by Anthology
I raised an eyebrow. He laughed. “I know you don’t get it. I don’t fully get it, not yet. Still, I think I’ve solved it. Eternity isn’t the problem, it’s how we get there that’s been giving me trouble.” He winked, like we were in on the big conspiracy together.
He picked up a handful of grass, held the ends over the flame of his lighter until they bled. He breathed easier after snorting their smoke.
“Sure,” I said, rubbing my raw knuckles. “Sure, Smokey. I’ll pretend I know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Pretend enough and it comes true. That’s called faith,” Smokey said back, eyes focusing on the fire of his ivory lighter. He had a whole drawer full of them, but the ivory one was his favorite.
I looked away from the flame and turned over my shoulder. Eileen had an older man on the grass, his arm up, belly squelching into the mud. I smiled as she shoved him away. He must have tried something she didn’t appreciate. The last guy who did that got worse. Good for her.
I turned back and saw Smokey holding his hand over the flame, unwavering from the heat. He seemed to be waiting for something.
“Where’s Rebecca?” I asked, trying to pull him away from his worship.
“Eleven blocks away. Her hand is on Jimmy Henderson’s thigh and she thinks he loves her, but it’s not true.” He spoke like a machine gun, mechanical, rattling like the stutter of bullets. His voice was cold. His eyes did not leave the fire. “No one will love her, not since—” but he stopped himself and his eyes shot up to mine.
He waited for me to ask. I didn’t. Family business.
Eileen came up to us, book in hand.
“This place isn’t fun anymore,” she said.
I got up from the pool’s edge and so did Smokey. We all started walking home. In a moment, she had her arm through Smokey’s. She knew what this did to him.
“Warm me up, Arson?” she said, all business. My skin crawled.
It didn’t matter to Smokey. His hand settled on hers, trembling. My sister and I walked home.
Smokey though, he flew.
*
Her arm was wrapped in bandages, great clumps of flame missing in her hair. She ran through the hallway, assaulted on all sides by eyes. I hadn’t seen her all summer.
Something had happened to Rebecca. I set out after her.
She looked over her shoulder, saw me coming. On any other day, she would stand her ground and drive me back with her voice.
But today, she ran. I let her. Runners would scratch your eyes out before being caught.
I saw Smokey striding towards me. He stood tall and he wore a wide smile. I knew something was wrong.
His thumb flicked, twitched against a phantom lighter shell. We both knew he lacked the control needed to have it in school.
“What’s wrong with you?” I asked, taking a step back.
The smile did not move. His eyes were glazed, like he’d been huffing paint thinner. He reeked of nicotine and women’s perfume. “Guy can’t be happy?” he asked, his voice dopey, slow.
“Not you, Smokey. Cause when you’re happy, it means someone else is miserable. Where’s the body?”
His eyes widened, flicked to me. “Hiding in the girl’s bathroom. She’s crying right now. She worries no one will love her, not even a squeeze under the bleachers. She’s right. Her heat is fading fast.”
My heart went cold. I couldn’t feel my bones. When I spoke, I heard the grating of my teeth and jaw. “What did you do to Rebecca?”
His smile was a black crescent moon. His eyes held a dark, hot light. “Breath is the soul trapped in the skin. It took me a while, but the principle is the same. Skin could burn too, couldn’t it? I can’t breathe her soul, but I can transform it, like turning the wine into blood.”
Pulled from thin air, he held up the ivory lighter. My heart skipped a beat. “It was a harmless thing,” he said, his speech slurring. “While she was sleeping, I’d go to her. In the heat of June, I transformed her clothes, inhaled their memories. I just wanted to know so badly. But it wasn’t enough. Not by half. By July, I was burning clumps of her hair. I started knowing things, friend. Her shames. Her passions. Her joys. Secret things. I was scared it wouldn’t work, but it did. So I kept going. By August, the ropes were tight. They’d hold her fast. I worked my way up, from nail to elbow.”
