Behind the house he hears the rustling of grasses that shine when the wind blows. The blades lift and turn and catch the sun and glitter like tinsel. He stands and sees the house. If you squint maybe it does look like sea foam.
SIMMONS STANDS IN THE LOW SUN AND casts upon the dog his own long shadow. He takes aim, and the pistol bucks again. He flops up and curls like a fish. But the dog will not die. He was bred to withstand the rigors of a prolonged fight, and he’s showing his mettle in the moment when it counts most — the end.
Simmons kneels beside him and strokes his head. He looks into the dog’s eyes and beyond them. He stares at the ground where he lies and runs his fingers through what had once been the finest soil in all of west Texas. The dog is still living, but earth here’s long dead.
He’s a big dog with a big heart, and the children named him Clyde after the orange monkey in that Clint Eastwood picture where he fought men for money bare-fisted in honkytonks and where, in the end, he almost died himself for the heart of a girl. There were four pups in all, but only the one survived, the smallest. Simmons wiped away the mucous with the palm of his hand and blew life into the nose of the runt like he was inflating a small balloon. But he was a sickly pup. The girls fed him peanut butter to give him strength and gave him ice cream from a spoon. He grew so big around the middle that it’s no surprise he could take two bullets. His thick flank heaves now, and he coughs a bloody foam. But Simmons can’t bring himself to finish it.
That’s how it was with Sarah. The cancer was like a bullet fired from the gun of God. She’d curl up like this too and writhe in the grip of it, her hands stretched out for mercy and understanding. Her eyes would roll back, her lids would flutter, and there were some days when all she could manage was his name. Jeroboam, Jeroboam.
He’d smooth back her hair and shush her, and she’d fall into a restless half-sleep in which the spoken word was like a salve that eased her misery.
This story is from the Spring 2017 edition of Still Point Arts Quarterly.
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This story is from the Spring 2017 edition of Still Point Arts Quarterly.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 9,000+ magazines and newspapers.
Already a subscriber? Sign In
Standing In The Stream
I had also become enamored with the beauty of a man — it was always a man — standing in a rushing stream about mid-thigh, sunlight winking off the whitewater, casting nearly in slow-motion, over and over again, the long thin line whipping back and forth, catching the light, before barely alighting atop the water.
The Old Barn
The photograph above, by Jeffrey Stoner, is part of Still Point Art Gallery’s current exhibition, Solitude (see more images from this show on the previous pages).
The Art Of Solitude
Solitude isn’t loneliness; it’s different. With solitude, you belong to yourself. With loneliness, you belong to no one.
Wendy's Room
If sleep, a noise could reach in. Drag you out. Not sleep. No noise. No silence even. All walls sealed. Unconsciousness — the word she couldn’t think of twelve years ago. Except here she was. The mind watching itself. And wasn’t that the definition of consciousness? An ultramarine impasto. As if she knew brushstrokes. Odd, because in this life, Wendy Kochman had been an amateur violist. A failed academic and a mother. Never a painter.
On Throwing Things Away
I will work until my mind finds peace, even if that means I will work for a very long time.
Sea Foam And Clyde
Behind the house he hears the rustling of grasses that shine when the wind blows. The blades lift and turn and catch the sun and glitter like tinsel. He stands and sees the house. If you squint maybe it does look like sea foam.
The Restaurant De La Sirène At Asnières
The Restaurant de la Sirène at Asnières is crumbling; you can see it clearly when you stand up close, the bricks are split with age, the boards are warped with weather like the damaged spine of an old man. The building is a decaying, moldy monument to the men who look upon it.
