The Fall
by Neil S Howe
There under the sheet lies the fetal form, the grey clenched fist and his tired breathing. He can’t take water except for a little sponge on a stick. To wet his lips. Little slivers of life in the eyes, but he can’t see. There my grandfather fights but for what? He is caught between the fear of death and the relief of letting go. The one great fear. The courage. He has to face this alone. The courage of a warrior and the quietest of ripples from the fall. Why fight.? Why pain. Why endure. Why live? Sitting next to him so he doesn’t fall over. Drinking coffee. He scratches his head in quick furtive ruffles of the hair. The leaning almost on purpose. The dance that involves hugging. The programmed self sufficiency that is so fragile to maintain. He laughs at his own inequities. He knew and faught to preserve them. His pride. Pride and fear. That was the dance. I can do this. I can do this. I did this. I will do this. Face down death. And pass. Ready….
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The Spring
by Neil Howe
Window opens onto lawn of blossoms from pear tree. Satan sits on a milk crate. Blue milk crate. He is smiling into the morning sun. A mason jar of moonshine sits next to him refracting light against his polished black shoe. The wind picks up and his foot begins to tap a rhythm. Slow at first and steadily quickening tempo. The wind follows suit and begins to thrash the tree violently. But suddenly the wind and tapping stop. There is only a softly beating heart, like snowflakes hitting the ground. Skin as delicate as white petals slips through the branches of the tree and the female form of spring comes to rest. With the sun across the sky, a gentle rain begins to fall from the advance of a dark and looming thunderhead. Tap Tap Tap against her skin. Her breathing quickens as the rain intensifies and grows colder. The devil’s smile turns to laughter in defiance of the thunder. The woman looks up and smiles at him. They begin to dance.
Sound
by Neil Howe
A hummingbird darts softly across her view, leaving a purr in her ears. She opens her hand and reaches into the creamy sunlight. She wiggles her fingers, watching the shadows cast upon the planks of the wooden floor. Little shining dust particles flit and spiral as her hand moves through. She paces the small room with one sunlit window. She is restless. But the mime never stirs. Patiently counting the beats of her heart.
Suddenly a small child runs through the room wildly grasping at the air. A brightly colored butterfly bounces across the room like a feather in a storm. She carefully captures it between her hands, careful not to disturb the dust on its wings. She smiles up at the woman, handing it to her like some living trophy . The woman looks at the girl and her prize for a moment and then graciously thanks her for the gift. The butterfly flutters in her hands.
An old man wanders into the quiet room with a small box under his arm. The sunlight from the window is warm on his face but he cannot see even that. He is blind. The girl grasps his hand and he smiles. He places the box at his feet and motions the woman and the girl over to it. He motions for them to come closer to it. The room is silent save their heartbeats and the hummingbird and the butterfly. They hear nothing for a moment and then a loud “RRRRRIIIBBBIIITT!!!” comes from the box. The old man tips it on its side and a large and ugly frog hops out. The mother smiles and the girl laughs and the old man grins jubilantly.
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First Day Out
By: Neil S. Howe
He just got out of jail and he wants to brag about that to me. He leans over the counter and says, “Don’t ever go there.” Like I’m the idiot. He says it was his first stop after being released. Tequila. Not good tequila but lots of it. Hell if it had been me I would opt for a bottle of wine and a pizza. This guy was in for drug trafficking from mexico. Bunch of bullshit he called it. Hell I’ve never done anything that would have gotten me more that a fine. Which is fine. My record is clean. I can hear the music over the loudspeaker. Its obvious and my hands are clean. Germs on stock and on money. I don’t like touching it. This last guy sure gave me a wad to untangle. I wonder if they gave him this upon leaving the prison. A guard all starched to the yard slips him a twenty through the buffed stainless drawer. I notice the dead crickets are piling up in the shadows, under shelves and behind cabinets. Another price tag clatters on the tile. This place generates more dead crickets and tin on its floors than it does drunks. I sweep softly. The ice machine shatters another fill in the back room. The cooler doors flap shut only milliseconds apart. 6 of them clapping under pressure. Prison generates strong appetites. The neons buzz and the crickets call out. The door shuts behind him and all routine sounds endure like silence and I wonder what his second stop will be.
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Austin City Limits
by: Neil Howe
I was inside the liquor store and stocking shelves when my boss called out to me that someone in the parking lot needed a pitcher of water. As I walked to the sink I noticed a SUV outside with its hood open and there was a small crowd gathered around peering under it. I filled up the pitcher and made the assumption that the radiator had leaked and the car was overheating. I walked outside with the water and man pointed at something sitting on a small panel of metal deep beneath the engine. It surprised me when I saw it move. A furry little cat face stared up at me. As I spoke to various people I found out that they had heard something strange as they were patiently loitering while their driver purchased some booze. So the consensus was that this cat had crawled up in there somehow in the few minutes it had taken to stretch their legs. It seemed strange but plausible. Meanwhile, the crowd of people were all taunting the cat trying to scare it out of there. Someone had suggested pouring the water on it but it seemed inappropriate. So I ran in a got a broom which a man used to poke at it repeatedly with very little success. We were all trying to determine the best course of action and I heard their story. They had come from Houston and were visiting relatives in Johnson City, about a half an hour from Austin to the West. This was their first stop and had decided to get some booze and their way. But they had heard this cat and discovered the surprise. Finally a man with long arms reached down in there and pulled this rather docile cat out by the scruff. We had a box ready but noticed a bright blue collar and a tag. This woman looked at the collar and recognized the number instantly as it was in fact not from Austin at all and instead belonged to her neighbor 200 miles away… in Houston.
