#16

he droned on. something about disassociation or repression. one of those clinical words that come a dime a dozen. she remembered her last bill. okay, maybe more like ten dollars a dozen. either way, they meant nothing to her.
he had been recommended to her. he was the best in town. after this appointment, she would decide for herself. after all, she'd already been to all the others.
more talking. she thought about newspaper awards. they always give crappy pieces of paper away that read "best burger in town", or "best place for a manicure." and each establishment would place it in a black frame from the dollar store and the manager would point it out to new customers and walk around with his chest puffed out for a month. and 3 years later, on the verge of being shut down by the health department, the sign still hung in the lobby.
"...and it seems to me," she snapped back to the present at the harsh tone of his voice. "It seems to me that you have layers of repressed memories that we need to dig through. Go ahead and make a few more appointments on your way out."
she nodded and left. remembering the bill again, she breezed by the receptionist on her way out.
a young man, maybe 25, dressed in black grunge clothes stopped her. "you got a quarter? i want to get drunk tonight."
she gave him a dollar, smiling, and thanked him for his honesty.

Fifteen

The truck radio gets horrible reception out here. He usually just hangs his arm out of the window and taps the outside of the door with his fingertips, a beat of his own making. After only a few self-composed tunes, the city lights fade. If the clouds weren't so oppressive, he could see every star. Maybe mortals aren't meant for such things as they willed.

A half-worn sign tells him the next town is thirty-seven miles. Maybe they have all the stars.

#15

the music. it sprouted from him and grew. sometimes in waves, big, glorious swelling, full of agonizing violins, bony fingers holding the bow, almost shaking with tenderness, holding each whole note as long as possible, reaching out to grasp the final bits of sound fading away.
those songs would make him ache, from the innermost part of his being, every song a story, every song more than a story.
his eyes would close, involuntarily, and the music would continue, like a cold fast wind across his lips, taking his breath away and carrying it. maybe to the next town, maybe north, to an even colder and faster wind, and maybe someday he would breathe in that same breath. and it would hold the same music and he would remember and he would be full again of that same aching tenderness.
and it would all be more than a story.

Fourteen

There were always people to greet him at the train station, but he often wondered what it'd be like if there weren't. He knew that one day, enough people would forget, or be too busy, or think they wouldn't be needed, or wouldn't be welcome, and others would better take the place. Small mysteries are all he had left to occupy his thoughts. A number on a billboard reminded him of a math problem reminded him of its application in the observation of nature reminded him of botany reminded him of planting a sapling in school reminded him of that dusty library reminded him of Aristotle.

Who was picking him up at the train station?

Thirteen

Campfires only provide so much heat. Too big, and the forest goes with it. Too small and it goes out. Just right is too small.

Their eyes met, but not in the way they used to. Love gave to despair, as happens when tavern stories become eulogies. And eulogies are never long enough, or honest enough; it's a silent agreement everyone makes.

The tree line and tents set to deflect the wind racing across the plain were thankfully effective, a small comfort in the face of days ahead and weeks behind.

Twelve

The room was dark, darker than it was outdoors. No moonlight casting shifting shadows through waves of leaves. No sparkling cobblestones or stray pennies or cats' eyes. Only the occasional glow of a lit cigarette. He waited.

Quiet, too. Only breath and heartbeat and a creaky, ancient ceiling. Sometimes he'd mutter to himself.

He waited for her, but he knew she wasn't coming back. They only came back in movies. Bad ones, usually.

#14

It had been sitting on her dresser for awhile now. Crumpled when she got it from the postman. Half of the envelope flap was ripped open before she even pulled it from her mailbox.
It stared at her, the flap still only half open. Already she had held it up to the light to see if any words would shine through. She peeked into the opening to see blue paper. The color of the sky on muggy summer mornings, tinged with a little git of gray- or silver- depending on how much the observer likes muggy summer mornings.
Some days, curiosity almost got the better of her. Slowly crossing the room she would pick it up, weigh it carefully from hand to hand. Once, she even had her index finger tucked under the fold. She felt the crease on her fingertip; rubbed it slowly, back and forth, till finally she shook her head and laid it safely back down.
Part of her already knew what it said inside, the rest of her didn't want to know. If it was certain, if she knew, if she read it for herself, what would then be left to live for?