All that a man will ever truly possess is what he's already eaten, assuming he can keep it down. That's what you were trying to do. Swallow. Chew. Suppress. Possess. Ate a roll. Leftover roll at that, no butter. Whitebread. Bland food. You are what you eat. Bland and not at all complicated. Predictable. Flavor? Highly overrated. Besides, your belly's spooked by the ghost of a little gin. A lot of gin. Morning's not all that easy these days. Unsteady. Hands move in odd ways at odd moments. Unpredictable. Not just the shakes … shakes are there, but spasms too. Coffee spills on the carpet, tops of your toes. Sticky toes will never do. Sticky toes necessitate a shower. Can't think about that now. Eggs? Forget it. Gin walks the corridors of reflective recollection in your somewhat spleened and splintered internal dialogue.
Love is a battlefield.
Book about a safari in Africa … as opposed to west LA, you suppose? Where else would they have safaris but Africa? Guys on safari wearing safari jackets shoot things all day, things with funny names … like dik diks. Dik-diks. Teeny little antelopes with tiny Satan spikes on their lovely little heads. Heads that will grace the walls of boorish white mens' dens, capitalists, of course. Who else coud afford safaris, yo? White hunters. Nicely tanned hunters, maybe, but quite white. Shoot things all day out on the savanna, come back of an evening, sit around the campfire in canvas chairs, sweat good sweat, honest sweat, the righteous sweat of teensy-antelope stalkers and killers. Listening to the hyenas cackle and snort under southern constellations. Drink gin and bitters. Angostura. Pink gin.
Tall, skinny black guys in white robes and red fezzes lurking close by, hovering like busy British butlers with whisk brooms and bulbous noses. Unlike those busy British butlers, however, these fellows are flicking and shooing away thick flies with the tails of dead zebras.
“Gin-tonic, Bwana?”
“Hold the tonic, Masamba.”
Haha.
Ouch.
It's the head that hurts when you laugh, not your rib, the missing rib. It's missing. She's gone. Took it with her. So how could it hurt? It's not the rib but the absence that hurts. Is that effen deep? Or what?
Sweat cold. Shower hot. Face in the mirror. Wipe face clean with razor, splash face with alcoholic spirits you don't want to drink. Not yet, anyway. You can still afford gin. Alcohol's a septic cleanser, but the guilt won't wash away. Not so easily as that. No reason for guilt but all survivors feel it. They feel guilt because they live. Because they survive. Why?
Movie about a war hero... Comes back home in a clean green suit and pressed pants, medals on medals, handsome chin. Survived but haunted by the spooks of those who didn't.
“Why them, not me?”
“Because.”
Hell of an answer, that answer, but the answer to every question. Why? Because. Just because. Matter of inches? Matter of miles. Chance, luck, fate, the finger of an angry god. Screw the protocols of fate and such. It's because. Just because. Nihilism is the cause célèbre. Je ne sais quois. No entiendo. Nihilism. Nihil. Nothing. Nada Grenada. Nuncanuncanuncanunca.
Sometimes, back then, when you'd stand at the mirror, shave, you'd see her behind you, see her standing in the doorway smiling. Such a sad little thing, that is. A little smile will sustain a man for weeks. Hungry little man, soul starved for sudden smiles when the source is … her. Sometimes you think you see her. Out the corner of your eye or glowing at the head of the bed on a dark night. Ghost of a lover, she. Do you believe in ghosts? Maybe.
Do the ghosts believe in you?
Probably not.
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Putting this out here again, because...
mortality.
This story has no tags.
This: " Sometimes, back then, when you'd stand at the mirror, shave, you'd see her behind you, see her standing in the doorway smiling. Such a sad little thing, that is. A little smile will sustain a man for weeks. Hungry little man, soul starved for sudden smiles when the source is … her. Sometimes you think you see her. Out the corner of your eye or glowing at the head of the bed on a dark night. Ghost of a lover, she. Do you believe in ghosts? Maybe.
Do the ghosts believe in you?
Probably not." *
That ending!*
Agree with Amanda. Great way to close. Good story, James. Enjoyed.
Liked it from start to finish. Great closing as well. ***
Great ending. The shakes are there to tell you you are still alive. It took me five minutes to post this.
*, JLD. Excellent, well-written story. Agree with those above, terrific close.
I wanted to like this as is based on the number of comments so far...but...
Because it's written as narrative, I kept looking for a narrative thread and couldn't find one.
There are a lot of very good lines and images here, and I think if you scaled it down to only the strongest lines and images and structured it as a poem, it would take on a different persona. The focus then would be on the feeling created by the rush of disjointed images rather than on any narrative thread.
I think it would work well as a poem, split into sections so that each section reflects the tone and voice, but but each section having its own unique and individual truth.
It would be interesting to see what happened if you tried this.
Fine story.
Perfect title.
Matt, Amanda, Sam, Rachna, Samuel, David, Gary, Emily, thank you for your comments and likes.
Ms Houtman, you sound so much like Matt Dennison? It's uncanny.
"Love is a battlefield" "Nuncanuncanuncanunca"
I'm with you!
I love this. Great pacing. I love the associative way it progresses to a poignant and, deeply personal, sadness. The ending resonates like a bell.
Sorry. The comma in the third sentence should be after "poignant." Time to quit. For today. :-)
JLD, I assure you all of those words were my own. And they were sincere. I spent a great deal of time reading this over and over trying to pinpoint how it could be made stronger, because I felt it had real potential.
But rest assured, I shan't be doing that again.
And btw, thanks for the compliment!
Thank you, Bill, Dianne.
Ms. Houtman, it's good that you feel complimented. We all need to believe.
Hold the tonic, Masamba.
Haunting.
Loved the ending.*
JLD! :]
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Thank you Brenda, for the fave.
Thank you, John.