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Violence
Violence.
Face down in the mud, I am demoralized. My body says run but I can’t get away. They pull him back. The shouts are blending together and his angry yells fall away. I feel silence. My body does. I can’t feel hear or see anything. But I know where I am. A foot is pushing my face deeper into the muddy field. Nothing. Slipping away from me is my strength and control. Where courage comes from I don’t know. I stand up and throw myself at him. Headfirst I crash into his face. My arms swing wildly. There is no controlling these things. I don’t like it. I like him even less and it happens. I can see the blood. Again silence and I fall in the rain.
Standing over a body.
I look down at her there in my bed. Sunshine brushes her thigh and softly lands in my eye. So quiet. Her hair is spread across the pillow and spills off the bed’s edge. I walk into the bathroom and look in the mirror. I see myself there with a look in my eye. I recognize you. We met once when I was younger. You look different than you did. We pass again and gone. You now are unfamiliar to me. I close the medicine cabinet. I quit my job today. Just now. Looking at the state of things. That freedom. Gone in the mirror with that me I knew.
Her way with me.
I tag along into the streets. First we visit the café and the funny guy standing by the cream. There was the guy together with the angry father. There is the woman with the orange coat and then the happy young woman facing south. The old horse was totally out of place and it smelled. I bought you that and we both notice it. Never stop.
Laughing.
Stab that guy one more time if you would. In the gut. Kill him violently. Rip his arms by jesting. Tear away his skin with a dull, creeping pun. Bleed him with absurdity. Gouge his eyes. Beat his wife. Sit on his bedside when he is ill and feed him poison. Drive over his dog with your car. Set fire to his closet. Strangle his kids. Pour acid on his genitals. Cut off his head and then talk to it for weeks. Remain dead-pan and give them nothing. Kill him from jail and then send his parents a jar of vomit. Put a return address of #1 North Pole and stamp it with a smiling Elvis.
If its still feels good after all that, then for the love of god stay down next time.
by: Neil Howe
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Along the Fences.
It started out as fried fish steamed away in its fryer. Bubbles of hot oil sputtered and dances in the large vat of oil. In went the chips. The flavors mixing with the hot air being pumped out into the street. The smell meandered its way through the streets of the old town and up into the noses of shop keepers and lovers out on the town. The sun was about to set but before the final customer proceeded on and the doors closed for the night a group of boys tipped their bikes against the wall. They were there for the drippings. The vat-nuggets that every night the owner would sift from the oil into a bucket he would otherwise discard. Their timing was perfect. One of them was 18 and bought the tall cans for the crew. They would stand around until their parents called them in and drink and smoke and chow. Their parents didn’t command the street. They did. Essentially they did what they wanted. The beer and the cigarettes were part of the younger generation as much as politics was to the older. These kids didn’t care about politics. They cared about girls and being tough. They met the girls after their parents fell asleep. Both would sneak out and meet at the school fence before climbing in and climbing to its roof. They would rap and fight and try to impress the girls, most of whom were several years younger than they even though the boys ranged from 14 to 18 years old. The girls, there were four of them ranged from ages 14 to 16.5. There were 3 boys. The city lights cast light about and created shadows everywhere. It wouldn’t be tough to hide if anyone came around. But no-one did. They were all good kids too. The older boys watched out for the younger kids. They were a family. They understood the value of sticking together. Especially since the boys for the next street over had it in for one of them. On Sundays the girl gardened and the boys worked on the house as they did every summer. Repairing beams and laying brick. It was a microcosm, their little houses and street. It was old and everything needed constant attention. It’s easy to lose one’s self in details. The flowers and plants in their pots were just at the right level. The trees were cut back in decorative arrays. The lawn was weed-less and the gate was painted. At dinner the families would come together and suspend the day to food and wine and laughter. There were old jokes and new perspectives on common things. Everybody had something to share and they did. Stories and quotes from the books they were reading. Difficulties they had overcome. People they had met and liked. They never talked about the things that weren’t appropriate. There was always a social structure to be adhered to. Maybe less a structure than a respect for the fragile things and the retention of those things that caused them harm. This was the family. The rest was school, both in the street and in the classrooms. Both were intrinsically valuable to the kids. The parents had work and their family. These are the things they thought about. Of course there were little pleasures like food and humor. The paper and the morning and coffee. The glass of brandy before turning in. The safety. The kids felt safe on their street and in their homes. Even the kids who faught knew that nothing would ever happen .It was part of their life to come up against the wall and a better part to walk along it. Along with the smell of drippings and their bike rides along their street came a sense that their older lives would be like their families and it didn’t bother them at all. They had the choice of course but didn’t want it. They wanted to take away from life that little they put in. The walls and fences were there to walk along and sometimes perfect to climb.
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