His eyes were shining and he stood on the edge of something beyond ecstasy. “I transformed the flesh and breathed in the soul through the smoke of her body. I know her so well, friend. I know her so, so well. I know her like I know the grass and the trees and the winter. I know her. And she will never be so close to somebody again, as she is to me now.”
All I could see was red, red like her hair. A sickness howled in my guts.
“You see?” Smokey said through his sickle smile, pleading, “This is the answer! This is the beginning of something wonderful! Don’t you see what I’ve done?”
“Yes,” I said. I felt every knuckle crack, every tendon pop and snap as my hands clenched into fists. “Yes, I can finally see you, Smokey.”
My hands were around his throat in a moment. I was operating on instinct, the same instinct that drives men to crush insects beneath their heel.
Smokey did not fight back. He was not so stupid. But he did not submit.
My hands came away from his throat. They snapped out and struck him in the chest, once, twice, three times. There was a screaming all around me, but I’d be lying if I told you I cared.
His feet remained on the ground. Short of breath, eyes lolling in his head, he smiled that sharp smile meant for wolves. He smiled to see my anger.
Fist to eye, kidney, and nose, temple, tooth and heart. Dropping my center of gravity, I struck him below the sternum. My hair fluttered as his breath was torn from him and finally, he fell to the ground where he belonged.
The whole thing took less than thirty seconds.
Smokey looked up at me from the ground, and although he was bleeding, he was not crying. He looked at me with those wide eyes, not with anger, but with disappointment.
“You’re sick,” I said, loud enough for everyone to hear, the truth of it now dawning on me. “You’re a spider, trying to trick us into letting you live in the light. You don’t deserve light.” I spotted the ivory lighter before his feet. He had dropped it. “You don’t deserve fire,” I said as I brought my combat boots down onto it.
A wordless scream ripped through Smokey, his back arching in agony. Here then were the tears: none for his mutilated sister, but an ocean’s worth for his cheap, plastic god.
“Get out of here,” I said, my voice ragged and raw. “If I ever hear that you’re hurting her again, I’ll kill you. If you try to talk to me again, I’ll kill you. I have a bullet with your name on it. You know this.”
“I’m sorry,” he said in a whisper of wind through tombstones, still high on his sister’s smoke, “I’m sorry you’ll never understand. I’m sorry you won’t be coming with me.”
“That makes one of us.”
He did not look back as he crawled away. He only pushed and pulled himself forward, leaving behind a slug’s trail of blood. I felt hollowed out. I could not keep my hands from shaking.
I walked away from school that day, but not before making sure that Smokey crawled away first.
*
I could sense it in the air around me. As autumn shed its skin and left us to winter, it grew stronger. When winter cried itself away and spring came laughing, only then I knew it for what it was.
Smoke on the wind, blinding my eyes, stinging my nostrils. I had been the one thing stopping Smokey from setting the world on fire just to breathe it all in.
But I wasn’t there anymore, and knew that whatever fire Smokey had started, it was blowing down wind and headed right towards all of us.
*
“I have her.”
“I know, Smokey.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because she hasn’t been home in a
day and you’re not creative. Because ending your own life isn’t good enough.”
“If you think this is an ending,” he said, “Then you don’t know me at all.”
He told me where they were and hung up.
The gun was a comforting weight as I took it out from under the pillow. I had all four bullets loaded just in case. It was a special occasion.
*
The smell of gasoline clawed at my nostrils. It spilled out past me as I edged open the factory door.
In the center of the room sat my sister. He had dressed her in a white gown, soaked in lighter fluid. The only sound was the slow drip of it onto the floor, also shining with the colorless liquid.
She had fought back, the bruises and gashes were evidence enough. Still, her hands were tied behind her, and she looked at me, shouting muffled words through the tape across her mouth. Her legs were splayed out at terrible angles, broken and bent. He had finally found a way to stop her running and it made me shake with rage.
