He’s hunting for another version of hell. Can’t you be satisfied with the one you’ve got? says his wife. The brain needs novelty, he replies. Everyone’s got a pointy-headed brother, a cactus that won’t blossom, or a seven year itch that makes you sweat.
She says Tell me about it, twisting her ring and watching the cumulous-riddled blue move over their car. How much sky can clouds occupy anyway? How many circles are there in hell? She lets him count them while she disappears into the cloud that has somehow squeezed in through the sunroof. She breaks off a pretty piece of sky and arrows it into the fluff, and then arranges the entire confection low on her brow. He does not notice what she’s doing, he’s too busy reciting the circles’ sins as if off a menu: Limbo ... Lust ...Gluttony ...Greed... Anger... Heresy ...Violence... Fraud… Treachery.
She’s the one who first sees the yellow Shell gas station sign that now reads HELL, 1 mile. Stop! she screams. She gets out of the car and looks for the piece of the sign fallen on the ground. She finds it curled up like a fawn in a nest of weeds. She picks it up and poses with the S, laughing, Look, Honey, we’re almost there!
“You’re pretty cumulus,” he said, and I asked if he meant I was heavenly, like a golden daffodil.
“Puffy,” he said. “Like a cotton ball.”
All day I’d been grafting orange blossoms onto raspberry canes and picking ticks off the dog. Sweat was trickling down my collarbone, forming a tributary somewhere at the bottom of my bra.
I was flashing, hotly. Boiling. Blistering. My drag queen name was Perry Menopausal.
All of which is to say, I was not in a mood to suffer fools gladly. So I hauled off and hit him with the pointy end of a cactus.
Now I wander lonely as a cloud. I’m on the highway to Hell. Getting closer all the time.
Damn this is wonderful. I love all the details, the dialogue snippets, laughed over Perry Menopausal! And the pointy end of a cactus! Wondering about ending the story on "closer all the time".
A pitch-black night. A dog lopes into the road. I swerve but am too late. Whimpering, slick with blood and the sweat of fear, the creature dies in my arms.
Deadhorse, Arkansas (8). Dead Woman Crossing, Oklahoma (9).
At a roadside attraction, a pretty carny fortune-teller, her eyes dolorous, strokes and kisses the palm of my hand.
Truth or Consequences, New Mexico (10). Nothing, Arizona (11).
Spine-pointy cactus, each proffering a single white blossom, puncture the low cumulus sky.
Nowhere, Colorado (12). Pray, Montana (13).
My engine dies, and I wander into a church. It’s Good Friday, and the congregants sing, pray, celebrate their Messiah’s death and resurrection.
Hell, Michigan (14).
I’ve walked and hitchhiked the last several hundred miles. Only one mile left, the sign says, and I glimpse the landing from which I’ll be conveyed across the river.
The ferryman beckons.
NOTE: The 14 names are the names of genuine towns.
I may be posing in front of a Shell station sign, with the 'S' painted out, all June Cleaver, Leave it to Beaver pretty–but when I drive past those fields behind me into Mayfield, sweating like a dog, I hope what I see aren't white cumulous clouds above little white houses with white picket fences, and perfect blonde housewives, serving perfect blonde husbands, perfect bland meals, in perfect white pearls and perfectly coiffed hair, while their golden-haired children watch golden age sitcoms on black and white tv–I hope what I see are the rallying cries of my colorful friends, marching down main street.
This is wonderful! Especially love the lists of whites blondes and goldens.. So well captured, this kind of claustrophobic perfection and the desire to transcend. Amazing.
On the road, Papaw rolled up his sleeves, revealing his anchor tattoo.
“Dad, they have a reading room, maybe they’ll let you recite some of your Tom Clancy novels,” Mom said.
“Judging by the brochure pictures, the cafeteria food’s a clear and present danger,” he said.
We were a mile away from Limbo Manor when he started calling me Dante.
“Papaw, I’m Rick,” I said.
“Tricked me into the fifth circle with that Mr. Goodbar did ya?”
He was right, I did, he loved those things. It was all I could think of to get him in the car.
Mom couldn’t handle him getting up at night, not knowing where he was. He picked at the cumulous skin tags on his neck, still upset his pet cactus couldn’t come.
“Water it for me, will ya Dante?” He asked as the nurse collected him.
“They don’t need much, Papaw.”
“This is for putting your dog down when you were little isn’t it?” He said to Mom who started to cry.
He grinned at the pretty nurse, rolling up his sleeves higher. He stumbled a little, regaining composure. He said it had been a while since he used his sea legs.
Wow! This is heartbreaking Guy. I love it. Such tenderness in this story. Great dialogue. Love the anchor tattoo, and how you end this with "sea legs". And "Limbo manor"! So many wonderful details, also cumulous skin tags. The only place I'd look at is the line about the Mom not being able to handle him getting up at night. Instead, you might give us an example of where she finds him in the middle of the night, confused, to show the reader those terrible moments.
Hell Hunter
He’s hunting for another version of hell. Can’t you be satisfied with the one you’ve got? says his wife. The brain needs novelty, he replies. Everyone’s got a pointy-headed brother, a cactus that won’t blossom, or a seven year itch that makes you sweat.
