Taliaferro
I suppose it shouldn't be much of a surprise why Great Uncle Elroy's pond had the biggest, best catfish in all of Taliaferro County. Hell, maybe even the South.
Unc used to say it was on account of the depth of the thing. His grampa had it dug as a public works project back in the New Deal. A crew was cuttin' a firebreak just east of his place, along the property line of Jenkins land.
Well, Old Man Evans, he went on down to the courthouse and had some words with a few county commissioners and a judge or two. As I understand it, they was pleasant words, with mentions of reelection and campaign funds, along with a couple of plain envelopes that never saw the inside of a mailbox.
Next thing you know, that work crew took a detour off the firebreak for a coupla weeks. Even the fellah from Atlanta in charge of organizin' all the labor, he seemed happy to help. 'Course, "helping" for him pretty much meant helping himself to quarts of the good stuff revenuers used to get all tied up about. He spent more than a few afternoons in a rockin' chair chasing the shade of the front porch while them fellahs went at the dirt to earn their keep.
Anyhow. That's the story as I've heard it told.
Old Gramps, he made em go extra deep on that pond. He swears it made for cooler water and better livin' conditions for them fish he had stocked before the War.
Times was lean when our boys landed in Normandy, 'cept over on Uncle Elroy's place. He always had plenty of ration cards, hell, he even managed to have chocolate and gas when everybody else was ridin' bicycles or walkin'.
Nobody never thought nothin' about it, not really.
But it did seem he always had comp'ny out of Atlanta a fair piece. Real city-slicker types. Greasy hair and easy smiles that never lit up them shady eyes. I reckon it shoulda seemed odd, them folks always visitin' a country bumpkin and his ponds and pigfarm.
Anyhoo. Wasn't long after the war things picked up, so much as things've ever picked up in Crawfordville. Folks was comin' from all around, payin' a fee to fish the pond. Atlanta folks, especially; a whole mess of em always came out for nightfishin.
A right good business started to boom out on that place. It got to where he had to limit the number of tickets he'd let get out, on account of he didn't want to have to restock his pond any more than necess'ry.
Come to think of it, the whole thing was genius, really.
National Geographic came out one time in '64. By then Uncle Elroy was the only one left, runnin' the whole show.
Them magazine people came out 'cause of the catfish, see. They was big.
Goddamn, but they was big.
I remember once, I paid my fee to fish. Me! Family! Can you believe that? Anyhow, I just sat up on the bank with my cane pole. It was a slow day, maybe just one other couple out and about.
Before long, I hooked me somethin'. Damn thing near-bout broke my pole.
It was a monster. Had to be twelve pounds or so.
In a pond.
Goddamn anomaly, is what it was.
But I didn't mind. Made some fine eatin'.
I never spared too much thought on it, to tell th' truth; what fryin’ them fish meant, in a we-are-what-we-eat sense.
Not until that mess that came-to here a few years ago.
Worst drought we ever did have.
That pond, it dried right up. Damndest thing I seen. That thing been 'round long as any of us can remember. The pig farm went sideways, too, once't Uncle Elroy died.
By then, the pay-to-fish thing had done played out. Folk had just lost interest, I reckon. So it took a while to catch notice.
The Eff-Bee-Eye, though. They sure paid attention when word got out.
It was the bones, see. Down in the mud. They eventually got bleached out by the sun. All these little white specks in the gray-green muck. 'Spite what my dentist says, turns out teeth are damn durable.
That's what started it all.
It's no wonder them catfish was so damn big, and less wonder that the place was always filled with Cadillacs and Town Cars.
For decades, they'd cruise in to town to feed those catfish. My uncle and his bunch charged every one o'those big city folk for the privilege of throwing things in a pond, and every one of us locals would pay to pull things out.
Goddamn, they was good catfish, though.
If you got ’em
There's an awkwardness that my parents used to fill with smoking. Not sure what to do with your hands? Light up. Finished a good meal? Burn one. Need a break? Step outside, shake out a menthol (mom) or a Basic-light (dad).
