{"id":115,"date":"2020-01-15T20:34:06","date_gmt":"2020-01-15T20:34:06","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/stevesearls.com\/?page_id=115"},"modified":"2020-05-24T18:41:50","modified_gmt":"2020-05-24T18:41:50","slug":"short-fiction","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/stevesearls.com\/?page_id=115","title":{"rendered":"Short Fiction"},"content":{"rendered":"\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong><em>A Little Chit-Chat<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; You\ncatch the moon by degrees.&nbsp; One evening it\u2019s almost full, the next a\nbeaming gray silver elfin ball, and then that slow decline to darkness, with\nthe sliver of a smile the night before descending into a black hole.&nbsp; You\nimagine a world where there is no moon, no tides, no slow pulling away, like a\nmouse in slow motion evading a cat that sleeps.&nbsp; You know this scenario\nwould make your existence highly improbable.&nbsp; Such a place would be\nincapable of upright, bipedal life.&nbsp; <\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The winds would be harsher, the mountains a fairy tale, trees a myth that never gave birth.&nbsp; You would hug the dirt, a small sticky creature with a ferocious hold on whatever you could grasp.&nbsp; Day and night would blend in a mixing bowl.&nbsp; Diana would not hunt.&nbsp; How lucky for you, she exists, the big one-eyed headlight in the sky.&nbsp; Glance up and she is there, even when unseen, even when you are lost.&nbsp; What would lunatics obsess about without her?&nbsp; <\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><br> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Last night, as the orange and red glow faded to the West, she called out to you, friendly like, as she usually does on nights when the day was warm, but not too warm, the sun bright but not over the top hot.&nbsp; Yes, after those days that look like a celluloid dream from David Lynch, she likes conversation.&nbsp; You pick a persona and chat a while.&nbsp; <\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; She\ntells you she regrets never having any children, how she feels tied down by her\njob.&nbsp; You tell her about your daughter and your son, the one loud and the\nother quiet, both too smart for words.&nbsp; You reflect aloud on how you\nremember them as babies.&nbsp; You recall your son at four months.&nbsp; Each day, like clockwork, he would exercise\nhis lungs for an hour at four in the afternoon, but otherwise he was an\nincredibly easy child to deal with as a baby.&nbsp; You tell her that his\nfather would sit up nights rocking him while watching VHS tapes of old football\ngames, a game your son would never play, though he has the large bones, thick\nbody, fast legs for it.&nbsp; <\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">And the girl, thin then, thin\nnow, with the figure of some molded Geiger drawing without the horror, just the\nposture.&nbsp; How she is the fiercer of the two and the more transparent, her\nmoods like shimmering glass, always open for inspection.&nbsp; Fragile,\nbrittle, resilient, powerful; all these words but scratch the surfaces of her\nparadoxical character.&nbsp; The moon laughs but you say you are serious.&nbsp;\nParadox was a word invented for daughters.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">*\n* *<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; In\nthe universe as you know it, the tree outside your window is enjoying the\nsunshine, the heat lifting it up after days of rain, sometimes hard slashing\nsplotches of water which threatened to drown us and other times, the tiniest\ndroplets, barely enough to smother an ant.&nbsp; <\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">A giant mosquito, likely male,\nbrushes against the window screen, up and down, back out and in and again\ncrushing itself against what it does not understand.&nbsp; Not sentient, the\nmosquito is merely here, its limited software unable to deal with a fine\nplastic mesh.&nbsp; You look at its struggles and you almost feel pity for\nit.&nbsp; The moon, naturally, is pitiless.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Today,\nthe moon is sitting in the eastern sky after rising early, fat and wide.&nbsp; An orange pumpkin of a moon, the moon\ngraciously waves to the sun as it drifts toward sunset.&nbsp; The moon basks in the sun\u2019s approval,\nflirtatious as ever. After a while, however, the sun slides away, a not quite\ndarkness falls and it is as if you can hear the moon sigh, forever hopeful and\nforever disappointed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Would you like me to\ntell you a story?<\/em>&nbsp; You ask her this\nsomewhat timidly.&nbsp; You never can tell\nwhat mood might come over her at these moments, but as the sky darkens and her\norange coloring turns to silver, she regains her dignity (or masks her sadness\nwell).&nbsp; <\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; What story?<\/em> She\nreplies, anticipation in her voice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Oh just a few memories\nfrom my youth.&nbsp; Nothing very dramatic\nreally, just a little reminiscence.&nbsp; <br>\n&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Am I in it?&nbsp; I mean, did we talk back then?&nbsp; I can\u2019t remember.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Well, yes, I suppose\nyou were in it, you had to have been, because it happened at night, but this is\nbefore we started having these little chats.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Well tell it anyway.&nbsp; You\u2019ve piqued my interest.