Story Monster
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Once upon a time, “Paul” went to “behind the building” and decided to toss around his “train”!
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Kelly Link
I thought it was a zeppelin.
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The looming penumbra was a terror, an impending doom which ensconced him. Slowly, deliberately, Bill crept forward into the passageway, arms outstretched, eyes straining to make sense of the shadowy miasma. All at once, the shape was eclipsed in the thin margin of sky above him: a vast, voluminous zeppelin, to which he turned and let a single apple fly, red and rich with hope.
“Call me Joe,” he said, “Ohayu gozaimasu!” He let a pint of sweat pour from the unplugged ankle of his suit, ran a hacksaw blade up and down the strings of his double bass, and began to wade ashore, swamping fishing boats in his wake, two Toyota Celicas flying out of his mouth as we cried, “Oh, terrible gorilla-whale, spare us the rich frothy conflagration of your demonic radioactive anger!” “Okey-dokey,” he said, “you know what this means, don’t you?” and he held up the thousands and thousands of green, hard rubber suits, all unzipped, gaping, and waiting for us to put them on, to surrender, to join.
The monsters waited in the background for Lill to get out of the foreground. They didn’t realize that Lill wasn’t as real as they were and wasn’t going to move unless they paid her in minutes sitting in front of the television. The monsters crept forward and spikes came out of their noses and ears; Lill twitched.
Then I saw her, splayed out across the bed. Her breaths were drawn, punctuated by the staccato raindrops outside. Leaning in, I whisper the words, until her eyes, at last, go silent.
Selene clicked her hard, pointed teeth together and expertly caught her pencil with her long, apple green tongue as she felt the question race into her mind. She didn’t understand what Paul, China, or train meant and what they had to do with each other, but why did it matter? She was a fallen god, after all, and with that she made her decision.
There was a bird and a bath and a man who watched them. A hedgerow nearby and a thing inside that watched the man, watching the bird, swimming in the bath. And a boy with a book, seated at a window ‘neath a sallow sun watching it all, too afraid to turn the page.
No one knew for sure what went on back there, behind the building. You could go there, in theory, but nobody went. Kind of like Guatemala, or New Plymouth. But Paul was never a man to back down from an adventure – even if, truth be told, he hadn’t been supplied with an awful lot of adventures to back down from. This, however, was his big break. The beginning of a long and glorious career of Not Backing Down. The moment he put his backing down days behind him, and put himself, trusty apple in tow, behind the building. This was it.
Over the sink, under the water, through the steam, between the suds, he scrubs and he scrubs and he scrubs. His hands should be, by now, swollen pink or the red that is under the pink, but who could tell with all this mist and soap. His wedding band is gone, rattling down with banners of skin, through pipes, to the waters below.