadn’t even entered the shop yet, but Holly could already see the glint of gold. Right on time. She took a cup from the counter and wrote his order on it. The drink would be ready when his receipt printed. That’s how you keep the regulars happy. She knew most of their drinks, but none came with his punctuality. His regularity and his gold timepiece were why the baristas called him the Watch.

  “Triple medium caramel and toffee nut soy latte.”

  “$4.81.”

  He quickly swiped his credit card—gold, like his watch—and signed the receipt while Julius set the finished drink on the counter. “Have a nice day,” Holly smiled.

  The Watch grunted and took his cup. Somehow the lid wasn’t quite sealed, and it sprang off the cup. Hot coffee splashed onto the Watch’s hand, and he dropped the cup spilling the remainder of its contents onto his shoes. He glared at Holly with fire in his eyes. “You little—”

  But he never finished the insult. Steam burst from his ears, his nose, and his mouth. Quickly, his whole body dissolved into vapor, leaving only coffee-stained shoes, a pile of clothes, and a pristine gold watch.

  Porcelain

  When Caroline and her husband had put the down payment on the new house, she thought that everything about it was just perfect, from the brick exterior to the spacious kitchen to the bench beneath the elm tree out back. But it was too good to be true. Off the master bedroom was a bathroom, and between the Jacuzzi and double sink was a toilet, and in that toilet, level with the water line, was a ring of calcium.

  “No one will see this bathroom anyway,” her husband said.

  “I’ll see it.”

  So she scrubbed. She scrubbed every bristle off the toilet brush, bought a new one, and scrubbed every bristle off again. She emptied three bottles of toilet cleaner and several spray bottles of various household cleaners. But despite all her efforts, calcium still clung to the porcelain like mountains cling to the earth.

  “If it’s that important, we’ll get a new toilet.”

  In a frantic desperation, she seized a spoon from the kitchen and for a furious hour, chipped and scraped at the toilet. And then it was done. Bits of calcium were sinking to the bottom of the toilet, and dark gray scars ringed the porcelain bowl.

  Directions

  I can tell you the directions, but I cannot tell you whether or not to follow them.

  In the Adirondacks, there is a mountain shaped like a broken crown. Start on the south side of the mountain and climb till you reach an abandoned mine. There will be signs warning about danger. Ignore them and go inside. Take the utility elevator to the lowest level. When the door opens, a ram will be waiting. He will ask for your darkest secret in order to pass, and he knows whether or not you’re telling the truth. If you lie, he will head-butt you. But if you are honest, he will spit out a key and direct you to a waiting room down the hall. Leave your name with the receptionist and have a seat, but do not read the magazines—they will make you feel depressed. After fifteen minutes, someone will call your name and guide you to the vault. The key opens a safety deposit box that contains an oil painting of your most cherished memory. You may take the painting, but if you expect it to be a masterpiece, you will be disappointed. Their artist is not very good.

  Change

  Titus set out alone that night with three cans of spray paint and a righteous fury. His friends, though he hesitated to call them such, were asleep. They used to be idealists. Outside a midtown diner, they would smoke cigarettes and talk about shaking up the system and changing the world.

  “The hardest part is getting people’s attention.”

  “No one cares.”

  “You know what we should do? Graffiti. Some sort of public art downtown that people can’t ignore.”

  Inspired, Titus went out that night and bought the paint. But the next day at the diner, his friends laughed.

  “Come on, Titus. We’re not actually doing that.”

  A week later, in front of a wide beige wall, a spray can rattled; a lid popped; a nozzle hissed. Then red and blue lights and a siren’s chirp. Running feet; he climbed a dumpster, climbed a fence. Then, a slip of the hand. A skull struck the pavement.

  Titus made the morning news. Taggers shook their heads at an amateur; the building managers shook their heads at a blemish; the authorities shook their heads at another foolish delinquent. His friends shook their heads, but didn’t speak.

  And the world went on the same.