“You came.”
Smokey emerged from the shadows behind my sister. He wore a white shirt and khakis, soaked through with the same gasoline as my sister. His face was red and bleeding from where my sister had clawed at him, but he did not notice.
“You’ve come to watch our baptism by fire,” he said through bloody, blackened teeth.
I raised my pistol. All in a moment, he was behind my sister, hiding, laughing. “You are so fast, friend, so strong. Clever.” He peeked at me from over my sister’s head. “But can you hit me and not her?”
My hands did not shake, though my eyes did narrow.
A flower of flame burst to life in Smokey’s hand and I could not breathe as it danced and flickered inches from my sister’s lighter fluid dress.
“Did you ever figure it out?” he asked, desperate need flooding his voice. “Did you figure out the secret?”
“Breath is the soul,” I said. “But you can’t steal it. You need the smoke of the flesh to see, to know. Breathe the smoke, know the soul. It’s never been about the fire, it’s about what comes after.”
“You sound like my disciple,” he said, sounding proud.
“Maybe I am.” I licked my lips. “You taught me everything you think you know. But now we’ve reached the point of no return. You always wanted knowledge. You sucked up smoke from anything that would burn because you’re so goddamn curious to know its secrets. But, you have never known the one thing that haunts you.”
His eyes were dark, hearing the truth of it. “You can do what you want to yourself, Smokey,” I said. “But you’re not taking her with you.”
His smile disappeared and he rose to his feet. He held the lighter over my sister. “You might know the secret, disciple. You might understand the ending. But if you think you can finish this story, you’re wrong. You’re not telling the story here. I am.”
“How does it end then, Smokey?” I asked, creeping forward, gun raised. “How does your story end?”
He grinned at me. “You know that stories don’t end. They only begin again. I burn to know but I’ve never known myself! Once I burn, I’ll breathe in myself and become the snake that chases his tail. I’ll breathe deep the story of my life, and then…Well, then I will know for sure what is wrong with me,” he said.
I saw tears cut streaks in the film of oil, though he still smiled. He sounded like he was hearing himself for the first time, and liked what he had to say. “We’re all broken in some way, aren’t we? That’s why I wanted you to come with me, wanted your sister to come with me. You both deserve a chance to know yourselves. I’m just trying to help.”
I didn’t think it was possible, but my heart broke in that moment. “Smokey,” I said, “If this is you helping, you’re doing a shitty job.”
He thrust the lighter over my sister’s head. “You think you don’t need my help? You think you can answer everything with your fists, shrug off every hollow feeling inside you, because what? Because that’s all you’ll ever be?” He shook his head, sad, smiling but sad. “There’s more to life than that,” he said. “And I’m going to show you both.”
I edged closer, only feet away. He squared his shoulders and brought the lighter close to his heart, as though standing vigil at his own wake.
“We’re not going to be broken anymore,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “I’m not going to be broken anymore.”
“Oh, Smokey, you’re not broken,” I said, flicking the safety off. “You’re just human.”
The bullet buried itself deep into Smokey’s heart. The momentum of its silver flight tore the lighter out of Smokey’s hands and onto his body.
The gasoline roared with pleasure as Smokey went up in flames. He did not make a sound. He did not move. He only smiled.
Throwing away the gun, I took off my jacket and ran past my sister, throwing myself at Smokey. The jacket grew hot as I got under his armpits and pushed him back, away from my sister. I had to get him away from the gasoline on the floor and out the back door.
Thick curls of black smoke rose from his body as he burned. I tried not to breathe, but the smoke found its way to my nostrils and I coughed and choked on his burning body. My jacket was beginning to catch.
Smokey’s legs suddenly gave way as he died and the fire fell with him. The floor ignited, sweeping out in all directions.
“See you on the other side,” he rasped, before an ocean of flame swept over him.
Abandoning my jacket, I turned on my heel, still choking on the ashes of my friend and raced back. In a moment, I had my sister in my arms. I ran for the door, through the newborn flames.
