precision and flawlessness even against the poor light that midnight rations; the Sultan of Snips.
My neighbor slides open his door and starts rushing towards me. He is yelling something at me, but I can’t hear it over the lawnmower. I cease to landscape for the moment.
He is still yelling, but now I can hear him, “Do you know what time it is?” Is this town so old-fashioned that people don’t even keep time?
Sympathetic and curious, I ask, “You don’t have any clocks?”
His face turns red, and he continues yelling as if the lawnmower were still running. “Yes, we have clocks!” He snaps at me, “Do you!?”
This is a ridiculous question. Confidently, I reply, “Of course, I have clocks. They are nothing special, but they get me by.”
My neighbor appears frustrated, “It’s one o’clock in the fucking morning! Why are you mowing you’re lawn at one o’clock in the fucking morning?”
I guess I hadn’t asked myself why, but the only reason I can offer is, “So I don’t get hot… and… bees sleep at night.”
He responds a bit more civil, but nonetheless upset, “Well, can you not do that right now.”
“Sure.” I turn away, and then walk towards my house, leaving the lawnmower just where I had stopped. I say nothing, but I think the air smells pleasant. When I get to the front door, and as I reach for the doorknob, a compelling prediction overcomes; I may be happy right now. I take a few steps backwards, minding not to lose site of the front door. A calm wind caresses and lets me know that night is here; still, the air is warm and shelters like an aura. I step back even more so that I may take a concentrated look at the landscape of my home- my life- at this moment. Half of the yard looks great, and the other half is very ugly.
I have condemned one side, not only for its looks but also for what may or may not be within- and then, I have judged myself. How can I justify denouncing that which provides the counterpart for comparison? Without evil there could be no good. Therefore, evil must exist. I know this, and that is why it hasn’t been too difficult to deal with the goings-on of the past few days.
While standing near an open window, I realize why I had felt the weather so desirable; a storm was approaching. At the very same window, I decide that I will force silence upon my home, furniture, and all major appliances. I start by repeating, “There is no Marie. There is no Marie.” I’ve been tricked. I just denounced the mother of Christ.
“Yes you did,” affirms a voice that I’d prefer keep quiet.
“Fuck you.” I recommend.
“Yes, use foul language. That will make this all go away.” I think he is speaking sarcastically, but the humor is so dry. “Maybe some garlic and a séance will save you from yourself.”
I declare, “I don’t ask to be saved, but to be delivered from you.”
“You ask what’s impossible.”
“Your imposition is graceless.” I retort.
“As is your reasoning.”
I shall prove this stubborn voice correct. I grab the bat that lay amongst beige scraps, a broken door, and my bed. Soon after, the voices that I’d earlier confronted in the beige room continue the bantered obscenities. I walk outside with the baseball bat in my hand, and with violent and passionate motives.
The rain begins to fall harder with a sound that is so sweet, and the scent of grass becomes more distinct as the water hits the blades.
I prop up a ladder that had been pushed against the north side of the house since purchase. I climb this ladder. I stand above the beige room and begin smashing the roof in. I make a nice big hole, welcoming the storm into my home, then, I throw the bat across the yard and step down the ladder. I make way inside, and then lie on the bed. The rain hits my face; now, I feel the storm from the comfort of my home. Aloud I ask, why it is that the clearest skies only come after the sounds of thunder amid bolts of lightning. Voices start up; as calm as the night that snuck in the hard storm, I say, “Keep talking, I’m just getting comfortable.”
About the Author:
Heath Goetsch is studying creative writing at Full Sail University. He lives in Branson, MO where he works with many theatres in the entertainment district. His cat, Kitten II, collaborates with him on most projects.
Contact the Author:
[email protected]
Storms Much Stronger and Other Woes Page 6