38. (Hoo!)

I haven't got anything to say today.

I saw an owl on my way to school. As I started to cross the bike-bridge past Berry, it swooped past me. I slammed on my breaks and swore. Startled, it flew off.

I've been trying all day to attach some meaning to it, but I've decided not to. It doesn't need a meaning. It was simply a wonder.

37. (A preview.)

The following text is raw--uneditted, unproofread, unspellchecked. Please forgive any spelling or grammar errors, as I honestly don't give a damn in this stage of the writing process.

...from "City" (working title), a short story currently in the works, by Jayson Marsh:



There are fires. The smoke rises up out of the rubble, blocking the view of the city below. A city destroyed, a city under siege by itself, a city in ruins. Behind me the blades of the rescue helicopter tear through the air, but my mind’s not on them. I’m looking down from the roof of the skyscraper I work–worked, probably–in, wind in my hair, tie flying to-and-fro, tears gathering in my eyes. Someone behind me is yelling at me to get on the copter.

The chopper takes off without me. The pilot is obviously in a hurry. I let it leave without protest. I have something I have to do first.

I take my last look at the blue sky, and I remember sandy-blonde hair. I remember crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes. I remember her favorite blue dress. I remember how her skin felt against my fingers, how it smelt, how it tasted. It’s a long staircase down, so I’m given a lot of time to remember. And a lot of time to think.

The first quakes hit us at nine in the morning, just as the workday was starting. I’d watched Elise put her class plan together the night before, so I know she would have just been starting teaching her kids their math lessons. The initial shockwaves weren’t that bad, and they probably went into emergency-drill mode and ducked under their desks or unto doorframes. I can imagine them just peeking out after the all-clear when the second wave hit.

I don’t need to imagine the screams, or the sound of the ceiling falling in, or bodies and debris hitting the ground as people scurried for shelter. I heard all of that in my office. I remember shaking like some dumb kid who hasn’t lived in. I remember watching Caroline’s arm break when the monitor tipped off her desk and landed on it.

I remember putting her on the helicopter, alive. I have only a vague idea of how many days later that was. Five? Six? A whole week? We were trapped inside for so long that I didn’t see the blue sky for days. I don’t know when the next time I’ll see it is.

Ground-level. I was right: the black smoke from the fires has completely blotted out the sky above me. I squint, and rub my eyes. The city is deathly quiet around me. I can’t see anyone. The street is peppered with rubble large and small, the remains of cars without wheels or, I’m sure, stereos. Here and there bodies stand out amid the grey, mostly grey themselves with splashes of the blue or the yellow or the green of their clothing or, more often, the red of their blood. Five or six or however many days ago it was, I might have wretched. Now I’m too hollow to bring anything to the surface.

I head north, towards the school. It’s going to be a long walk, but if I’m going to find my wife that’s where I should start. The helicopter pilot told us that even the rescue services were having trouble getting into most buildings, and there weren’t any rendevous places for survivors to meet up. There was no real way on or off the island, really, so rescue crews had to fly in and out. The going was slow, but they were getting people out as quick as they could. We all heard the helicopter with the loudspeaker on the first day telling people to stay where they were, to avoid wandering around the ruins, to stay inside and barricade all doors and windows until someone could get there to help them.

I wonder if they heard that same helicopter at the school? I know the faculty has always had a back-up food store in the basement, in case something like this ever happened; teachers are smart–I’m sure Elise and her coworkers stayed there, waiting for help.
And yes, I realize how much of a fool I am for trying to do this myself, instead of letting the professionals take care of it. Damn my hero complex–I can’t help myself, honestly. I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night, even if she made it out safe and sound. I have to do something, even if it’s pointless.

I walk for hours. I hit sections of the city that are so collapsed in on themselves that I can’t tell what direction I’m facing. As the black cloud above me starts to grow darker, as the sun goes down against a blue sky I can’t see, I realize that I am totally, helplessly lost. It’s amazing how different a grid-like city-structure can seem so foreign when it’s half-buried under the buildings that used to form the grin. I hunker down for the night under a halfway-collapsed wall, sheltered from the winds that come rushing between the remaining high-rises. It’s late fall. The nights are very cold.

I only manage to sleep a couple of hours.

36. (Dream a little dream?)

555-4635. No. 555-4626. No. 555-4646. No. Damn it, fingers, dial. Wait--no, damn, that's a pound sign. I hate this stupid fucking phone. Dial. Dial. C'mon, please. Heart's beating. Fast. Like, seriously beating--damn, damn, damn. Why are these buttons so small? Mom's number is so much easier to dial, for some reason. Dad's always gives me problems. Come on, come on--there, got it.

Dial-tone. Dial-tone. Dial-tone. Come on, old man, pick up.

"Hello?"

And everything comes rushing back to me. Dominique's plane arriving. Winning that car in the contest. Selling it when my mom made me. The storm. Hiding in the basement. My house getting torn to shreds. My aunt's shop being ripped apart. Giving the car money away to help my family. My mother's stupid fucking drama. I'm so tired of it. So I told Dom I'd fly to the UK with her. Just for a few days, to get away from it all. Just for a few days.

And here I am at the airport, desperately trying to get a hold of one of my parents so they don't think I'm dead or something. Why the hell wasn't Mom's phone on? Why the hell are the buttons to small on this stupid thing?

"Where are you?" he asks me, and I find I can't answer right away.

The airport, I tell him.

"Seeing that girlfriend of yours off?"

I tell him she's not my girlfriend. I tell him we're just good friends. He chuckles. And I tell him I'm going away.

"What?"

I tell him I'm getting on the plane with her and flying to Britain. Just for a few days. He asks me if my mother knows. I tell him I couldn't get a hold of her. I tell him I'm sorry I didn't tell them sooner. I tell him a lot of things.

"But just for a few days, right?"

I tell him, right, just for a few days. The plane's boarding now, I continue. I've really got to get going. He tells me he loves me. He tells me Mom feels the same. My hands are shaking. I tell him I love them both, too.

And I hang up the phone and start down the little retractable tunnel thing that leads to the plane. I'm aboard, but I'm still shaking and my heart's still pumping full-throttle. I look down the middle aisle and the plane seems to double, triple in length, twisting and turning.

I'm afraid of flying.

And then Dom's hand is in mine, and she's tugging me into a seat. Our hands end up in my lap. She smiles. I take a deep breath.

It'll just be a few days.

Right?

35. (And now.)

What if clocks were set on a 25 hour iteration?
What if the years were two months longer?
What if the moon really was made of cheese?
What if concrete floated on water?
What if the sky was violet at mid-day?
What if clouds were made of wood?
What if the nudists were right all along?
What if we're all in Hell, and God's giving us a second chance?
What if God was one of us? Just a stranger on the bus?
What if he was trying to make his way home?
What if we all had photographic memory?
What if books flew on their pages like birds on their wings?
What if windows reflected both ways?
What if light was dark?
What if we didn't have shadows?
What if we are the shadows?
What if we are the reflections?
What if you could put your hand through bricks without harming them?
What if the dolphins rose up and took over?