A Thin Line
I've spent most of this crazy year in semi-isolation, head down, working on my novel. I literally have not written even one, teeny-weeny short story. Sure, maybe I've dabbled, but my focus has been pretty singular. So, it was nice to see my short story, A Thin Line, published and out there in the world for people to read.
In this story, I wanted to explore the push-pull heart-wrench of a lost familial relationship. Like they say, the opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference. And when we've loved someone or something, it seems impossible to be indifferent. No matter how wrought the relationship, no matter how many years pass, there's something that still binds us together.
Below is a excerpt from A Thin Line, but if you want to read the whole thing, hurry over to CAROUSEL Literary Magazine, Issue 44, it should be up a while longer. By the way, CAROUSEL is "hybrid literature for mutant readers." What a great tag line!
True Confession: I don't usually post works in their entirety because then I may not be eligible to have them published by a magazine or publisher. So, this is your chance to read the whole story.
A Thin Line
It’s
her. Even from this distance — through the reflecting glass of the café’s
windows, across the busy street, through the throng of pedestrians and people
waiting for their morning buses — I recognize her.
I
stare hard, wanting confirmation even though I don't need any. I'd know her
anywhere.
Truth
is, I haven't thought about her in ages. I try not to think about her in
general. Live in the moment like a Buddhist monk. Hi-yaa! In this moment, my
toes are soaking. Freezing too because I spent forever slopping through the
slushy rain to be here for the morning shift, needing some coin, so I can buy
what Laz and I like to call, “a fisherman's breakfast”. Whatever we can catch.
Jesus.
It is her.
Her
hair’s a little grayer, probably thanks to me. Ha!
I
shake my cup and work the morning rush, real gracious and trying to hit that
perfect note between dignified and pitiful. Working the crowd, trying not to look
her way. The whoosh of the train overhead wipes out the sound. It’s hard to ask
for money when no one can hear you, so I stop for a beat, glancing over.
She's
still there.
My
mind is so clear it's painful. I notice everything. My freezing toes, going
numb in my boots. My tingling head, itchy under my hat. My humming body,
twitchy, coming down from last night. Usually, I have a little something in the
morning to take the edge off. If I had been able to start the day right, I bet
I wouldn't have even noticed her. My eyes tripped on her before my mind registered
what was happening. There was some magical, crazy-ass pattern of movements and
poses, strung up like laundry flapping on a line, together in familial
sequence.
Even
now, as I watch her, everything she does feels ridiculously familiar. Her brow
scrunched in concentration, a pencil (chewed, I bet) tucked behind her ear;
dainty hands lifting a cup (not paper, no drink and walk); the simultaneous
shrug of rounded shoulders and the satisfied frown after she sips. Muscle
memory? No, that's not right. Organ memory? Are eyes an organ?
Even
through all the static I picked her out of the crowd. Even though I wasn't
looking. It's like I heard her beating heart. Cue the jaws music. Bu-bump. Bu-bump.
Bu-bump.
Want more? Here's the link: http://carouselmagazine.ca/issue44/