I say an awkwardness, but I'm not sure. Maybe they weren't awkward at all. Maybe they just didn't know what to say. We never really discussed politics, religion, or anything important. I'd get asked about school, but I never had much to share.
My grandfather smoked a pipe, but sometimes he liked a Tampa Nugget. That was rare. Mostly, he was packing the bowl with Carter Hall. I don't ever remember him smoking it in a restaurant, though.
I tried it, but the habit didn't take. I found the pipe too rough and the cigarettes unfulfilling. All they did was leave me tasting ashtrays and wondering where my money went.
I used to always carry a Zippo in college, though. Some of the jobs I worked, I'd hang out with the smokers. They were an overall affable bunch, friendly, chatty. They appreciated that I always had a light. A girl asked me once where my smokes were, and I just grinned. "I save them for bed," I cracked wise.
She was disappointed to learn that was a lie, when she came over later.
I'd be lying if I said that was her only disappointment, but we can't win 'em all.
I have no idea where that Zippo is now. Maybe I found it not long ago when I did some cleanup of my storage building, but I likely tossed it right back into the box with all her old loveletters.
All of them.
I smelled her perfume in that cheap plastic tub as soon as I lifted the lid.
She flirted with smoking for a short while, but gave it up pretty quickly.
She flirted with marrying me for a while, but gave up that idea pretty quickly, too.
My parents don't smoke anymore. My dad, because he's dead. My mom, because I told her one of the reasons I didn't visit was because I had to wear dirty clothes to her house and wash them while I took a shower just as soon as I got home. That was a long time ago, when we lived in the same town.
I remember that conversation when I look over at the dry erase calendar on my wall and realize I don't have a visit scheduled in the foreseeable.
I should change that, but there's an awkwardness that my parents used to fill with smoking, and I don't know how to fill it anymore.
with a blue dress
"How will I explain this?"
"Why must you?"
He can't argue with her logic, not really. He is his own man, owing justifications to not a single soul.
"Yeah, okay, so you have a bit of a point, but we don't live in a vacuum."
She raises an eyebrow, but he ignores it and keeps on. "I have parents who will wonder who I'm dating."
"You haven't seen your mom in three months, your step-father doesn't care, and your dad lives in Iowa."
He rolls his eyes.
"I never told you those things."
She smiles, and his heart flutters. He shivers, but his heart turns cartwheels. She has shared his living space for quite a while now, and he still hasn't gotten used to the things she simply seems to know. It's infuriating, endearing, terrifying, and arousing.
Some of the things she knows are downright biblical in their sweet sinfulness.
She floats across the hardwood of the living room and runs a finger along his jawline. She leans in and whispers, "Let me show you other things I know."
He does, and forgets all about explaining his new girlfriend to the parents.
__
They met at work. He took a gig as a videographer for one of those idiotic reality shows that air on formerly respectable cable networks. This one specialized in sending in a handful of "regular people" to reportedly haunted places, where they had to spend a full 24 hours.
The crew isn't supposed to interact with the "talent," but the lady now in his house started flirting with him around three in the morning on the job. One thing lead to another, the shoot wrapped, and here they are.
He didn't find the "haunted" asylum particularly frightening. Honestly, he thought it was boring, except for the minor dramas that unfolded between the two efinitely not actors competing for who could behave like the biggest scared toolbag. He played along when he needed to, running down hallways and giving the producers plenty of shaky-cam footage to edit and play up. Every chance he got, he put his now-girlfriend on film, since she was easy on the eyes and didn't behave like an imbecile.
__
His phone rings and it's the director from that stupid ghost show. He steps out of the bedroom so he doesn't wake her.
"Hello?"
"No, I did."
"No, I changed memory cards several times. I turned them all in."
"Uh huh."
"Nope, nope, I did, didn't you see?"