  Knife

  Myrtle had turned out the lights and locked the diner, leaving the two men in darkness. They were such fixtures of the restaurant that they blended in with the memorabilia on the walls. The knife still lay between them, binding and dividing them like an old promise.

  “What’re you waiting for?” Tyrone asked grimly.

  “I’m waiting for an excuse not to do it.”

  “What do you think I’ve been giving you for the last forty years?”

  “Is that the only reason we’re friends? Your guilt?” Silence. Henry studied a streetlamp’s reflection on the blade. “Why tell me today?”

  “How about some music?”

  “Not now.”

  “Come on,” Tyrone said, rising, “when was the last time someone put
a quarter in the jukebox?”

  “Four hours ago. You played American Pie and told your old joke about music for dessert.”

  “Four hours is too long.” A quarter clinked. “How about this one?” Love Me Tender trickled out of the speakers. Tyrone tapped his foot softly. Behind him, Henry stepped up quietly and stabbed his friend between the fifth and sixth ribs. He went out the back and walked to the cemetery. In the morning, they found his body in front of her grave.

  Sensation

  It’s possible the audience would have remained oblivious if not for the sudden closing of the curtain. This was a new play, after all. Had the stage crew simply waited for the impending conclusion, the curtain would have closed anyway, music would have chimed in, and the audience would have been distracted with stretching, peeing, and discussing whether or not the latest Broadway sensation lived up to its hype. They probably would have been impressed with the realism. Such is hindsight.

  But the gun was so loud, the shock and screams so genuine, the curtain fell so quickly. The audience’s bewildered silence was broken by shouts and screams from behind the curtain. A rush of whispers through the house quickly swelled to a maelstrom of shouts. “It was real; it was real! He’s dead; he’s dead!” So when a second shot rang out, the stampede was immediate.

  The subsequent investigation was inconclusive. The source of the second shot was never discovered and no one was charged with the actor’s murder. Local and national news ran moderately clever headlines about a phantom. Naturally, all subsequent performances were cancelled immediately. That night, the playwright dumped a box of bullets into the river.

  Part

  Only one road lead to the factory, and it took half an hour for all the first shift guys to get into the lot. Ben had forgotten how much he hated that line. But I need the money even more now, he thought, spinning his loose silver ring.

  As Ben walked to his station, other guys grinned, patted him on the back, said things like, “Have a fun week?” “Managed to pull yourself away from her, eh?”

  “Morning, Jim,” he said, reaching his place at the hydraulic press.

  “Hey, Ben,” Jim said from the other side of the conveyer belt, grinning like the others. “Welcome back.”

  The men worked quietly, loading sheet metal onto the belt, until Ben realized something was missing. “My wedding ring!” he shouted as the conveyer belt carried it under the swiftly falling press. Like a lightning bolt, Jim swiped at the silver band, knocking it to the ground at Ben’s feet. “That was close,” he said, slipping the ring into his pocket. “You’re a life—”

  He looked up to see Jim’s face white as milk. “Ben,” he said, “I can’t feel . . .”

  Jim collapsed, the blood from his severed arm spilling onto the factory floor.

  Break

  We never got a chance to buy lamps or picture frames or china, to buy knick-knacks to fill our house. We never had any of the little nothings and nonsenses that go into making a home. Just the promise. But we would have had so much fun as we walked the aisles together, finding the perfect drapes, debating over salt shakers, choosing whether we want white mugs or green. Such insignificant conversations, but our ordinary moments always meant so much to me.

  It’s not just that I miss what could have been—what will never be. More than that, I wish I had something to smash, something to tear, something to burn. I wish I had something to destroy the same way my heart was destroyed when you left.

  But what do I have? Pictures and texts are deleted in an instant with neither wreckage nor catharsis. The promises you gave me are already broken. And the memories I always carry cannot be touched. All I have is this note, the one you slipped into my back pocket while my lips were pressed against yours. I hold it in my futile hands, unable to break the words “I love you.”