She says Tell me about it, twisting her ring and watching the cumulous-riddled blue move over their car. How much sky can clouds occupy anyway? How many circles are there in hell? She lets him count them while she disappears into the cloud that has somehow squeezed in through the sunroof. She breaks off a pretty piece of sky and arrows it into the fluff, and then arranges the entire confection low on her brow. He does not notice what she’s doing, he’s too busy reciting the circles’ sins as if off a menu: Limbo ... Lust ...Gluttony ...Greed... Anger... Heresy ...Violence... Fraud… Treachery.
She’s the one who first sees the yellow Shell gas station sign that now reads HELL, 1 mile. Stop! she screams. She gets out of the car and looks for the piece of the sign fallen on the ground. She finds it curled up like a fawn in a nest of weeds. She picks it up and poses with the S, laughing, Look, Honey, we’re almost there!
Marla Walks the Last Mile
“You’re pretty cumulus,” he said, and I asked if he meant I was heavenly, like a golden daffodil.
“Puffy,” he said. “Like a cotton ball.”
All day I’d been grafting orange blossoms onto raspberry canes and picking ticks off the dog. Sweat was trickling down my collarbone, forming a tributary somewhere at the bottom of my bra.
I was flashing, hotly. Boiling. Blistering. My drag queen name was Perry Menopausal.
All of which is to say, I was not in a mood to suffer fools gladly. So I hauled off and hit him with the pointy end of a cactus.
Now I wander lonely as a cloud. I’m on the highway to Hell. Getting closer all the time.
I like it that way.
Damn this is wonderful. I love all the details, the dialogue snippets, laughed over Perry Menopausal! And the pointy end of a cactus! Wondering about ending the story on "closer all the time".
VIA CRUCIS
Satan’s Kingdom, Massachusetts (1). Slaughter Beach, Delaware (2). Accident, Maryland (3). Hurt, Virginia (4). Kill Devil, North Carolina (5).
Fourteen towns, fourteen stations.
Monkey’s Paw, Kentucky (6). Difficult, Tennessee (7).
A pitch-black night. A dog lopes into the road. I swerve but am too late. Whimpering, slick with blood and the sweat of fear, the creature dies in my arms.
Deadhorse, Arkansas (8). Dead Woman Crossing, Oklahoma (9).
At a roadside attraction, a pretty carny fortune-teller, her eyes dolorous, strokes and kisses the palm of my hand.
Truth or Consequences, New Mexico (10). Nothing, Arizona (11).
Spine-pointy cactus, each proffering a single white blossom, puncture the low cumulus sky.
Nowhere, Colorado (12). Pray, Montana (13).
My engine dies, and I wander into a church. It’s Good Friday, and the congregants sing, pray, celebrate their Messiah’s death and resurrection.
Hell, Michigan (14).
I’ve walked and hitchhiked the last several hundred miles. Only one mile left, the sign says, and I glimpse the landing from which I’ll be conveyed across the river.
The ferryman beckons.
NOTE: The 14 names are the names of genuine towns.
I really enjoyed this Joseph! Such brilliant names of towns. Amazing stuff.
We're Not Going Back
I may be posing in front of a Shell station sign, with the 'S' painted out, all June Cleaver, Leave it to Beaver pretty–but when I drive past those fields behind me into Mayfield, sweating like a dog, I hope what I see aren't white cumulous clouds above little white houses with white picket fences, and perfect blonde housewives, serving perfect blonde husbands, perfect bland meals, in perfect white pearls and perfectly coiffed hair, while their golden-haired children watch golden age sitcoms on black and white tv–I hope what I see are the rallying cries of my colorful friends, marching down main street.
This is wonderful! Especially love the lists of whites blondes and goldens.. So well captured, this kind of claustrophobic perfection and the desire to transcend. Amazing.
Bon Voyage
On the road, Papaw rolled up his sleeves, revealing his anchor tattoo.
“Dad, they have a reading room, maybe they’ll let you recite some of your Tom Clancy novels,” Mom said.
“Judging by the brochure pictures, the cafeteria food’s a clear and present danger,” he said.
We were a mile away from Limbo Manor when he started calling me Dante.
“Papaw, I’m Rick,” I said.
“Tricked me into the fifth circle with that Mr. Goodbar did ya?”
He was right, I did, he loved those things. It was all I could think of to get him in the car.
Mom couldn’t handle him getting up at night, not knowing where he was. He picked at the cumulous skin tags on his neck, still upset his pet cactus couldn’t come.
“Water it for me, will ya Dante?” He asked as the nurse collected him.
“They don’t need much, Papaw.”
“This is for putting your dog down when you were little isn’t it?” He said to Mom who started to cry.
He grinned at the pretty nurse, rolling up his sleeves higher. He stumbled a little, regaining composure. He said it had been a while since he used his sea legs.
Wow! This is heartbreaking Guy. I love it. Such tenderness in this story. Great dialogue. Love the anchor tattoo, and how you end this with "sea legs". And "Limbo manor"! So many wonderful details, also cumulous skin tags. The only place I'd look at is the line about the Mom not being able to handle him getting up at night. Instead, you might give us an example of where she finds him in the middle of the night, confused, to show the reader those terrible moments.
That’s great input Meg! I agree I think it would enhance that overall feeling with that adjustment —Thank you!.
Guy Cramer I'm so sorry for my late response on this! Will comment today. x