"What do you mean?"
"That's not possible."
"Gimme a break, man. I was there. It's all on tape."
"You have the tapes. Well, cards, whatever. The recordings."
"Bullshit, I shot all night."
"The girl in the blue dress, yeah, on my recordings."
"What?"
"I don't understand."
"How did you not see? We had conversations. Yeah, I know I'm not supposed to talk, but what am I supposed to do when I'm asked direct questions, man? I'm not a robot, and hell, you hired her. She's hot."
"Explain that."
"Well who hired her?"
"Never mind, that doesn't matter. No, look again, I don't know what to tell you. It's all recorded, I did my job."
He turns around, and she's standing right next to him, smiling that smile that does things to him.
"Listen man, I gotta go. I'd love to work for you again, but I'm not feeling the accusations. I specifically recorded the girl in blue most of the night, and she's standing right here with me now."
He hangs up, she kisses him, and he forgets all about the director saying there was no actress in a blue dress at the asylum.
He has never heard the word succubus and he never will.
February Drabble Winner
I'm a little late on this posting, but February's Drabble winner is https://www.theprose.com/post/802267/undying-love by beatricegomes. Honorable mention to Mr. Sadhill: https://www.theprose.com/post/803784/petals
Excused From The Table
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VVgixOjGhVU&feature=youtu.be
The table was set for ten.
Standard fare for Holidays with my family: turkey, ham. Broccoli with Cheez Whiz, because I once said I liked that, so it became present at each gathering. Sunbeam Bread's yeast rolls, drizzled with liquid Parkay and baked in one of the two stainless steel ovens mounted in the wall.
There were other things, of course. But these were omnipresent at Easter, Mother's Day, the Birthday, Thanksgiving, and Christmas.
The Birthday was a double celebration for me and my Great Grandmother. Hers was one day ahead of mine, so we gathered yearly for us both.
No one else garnered such an honor.
Uncle D passed, but I was too removed, too young, too preoccupied to pay much attention. His was my first ever funeral.
The things I miss most about him, those odd things I associate with his memory, are his cats and his tricycle. He had an adult-sized trike, complete with basket and bell. Riding it around his neighborhood was such fun, such joy.
He had white cats, and I used to chase them through the pet doors. He used to laugh at that; his laughter, I can remember. His leathery tanned skin, his white hair that matched those cats, those stand out in my memory.
The table was set for nine.
She was the first to go who truly meant something for me. She, of the Banks of That River. She, of infinite kindness and endless games of Monopoly and Sorry and Go Fish. She, of recipes cooked to order and teaching me to read. She, of whom I know so little but for whom I care so much. I wish I'd known her better, but through it all I think the greatest tragedy was that my mother was only 30 when she lost hers.
I was ten.
My grandmother was a schoolteacher, and the line for her visitation stretched around the building, beyond capacity for the funeral home.
Former students waited hours to pay respects.
She taught sixth grade, and these people heard. They came.
I never cried at her funeral, but I've cried since. Every time I immortalize her on these pages, my head aches and the light prisms.
The last gift she gave me was less than two weeks before she died. Wrapped in newspaper, (I didn't mind) I discovered a gift that no one understands why I've kept all these years. To them, it is merely a toy jet. Just a silly thing for a grown man to keep. It takes up an awful lot of space. But within me, so does she.
The table was set for eight.
He died when I was at work. It was unexpected, but not particularly sad. I still wept, for he was a strong influence on me and in my life.
My grandfather was not a kind man, but he was always good to me, until he wasn't. At the end of his life, he turned away from his immediate family in favor of the family he left behind when Eisenhower ran the country. I stood against him when he railed against my mother, my father, us. I ended our relationship when he ended his respect for my family; he chose the bottle. He chose the past.
Years passed before we again spoke.
He was my mentor and my friend, and I missed him the whole time he lived right next door.
The table was set for seven.
