Houses for Writing

Dark It's blackness filters through my city like spilled ink through clear water

I walk out of a dim city into my apartment

Flip on a single light switch, a naked bulb flickers unconfidently

The chair groans as I set down my work things

The sudden blockage creates more shadows, but they're running out of places to

be

They cover corners and hide in spaces

They dance along the walls when in a spotlight

I'm tired of having these shadows live with me

Tired of sharing my life with them

I miss the rainbow of lights out my window, the mixture of neon signs and lit advertisements

The full lighting of my apartment keeping me from bumping my shin on the box

near the door

Why haven't I moved that box yet?

Because I simply bump into it with another limb, in another area

How I loathe this ever looming dark

Zach turned over, onto his back. Sunlight crept through the gaped blinds, and Zach swung an arm over his eyes in protest. What time was it, noon? Why hadn't Jenna woken him? Zach clicked his tongue in disapproval, and noticed something.

Something delicious.

He licked his lips and tasted more deliciousness. Oh boy, he was still full from that cow last night. At the time, though, it hadn't tasted this good. "Wow Jenna, you sure can pick 'em. Jenna?" Zach patted the spot next to him. Not only wasn't it warm, but it was wet. Zach shot up and looked over at- blood. A large swatch of blood. It from their ratty sheets down the floor, trailing out the bedroom door.

Zach threw off the sheets and followed the trail. It led to a half eaten corpse lying face down on the rug. Large craters of skin were missing from random spots of her body. In a pool of her own blood, Jenna no longer shined of radiance and perfection. Now she was dead. And he had... Zach had... He couldn’t complete the thought. His hands covered his mouth as he shook with horror. He wanted her blood off of him. Out of his mouth and hair and off his hands. And he wanted her out of his stomach.

This is who he really was- a monster. Monsters shouldn't be allowed to live. Furious and upset, Zach couldn't take it any longer. He moved to one of their windows, on the second story, and tilted his body over the pane. He fell, head first, into the concrete. A sickening crack sounded, and blood soon began to ooze from his skull. Onlookers gasped and flailed frantically, whipping out cell phones and dialing emergency numbers.

No one saw the boy’s eyes blink, or flex of his hand.

He was kept in a place that smelled like old people. You'd think that would mean it smells bad, but it didn't, not really. It was similar to a hospital, with the antiseptics and ammonia. Add the smell of something ancient- something you could never recognize, because you could never place it anywhere.

He's playing chess; the cinema cliché that always made me smile when I saw the truth of it. His wrinkled, withered hands would reach for a piece; hands that had held and touched so many things. Hands that helped, hands that harmed. He reached for his knight.

I join him outside on a bright autumn day. The various colors flutter from the trees, landing soft in the grass before the wind rustles them to the left. A worn wooden chair is pulled out for me to sit in. I entwine my hands together in front of me, and I take deep breaths to relax myself. I feel as nervous as a student presenting a last minute project to a class that's actually paying attention. My palms are sweaty, despite the chilly breeze.

I hear my name introduced, and I look up at the fossil before me. He smiles, skin stretched past frown lines and laugh lines to reveal tinted teeth. His eyes crinkle too, but there's a dull, bored emptiness in his eyes. He says it's my move, but I have no idea how. A hand reaches over my shoulder to make the move for me.

"How are you, Vincent?" I ask politely.

"Fine, fine. A bit chilly today, isn't it?"

I smile, because he's referencing the weather; I grow a little less nervous. His grandson begins explaining the rules and ways of the game. "You're very pretty young woman." I look away from the chess board. This is a different man. His eyes are sharp, and I feel as though he's looking through me. Gone was the idle, passive old man. In his place was an investigator, looking at the object in question as if he could decipher every hidden quality, every dark secret. My anxiety increased, my heart pounding as my mind raced with doubts. Did the wind mess up my hair? Did I dress appropriately? Am I being too quiet? What if he doesn’t-?

"I like you." He nods his head, satisfied with his conclusion. The air in my lungs expels in an almost audible whoosh. His grandson chuckles next to me; he knows me all too well.

Vincent turns his body so that he’s further in his grandson’s direction, drawing forward some invisible curtain to block his conversation. "I like her, Edgar. She’s pretty." I'm blushing now, careful to keep my mouth shut; denying the compliment stays in my head. "And she’s got something else there, too. Hold onto this one." His grandson nods, turning in my direction so I can see his wide, all-knowing smile.

We return back to our game, and it's Vincent's move. He saves his king from a check mate, and then looks back at me, startled. "Hello there!" He greets again, skin stretching tight around his face. "Hello Vincent," I answer, my nerves calm in sense of repetition. His grandson reintroduces us, and we continue playing the game.

It should be raining. It always rains in these situations. Always.

But it's not.

I feel the cold chill of the morning air seeping through my skin to settle in my heart. I'm surrounded by death, both literally and figuratively. I'm staring at the coffin as it lowers into the ground, and I feel his grandson clench his hand in mine. His face, however, remains dry.

All around us, you'd think the spectators were dead. They stand motionless, eyes wide with fear as a loved one sinks further into the ground. Afraid that one day that will be them. Others dab at their eyes, their sorrow obvious but not clear. We are crowded around this hole to honor a great man. Why was he great? What did he do? It doesn't matter now. They're here to mourn.

When I return home, we eat some ice cream and watch an old horror movie. Its pitiful how the 70's attempt to depict fear, with loud sporadic opera music and overly dramatic facial expressions. Halfway into the feature, I feel a sense of wrong. This isn't what we're supposed to be doing. I'm supposed to hold him, comfort him. He's supposed to cry on my shoulder as I pat his back. This isn't... normal.

When I asked if he's okay, that it's not healthy to keep these feelings buried inside, he laughs. He laughs, and he laughs, until he fights back tears and clutches his stomach. I cross my arms, because I’m not trying to be funny.

When he calms, I share my thoughts with him. When I finish, he's laughing again. I remind him of what he's lost, of the person whose vacancy is noticeable, and he tries to explain himself, least I huff and puff and leave my position next to him on the couch.

He says, "I loved my grandfather. I've always loved everything about him. The war stories that excited me as a child, and the love stories that influenced the romantic side of me." At this, I roll my eyes.

"I remember the dinners my grandmother cooked for him, and the candy he snuck to me afterwards. I remember sitting on his shoulders to better see the zoo animals." He reaches for my hand and rubs his thumb over my knuckles. "I remember him yelling at his own son in an effort to defend me. I remember crying into his shirt for comfort." He pulls me closer, wrapping me in his warmth.

"I remember introducing you to him, and I remember the three of us playing chess with awkward enthusiasm." I'm smiling now, because I recall that day so perfectly. "There's nothing to mourn, really. Everyone has to die eventually." While his answer sounds cold and detached, I look at this face to find glistening eyes. "I loved my grandfather for all that did. Even if he can't be here in his body, he'll always be here in my memories. And for now, that's good enough."