I recently bought more records than I can actually afford, and this LaVern Baker one did not disappoint.

Here's a song on that record,

You Really Got A Hold On Me

Cemetery

This story was accepted into Catch, the Knox College literary magazine. Let's ignore the fact that I recently graduated.

"Cemetery"


In the backyard, the guys stand around the grill, smoking and ashing their cigarettes onto the grass. Mario claims he’s done this before, that he knows how, but the grill still isn’t lit. The sun goes down, falling behind the trees in the graveyard at the end of the block. On the foldout chair by the back porch, the thawed hotdogs and hamburger patties are set, covered from the insects that have returned for the season. Mario holds his hand over the grill; he feels nothing.

Larry goes to the cooler to bring back more beer, digging through ice for new cans, and handing them out, dripping. They begin to debate whether to use lighter fluid—after some time, they agree not to, and to start over; they dump the used charcoal in a corner of the yard where the grass doesn’t grow. This time Mario reads the directions.

Daisy stands under the front porch light, by two people she knows but isn’t close to. She listens in and out of their conversation, holding a beer like it’s not what it is. Tonight she wears a new dress she bought in the city, and a new hair color. Earlier today, she dyed her hair over the kitchen sink of her apartment—the one in the bathroom has long been broken, and the landlord forgets to come by. In the past, Mario came by. With a towel over her shoulders, she watched the dye stain the dirty plates, the silverware, and circle around the drain.

Mario comes around the front to tell everyone that the food is cooking. He sees Daisy under the light, but he talks to other people first. When everyone goes into the house, making their way to the back door, Mario and Daisy begin to talk, but about nothing. He looks away, down at the porch floor, and sees her legs crossed. She’s leaning against the post with her hands behind her back, her new blonde hair falling in her face. When he asks her if she’d like to go for a walk, she pretends that this isn’t a sweetheart deal.

Walking slow, they reach the graveyard, and Daisy says she’s never been. Mario pushes the gate open and goes in first. Going through, they read the names and dates in stone, the epitaphs they think they’ll remember, but none will stay. By a grave with a statue of a civil war soldier they sit and don’t speak. When Daisy tucks her hair behind her ear, Mario holds her face and brings it towards his. On the ground, he feels for her skirt and pulls it up. Daisy will think about the grass stains later.

Back at the house, in the backyard, Larry is buzzed. In the corner of the yard he sees the space where they dumped the first batch of charcoal, lit red and heat waves rising. In the upstairs bathroom they fill a bucket of water in the bathtub, spilling its contents on the hardwood floor as they make their way downstairs and out the back door to the burning spot. When the small fire is out, no one notices that Daisy and Mario have been gone until they return, back from trying to raise the dead.

This song was in my head all day

Also the Best

Simply the Best

Some Things

It has been months since my arrival and I think I finally feel settled, here in Chicago. I remember the move from Galesburg, in the passenger seat of the cargo van, everything packed in boxes behind me. My cat, Taffy, wouldn't stop whining. I held her, hoping it would calm her. Her face was horrifying. Her eyes were actually bulging, she was panting. As if she couldn't believe the road was moving below us. In a way, I almost felt the same way; my biggest fear, since moving to Galesburg, was being stuck in Galesburg. Last year, a professor asked me, after reviewing a story, if I was happy. I didn't know how to answer, and this professor seems to have trouble separating fact from fiction. It was spring. He said that Galesburg was a great place to nurture melancholy; he said he was worried. I was stoned when I left Galesburg, and the sun was beginning to set. On the road, insects crashed against the windshield, their remains spread across by the windshield whippers.

Now I have a routine, one which I appreciate after a month of unemployment. My office is on the fifth floor of a building you wouldn't think twice to look at, across the street from St. Peter's church. I watch the pigeons gather on top of the crucified Christ, and the window-washers suspended above many stories, working diligently, without fear.

I'm in love with my neighborhood, Andersonville. It's a place where children can play on the street. In the summer, they set up lemonade stands, and draw on the sidewalk with chalk--the summer rains smearing the colors. I stay mostly indoors. When I hear the gates crash outside, I run to the picture window, hoping to catch a look at one of my neighbors. This has become the most physically demanding activity I do at home. Mostly, I nap on the couch with the television on. The cold has arrived and this only encourages my napping. It has been very easy not to write. However, I have been reading. I recently finished Bad Behavior* by Mary Gaitskill, The Collected Stories of Amy Hempel**, Tunneling to the Center of the Earth* by Kevin Wilson, The Feast of the Goat** by Mario Vargas Llosa, and The Safety of Objects, by A.M. Homes.
(*=recommended; **=strongly recommended)

I recently started a story this week. It's very exciting, for me, at least. So far, I have four sentences. Let's hope I make it to ten by the end of the week.