My muscles screamed but I charged ahead. In a moment, I burst through the doors, emerging into the night air. Its cool kiss soothed my burnt and aching body.
Siren wails emerged from the silent night as I untied my sister. When the tape came loose, she screamed and raged, a raw and choked sound. She fell against me, and we collapsed to the cold pavement. We held each other tight, and did not cry. If I closed my eyes, it could have been ten years ago.
Together, we watched Smokey burn under the moon.
*
Autumn comes after a silent summer. One October night, I sit in front of a bonfire.
I can still smell the gasoline, even now. I can still remember the taste of my friend’s ashes, the clogging swell of his smoke in my throat.
I watch the logs whine and split, mesmerized by the threads of smoke that leak from their wounds. I watch those grey serpents spin in the air, and I want to—I want to breathe them. To know them.
But that is impossible. I know it is impossible.
I’ve thrust my face into the smoke before I can stop myself. I don’t regret the sweet burning as I breathe the smoke. I feel more complete than I have in some time.
The smoke settles in my lungs, and my head snaps up to the dark forest around me, a forest more intimate to me than just moments before. A vision flashes to life before me.
A broken door stands alone in the dark woods. Sitting behind it is a child, still as calm water. There is a great heat all around him, painting him in sunset colors. A woman in shadow holds a match inches from his face. The child is not scared in that moment.
But I am.
Because the child has eyes the color of gasoline, teeth like tar. I taste ash in the back of throat. I smell gasoline and burnt flesh.
Looking up from the vision, I see a man made of smoke standing beside me. I see him and know those colorless eyes beneath the threads of his wispy body.
Smokey is silent. Only points at the vision, smiles.
I am not alone in my body. I am not alone in my breath. Beneath my breath, there is another, waiting.
It just took him a while to arrive.
Some part of me knows that if he wanted to, Smokey can make me stand and march me into the fire.
But he doesn’t. Not yet.
For now, the two of us sit in the dark before the fire, before the vision, and watch a freshly broken boy learn of
smoke.
Vanilla(Short story)
by Martin Cahill
Originally Published by Fireside Fiction
The sky is gold, black and red, ripe and flush with the end of the world. It is really happening this time.
We sit on grass on a hill and eat ice cream.
“I’m thinking aliens,” you say, through a mouthful of Rocky Road.
I shake my head. “Not aliens. I’ve got a bet with Allen. If it’s aliens, I’m out five grand.”
You raise a perfect blonde eyebrow. “Five grand over aliens?”
I shrug, wiping my chin. “If the world is ending, I figure ‘go big or go home.’” You still don’t believe me.
There is a rumble of something immense and metallic, bearing down on poor, little Earth filled with poor, little people. “If it’s giant robots, I’m going to be really put out.”
You nod, agreeing with my nonsense. It’s why I love you. You stare at a new carton of ice cream with a passion I’ve only seen you reserve for Welsh Corgi puppies and Kill Bill Vol. 2. Wordless, you show me: Neapolitan.
I can’t help it. I start laughing.
“What?” you say, narrowing your eyes, frowning.
I wave my hands in the air, unable to find an answer. “It’s just kind of funny,” I say. You don’t buy it.
You hold the container in your hands, reverent. “When I was a kid, before Steve was born and Mom went on her sugar-free power trip, this was my life.” I put my spoon down. This is a moment of your Secret History. Even as the world dies, I’m still learning so much about you.
“Yeah?”
You nod. Your beautiful, blonde curls dance. “Every week, one flavor. I’d devour chocolate first, because it’s an immediate satisfaction sort of thing. Then, I’d tackle strawberry the next week, because it grew on you, and was harder to love. And then—”
“Vanilla.”
“Vanilla.” You sigh with relief, like sighting an old friend in a crowd, or finding a lost, lucky penny. “Vanilla was the hardest to love, and I loved it for that.”