It came in the smallest of small packages, yet made the loudest thud when dropped on the ground in front of the door.
The man behind the door jumped at the loud noise and opened the door to investigate. He looked at it, bent down a bit, then quickly stood back up and closed the door in silence.
The box jumped and flipped over, the man swung the door back open.
“Ahhhhhhhyyaaaaa,” he blurted and pointed at finger.
The box jumped and flipped again. The man slammed the door once again.
Her fingers, long…dainty…soft, dragged along the wall, the pinky finger nail stopped to tap.
Her eyes rolled up to the ceiling where water slowly dripped to the floor in front of her. She matched her tapping to the dripping.
The man on the other side of the wall began to scream, agitated from the racket her nail was doing through his wall. A man in the hall started to slap his hands on the floor like that of a drum. The screams in the room grew until the thumping of shoes hitting the concrete floor echoed in the hall.
The men in white were coming.
He sits on the curb. His shoes scrape the black-top underneath them. In his hand he holds a worn and bent ace of spades. The design on the back is flaking off from constantly being handled.
Several cars drive by, nearly in slow motion, the drivers glancing at him sitting on the curb.
Foot steps approach, painted toes and a flowing dress.
He notices her and squeezes the card harder into its familiar bended shape.
She reaches her hand down, he reaches his up with his empty hand, and grabs tightly.
She floats in and out of his memory like a vivid ghost. Yet she was far from dead. The memory of her digs into the creases of his mind.
He shifts positions, jams his fists into the pillow, and lets out a helpless and frustrated groan.
What will ever make these memories and thoughts finally dissipate? He does not have those answers, no one does.
But he closes his eyes and with a desperate thought of peace that someday these memories and thoughts of her will be covered by a new love, a better love, and he will never struggle with this vivid ghost again.
© Karin Cameron, 2011
She wraps her hands around themselves, twists, scrunches, cracks, and pulls. They shake slightly…she tries to keep them still, but fails.
The wooden chair she sits on the edge of creaks with each squirm she makes, fidgeting, fighting the nerves.
She watches the shoes of people coming and going, some rushing, some shuffling. She does not make eye contact with anyone, for they are all dealing with the same emotions.
Even though she knows what they will say, she does not want to hear it. For once it slips from their lips it will finally be true. And the truth will haunt her every second. It will never fade even in the happiest of times.
It was white and crumpled, some aged spots of brown on the ends. She folded it in many different ways, then refolded, and refolded.
She put it away in the chest, then pulled it back out. Never able to decide if she should store it or display it.
When it was in the chest she felt bad, she felt….alone. Yet when it was on display she felt watched and concerned.
Once again she opened the chest and displayed it.
Feeling satisfied, she turned out the lights and locked the store front door, and flipped the sign.
Tomorrow she would come to regret leaving it on display.
© 2011, Karin Cameron
At first I thought I was mistaken, a trick of the overly tired, drunk, fourteen hours of non stop contact wearing eyes.
He wavered a bit himself, a glass bottle clanked on his belt buckle.
I dare not move my head and look. Instead I stranded my eyes so far to the right it felt like one would snap the cord in back.
He started to move forward, his boots shuffling on my wood floor.
I wondered what he could be here for. Dare I ask?
He cleared his throat and I heard the sound of my dining room chair being dragged out.
My thoughts rushed and flashed forward to me being tied up in the chair, him laughing away, smoking a cigarette, while he ran his hand over my cheek.
He cleared his throat again, and this time I couldn’t help but turn my head and look his way.
His eyes were chestnut dark, his hair was straggly and dirty, his licked his lips.
I stood up and walked slowly over to him, not know what else to do and having no reason to not wonder what this man was doing in my kitchen.
As I approached I noticed he was holographic and a beer bottle I’ve never seen before sat on the table.
I noticed him starting to move his mouth ready to say something to me…something unreal, something from another time, something of great history…
“Gotta bottle opener for my beer Miss? Damn horse ran off with all my stuff again,” he finally sputtered.
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