The Matriarch languished, her mind remaining razor sharp while her body crumbled around her. My Great-Grandmother was a survivor, having nearly sent one daughter to war and having sent another to the grave. The Great Depression, the Great War, and a single Great Grandson.
She had a scar on her right forearm. As she aged, the skin beneath that scar became almost translucent; I could see the bone beneath, and the purple of veins crossing over it.
I never got more than, "I cut it when I was younger," from her.
I wish I'd gotten to hear the story of that scar, I wish she'd opened up to me about the truth of it.
I wish I'd heard more of her stories, so that they could be retold here or somewhere like here.
Her passing was an end of an era.
The table wasn't set as often, and when it was, it was set for six.
My dad died shortly before I attended a police academy he helped found. My name brought looks of recognition and words of consolation, but the truth is, I hadn't spoken to him in years.
When he left my mother, I was left with a house to run.
When she left the house for a new country and a new start, I was left alone.
The table was set for five.
My Great-Aunt and Great-Uncle died within weeks of one another. His was a large affair, practically a State service.
My Great-Aunt wasn't at the funeral, because she was in the hospital. It was in one of her lucid moments that she realized he'd died, and days later, she followed him.
Her funeral was much smaller. No governors, no senators, no mayors came to pay their respects, which was fine. She had friends, people who truly knew her, and she had us. Her family.
My mother's sister died at forty. She was somewhat estranged, she was a bit removed from us, but I still feel for my mother. There used to be love there, once, and those are the memories my mother holds.
The table is now set for two.
In Bloom
The peach trees are in bloom and her birthday was last week.
They're vibrant and pink and remind me of cherry blossoms in Japan or DC. They almost don't look real; they're spatters of paint on otherwise bare limbs. Some modern artist randomly touched a wet brush to knobby wood.
I figure we'll have another frost before April, and those pretty little bits of pink paint will droop and drab and go sepia.
I didn't wish her a happy birthday.
Clinton was in office the last time we spoke, but I still remember how she smells. Her laughter echoes in the chuckles of others.
Grief isn't always about death.
It's absence.
I mourn alone with others every day, and today, the peach trees are in bloom.
I tell myself that I don't care that her birthday was last week.
Frost will come for those trees as surely as some lies keep me warm.
Stagnation
"There's something about change that shakes me to my bones."
The frail woman shivers and tucks herself into her shawl. Her rocking chair slowly teeters; it could have been from last century or the one before. Like the lady in it, age is hard to determine, and the only certainty is everything in this house is old.
They sit together on the screened porch. Around them, white paint chips, flakes, and fades, but the haint blue ceiling is vibrant and fresh. Several two by four floorboards are yellow and unpainted, replaced recently by grandchildren or friendly neighbors.
Her chair has never known the business end of a paintbrush. It has a shine only decades of use can leave on the armrests; natural cedar color peeks around her housecoat and lap blanket.
"You've been her a long time, ma'am?" The man is an hourly temp employee from the Census Bureau. He is from the next county over, but he's never been to this little house along the marshes of Savannah.
"All my life, boy." She says this without the bite the words themselves imply. To her, every man is a boy; she remembers when radio was the entertainment for a household and Sears & Roebuck sold mail order homes.
"Does anyone live with you?"
She pauses her rocking and looks over at her guest. Her eyes are sharpened points in a nest of crow's feet, and she considers her words. "Live? No. Stay? Always."
"Come again?"
"Change ain't the only thing that scares me, boy. Staying the same, bein' still, goin' stagnant. Them that won't change; they scare me more."
"I don't understand, ma'am."
"One day I hope to move on. I've seen what happens to them that stay." She looks up at her blue ceiling and shivers in a way that has nothing to do with temperature.
"So I should mark you down as the only resident of this household?"
"You do your paperwork how you need to, son. I reckon it's true enough I'm the only one alive in the house."
The census man finishes his sweet tea, wishes the lady a good day, and pretends not to notice shadows dance across his path through live oaks back to his car.