  Silver

  “You dropped your fork,” she said.

  The old man looked up, confused. “What?”

  “Here,” she said, “I didn’t use mine.” He nodded and timidly took the proffered utensil.

  It was the first time they had ever spoken, even though both had been coming to the same diner every Saturday morning for the last three years, often sitting in these same booths, facing each other. Usually, like today, the man would just sit with his black coffee and corn beef hash and stare out the window, like he was expecting something that never arrived. Her decision to break the silence had gone as well as she could have expected, and he was already looking back out the window. But just when she moved back to her booth, he spoke.

  “It’s the end of the world.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Look at those shafts of light,” he said, “the ones coming through the clouds.”

  “Yes,” she said. “They’re lovely.”

  “Do you suppose those are aliens or the Second Coming? Or maybe both . . .”

  “I . . . I think it’s just the sun.”

  He squinted, his face creased with wrinkles, then softly said, “No, I don’t think it is.” The diner filled with light. And then he vanished.

  Oasis

  The little blue stone shone like an oasis in the blistering sands of that beech. I had never seen anything like it, and slipped the pebble into the pocket of my swimsuit to save for Amy. I didn’t know rocks as well as she did, but I could tell this would be a perfect addition to her collection.

  Her face lit up when she opened the little box, as much from surprise as from the radiance seeming to shimmer deep within the stone. “It’s beautiful.” She held it up for a closer look. “Just beautiful.”

  It was bigger than I remembered.

  It fell to the ground, not just the rock, but the entire display. Big as a baseball, heavy as lead, it had brought the whole thing down. After that, the bright cerulean stone sat on the table, growing until the wooden legs splintered. Together, Amy and I were barely able to roll it to the back yard.

  “Maybe it’s a seed?”

  For a week it grew. One night, we could hear it cracking, splitting. There was light leaking out at the seams.

  In the morning, we found the pieces. Dull and grey, they crumbled to dust in our hands.

  Enough

  He sits alone in a dark room. In a dark world. A world with too much pain. He’s looking for a way to stop the pain. “Will it be enough?” he asks while loading ammo into his backpack. “How many bullets does it take to change the world?”

  With arms and armor and iron expressions, they wonder if it will be enough. Reports have been coming in of chaos, danger, pain. “If we could only stop the pain from happening,” they say. “If we could only wipe the world clean.” But how many bullets will it take?

  At night, the men in the rebel camp keep the lights and their voices low; they keep guns at their side, but whisper their hope that the sun will rise on a better world, a new world, a just world. They sit on boxes of ammunition, hoping it will be enough.

  And the blood pours out. In the streets, at the hospitals, in the refugee camps, the dying cry “Enough! Enough!” Nurses and loved ones hold their hands, watch the light fade from their eyes; they ask the heavens, “When will there ever be enough?”

  How many bullets until the world has changed?

  Hands

  It looked like a lump of iron, cold and dense. “Dad?” Cindi said, lifting it off the shelf. “What’s this?”

  “What?” Harold looked up from the box he was sorting, and his eyes fixed on the object.

  “I love you, you know.”

  “I love you too.”

  “And I trust you. More than I’ve ever trusted anyone.

  “It was your mother’s,” he said hastily. “Leave it alone.”

  “But what is it?” Cindi asked.

  “I want to give you something.”

  Harold looked over the dusty items scattered around the basement. He had thought he was ready, but now it was all too much.
“We’re done for the day,” he said. “This junk can wait to be sorted.”

  It was smaller than you might expect, but heavy and hot to the touch.

  “For you,” she said, placing her heart into his hands. “Take care of it for me?”

  Harold was heading for the stairs, but Cindi grabbed his arm. “Is everything alright?”

  “Leave it.”

  “Dad.”

  He pushed away. Then he heard it shatter.

  “Dad—I’m sorry.”

  Harold fell to the ground trying to scoop up the pieces. They crumbled to dust, slipping out of his fingers like soot and coating his fingers black.