&nbsp; Besides the stars seem a little preoccupied\nthis evening, and frankly a little boring, always going on about turning\nhydrogen into helium and helium into heavier elements, and who burns hotter and\nwho\u2019s likely to go supernova.&nbsp; The same\nold chatter every night.&nbsp; You would think\nthey\u2019d show more of an interest in others besides themselves, but they\u2019re all\nnarcissists, the lot of them.&nbsp; So tell\nme, do.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; This\nis the story you told her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">*\n* *<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; You\nhad a bedroom in the basement, after it was finished, all low ceilings, fake\nplastic wood paneling and cheap indoor\/outdoor green carpeting.&nbsp; But it did provide an escape from your\nsiblings, and you liked the cooler air down there and the nearly pitch black\ndarkness, except for the thin moon beams that managed to work their way down\nthe two foot deep window wells to drape themselves across your bed like a soft\nlayer of translucent silk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; [The\nmoon smiled when you told her this, proud of herself, no doubt.]<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The\nonly negative was that you spent many nights in terror listening to the\nhorrible sounds of black crickets in the basement, crickets as large as your\nthumb.&nbsp; Some evenings you would awaken\nwith them crawling over your body.&nbsp; On\noccasion one would crawl on the bare skin of your arms or legs, or land in your\nhair.&nbsp; You\u2019d scream and they&#8217;d leap away, and there is nothing like the\nleap of a large black cricket.&nbsp; They are monstrously quick and agile.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The\ncrickets would vanish into the near dark and, in your panic, you would huddle\nunder the sheets.&nbsp; If they stopped chirping, eventually you&#8217;d fall back\ninto an uneasy sleep, but if the <em>creak-creaking<\/em> began again your nerves\ncouldn&#8217;t stand the thought of them down there in the dark.&nbsp; You\u2019d hunt for a shoe or a sandal, clutch it\ntightly and raise it above your head while listening carefully, in the greatest\nfear you have ever known, for a clue to their location.&nbsp; <\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; At\nfirst, they were easy to creep up on, and in anxious fury, your weapon would\ncome down ferociously on their black carapaces, turning their bodies into a\npulpy mess that you would &nbsp;dispose of as\nquickly as possible with wads of toilet paper or Kleenex.&nbsp; But the little\nbastards got smarter.&nbsp; You swear they did.&nbsp; They became better at\nanticipating your stealthy movements toward them, leaping away at the merest\nsign of movement.&nbsp; Sadly, they could never stop their incessant noise\nmaking.&nbsp; They had no choice in how they behaved and neither did you<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">*\n* *<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Is that all?&nbsp; You sound like a cruel child my dear. Not\nthat I\u2019m judging you of course.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><em>No, there\u2019s more.&nbsp; There are good\nparts to my tale too. There were things I loved so very dearly about that time\nin my life, things I\u2019ve never told a soul.&nbsp;\nUntil now\u2026<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; You\ncontinued:<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Though\nthe basement had its terrors, it had its pleasures as well.&nbsp; At night in the spring or summer you&#8217;d pop\nopen the windows beneath the window wells and crawl outside to stare at the\nstars in the quiet of the early hours when all the homes above and below ours\nhad turned off their lights.&nbsp; You would sneak out, half or sometimes fully\nundressed, heart racing, chest full of a rising tide of blood that excited you\nbeyond any thoughts of anxiety or fear or common sense.&nbsp; It was the one time when you abandoned yourself\nto sheer recklessness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The\ngrass was always cool, and often a breeze would pass over my bare skin and I\nwould shiver deliciously.&nbsp; Completely alone, you felt the world thrown\noff, only the stars above sprinkling their light like fairy dust down upon your\nnakedness. Only the hum of the electrical wires that ran from tall wooden poles\nto the top of our house reminded you that this was not a dream.&nbsp; <\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 It was the most peaceful feeling you have ever known and the most exciting.\u00a0 It was as if anything were possible, anything.\u00a0 All you had to do was imagine it and it could be made real, or as real as you needed it to be.\u00a0 You often dreamed of meeting a boy or girl your age and running away.\u00a0 We would chase after each other as little children often do when they are 2 or 3 not caring care whether they are wearing clothes or not.\u00a0 You had many other foolish thoughts, more than you will ever declare, but when alone, the only fool awake in the deepness of night, all thoughts partake of paradise.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">*\n* *<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Oh, that was\nwonderful! It\u2019s a truly marvelous \u2013 no, make that a fabulous \u2013 story!&nbsp; So I sprinkled my light on you like fairy\ndust?&nbsp; How charming!<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; You\ndidn\u2019t have the heart to tell her that the part about fairy dust was an\nembellishment, a metaphor for something you still cannot explain.