Jalut
There was this guy, bigger than most. Stronger than anybody except that dude with the long hair, I suspect. Mean as hell and a hero of his people.
In a way, I guess he was like a Biblical Hulk. Big, dumb, ugly, but kinda lovable, from a certain point of view. Fine solo, but a loose canon in a group. Generally, point him towards the enemy and pull the pin.
Hulk: green, not gray.
Think about it. If you're on his team, everything's good, right? Man's a killer. A doer. Not a thinker, mind you, but deeds over words.
Impeccable record. Zero losses, nothing but wins.
Except that once.
I'd have never put money on the shepherd boy, either.
Goliath: live fast, die hard.
Love is for the living
She drove a purple '98 Pontiac Sunfire, and the other day, I saw a video that was spoofing those. It made me laugh out loud, and I tried to send it to her, but then I was reminded that she's gone.
She isn't dead, but she may as well be.
I could use the internet as my Ouija board, but I've seen those movies.
If I open that closed door, devils will certainly step in.
I'm haunted enough.
I content myself with chuckling about her old car. Meanwhile in my mirrors, ghosts of the past appear closer than they are.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6ZjGVaI9D7o
A pint topside
"It's not a uniquely human condition."
Two men sit on the same side of a booth in a busy pub. If anyone cared, some would wonder if they were lovers.
The man who spoke brought no parka, despite freezing weather. He wears an immaculate bespoke suit. It almost swallows light, so dark is the black on black. He is regally pale in contrast, as if the warmth of the sun is a tale whispered by fairies.
His companion, leaning as far onto the wall as he can, is ruddy with drink. Even so, he is aware, sharp, focused.
Afraid.
"Come again?" he stammers.
The elegant man smiles like a rattlesnake.
"Hope. Hope is not a uniquely human condition."
"How so?"
"Take dogs, for example. You think it's love in their eyes when they stare at the dinner table? No. It's optimism. Begging for whatever scraps master will throw them."
"I see."
"Do you see you're the dog?"
"Who's the master?"
"Whom do you serve?"
"...I work at Sainsbury's, mate."
The man in the suit laughs, and the temperature in the pub drops. Winter's chill settles into the warm public house.
"Did you study Latin in school?"
"I remember a class, but nothing stuck."
The pale man calls for another round.
"*Dum spiro spero*." Two pints of Kronenbourg land on the table and the server quickly disappears. He's careful not to touch the man on the outside of the booth's seat, but he can't say why. "While I breathe, I hope."
"I like that."
"Breathing, or hoping?"
"Both."
"Abandon one, and you'll abandon the other."
The scared man doesn't know what to say, so he drinks.
"Do you know why I order ale when I take these little walks topside?"
"Topside?"
"Among you mud-fucking monkeys. His favorite pets. His dogs. Only, your dogs are actually dogs, so I think you have the better of it."
"Mate, I'm just trying to have a pint. Never owned a dog, nor fucked a monkey."
The pale man laughs again; mugs on the table frost over.
"I like you, Oliver."
"Ollie. Dad was Oliver."
"Oh, I know him."
"Knew him?"
"Know."
"He was a right cunt."
"Is."
"What're you on about, anyway?"
The suited man swirls a delicate index finger in his pint. "I order ale because He made wine." Bright yellow lager turns into black stout.
The drunk doesn't believe his eyes, so he shuts them.
"Spirans erit cupidum memoria, Ollie."
"Cupid's memory?"
"What would you give to keep breathing? To prevent breath from being a fond memory?"
For the first time, Ollie looks into his guest's eyes. He sees a beautiful creature who looks like a man, but doesn't know beauty. True fear is lead inside him; even beatings taken as a child from Oliver the elder didn't weigh like this moment.
"Mate," he whispers, voice tight and chest hollow, "not much. To you? Nothing."
"Do you know who I am?"
"I can guess your name."
The devil laughs and everyone shivers.