&nbsp; The moon seemed so happy.&nbsp; There was no need to spoil the moment with\nthe truth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; It must have been so\nmagical when you were younger, yes?<\/em>&nbsp;\nThe moon asks this question hoping to lead you to the answer she wants\nto hear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Yes\u2013and no.&nbsp; As time passes, those days seem so distant\nthat you remember them more fondly than perhaps you should.&nbsp; Life now is just as magical as it was back\nthen or even more magical perhaps.&nbsp; Now you\nhave my children.&nbsp; Seeing them each day,\nseeing them grow wiser each day in many ways, that is a little miracle.&nbsp; You\u2019re blessed to know them, be with them,\nsee them now, so alive; and there are you memories from my past, too.&nbsp; What could be better?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; But\nthe moon was silent now.&nbsp; You\nunderstood.&nbsp; She has no children of her\nown.&nbsp; You lifted your hand goodbye, and\nstepped back inside the house.&nbsp; The gnats\nand mosquitoes were starting to bite anyway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">*\n* *<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; This\nevening you watched all the daughters at play, jumping, dashing, and flicking\nred, white and blue balls over the volleyball net with such precision.&nbsp; After winning a point, they clustered around\none another to perform their choreographed dance routines and chant their not\nso subtle taunts at their opponents.&nbsp; Later you witness them tenderly\nforgiving their teammates for mistakes in ways that boys would never openly\nacknowledge.&nbsp; <\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; You\nsit with all the rest of the old ones, in the bleachers, looking down at what&#8217;s\nleft of your immortality, your invincible youth, now transferred to these\ncreatures you know so well and don&#8217;t know at all.&nbsp; The mothers talk, you\ntell the Moon, about all the \u201cpositives\u201d they see in the girls\u2019 play.&nbsp;\nThey never criticize any of them and praise each one as a perfect instrument of\ngrace and goodness (for the most part).&nbsp; The fathers, on the other hand,\nanalyze the girls\u2019 games constantly, each man with the same solemn glare\npouring out his eyes. They talk in murmurs, assess each player&#8217;s strengths and\nweaknesses, the coach&#8217;s stupidity when things go wrong, and make brash caustic\nremarks about the child whose parents are <em>in absentia<\/em>.&nbsp; <\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; When\nthe game is over, the fathers puff up, the mothers glow, for today was a\nvictory, a time for celebration and cheers.&nbsp; You feel sorry for the\nparents of the girls from the losing school.&nbsp; You know the special brand\nof helplessness that comes from vicarious defeats.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Outside, walking back to the car the moon is full and under its light, you catch glimpses of your daughter\u2019s bruises and her small cuts and floor burned skin.&nbsp; You watch her take off the brace around her hand she wears like a gladiator&#8217;s armor to protect her injured thumb, carefully stowing it away in her bag until the next battle.&nbsp; That done, she returns to playing the baby of the family, looking to you for all those mundane tasks that fill up your day: meals and washed clothes and hugs.&nbsp; Later you will put away her Power Puff Girls blanket, the one she still takes with her to matches, and her beloved brown bear. You cannot remember when you had a bear anymore.&nbsp; You envy her that straddle, half in, half out of two worlds.<br> <\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; How do you deal with it? <\/em>The moon asks you plaintively.&nbsp; <em>The pain of having them and then losing them so fast, so fast?&nbsp; It would shatter me<\/em>.&nbsp; <\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; You\nmake no response.&nbsp; Some things you refuse to share.&nbsp; Not even with a\nbarren rock a quarter million miles away that shines down its reflected glory\nonto the road to help light your way home.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>A Little Chit-Chat &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; You catch the moon by degrees.&nbsp; One evening it\u2019s almost full, the next a beaming gray silver elfin ball, and then that slow decline to darkness,&hellip;<\/p>\n<div class=\"read-more\"><a href=\"https:\/\/stevesearls.com\/?page_id=115\" class=\"read-more-link\">See More<\/a><\/div>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-115","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/stevesearls.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/115","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/stevesearls.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/stevesearls.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stevesearls.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stevesearls.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=115"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/stevesearls.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/115\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":298,"href":"https:\/\/stevesearls.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/115\/revisions\/298"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/stevesearls.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=115"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}