The Edge

I stood in cold
Abyss at my feet

Oh weak heart
Find some fight
For I might leap

Through darkness falls
Off rocky walls
On unripe dreams
And shallow hope

Draw near
Untainted void
Rutted home the darkness unbound
Fetal in light
Untold in fear

Abyss at my feet

copyright © David A. Duprey

The Seed

  This was the big one. No more words. Just violence. Swift and savage. Daddy swung first and connected, sending Dillon a full three steps backward. From there, the two grappled at each other awkwardly, heads down, arms up, as if swatting at a swarm of bees. The two entwined, tangled in a mass of punches and kicks. From within, a chorus of threats, growls and words Henrietta had never heard before.

  It frightened her. Daddy was like the Jack-in-the-box she’d gotten for her birthday; the little handle could only be turned just so many times. And Dillon turned it best. They fought over mommy. And this was the worst. So Henrietta ran. Like always. Out behind the house. Past the three birch trees. Over the shoddy wooden footbridge. Into the woods. To the clearing, and straight for the old barn behind Dillon’s house. There she hid, under the creaking boards of the loft, in the empty horse stall in back. That’s where Missy lay, Dillion’s beagle, with her four newborns suckling. She sang them a song.

  When Henrietta returned home, her father was gone. Dillon sat in the kitchen, his face pink and swollen, blood smeared away from a corner of his mouth. “You was in the barn ag’in, weren’t cha,” he smiled. Henrietta merely nodded. “Get some things together Hennie.” He patted her head. “You an your mom is stayin’ with me tonight.”  

  So she did.  And they did.

  Next morning, while mommy and Dillon were sleeping, Henrietta filled a bowl with cereal. She went out to the barn, to the old horse stall, to the bed of hay. The light was dim but she could see the pups; they weren’t moving. And Missy was gone.  

  Then above her, from the loft over her head came a creaking, a movement. Then a terrible crackling from outside, snapping like a forest of twigs all breaking at once. Through slits in the barn’s planking, an orange glow streamed inside. Henrietta pressed her face to the widest break in the wall. Dillon’s house was ablaze. Flames leapt to the sky, a plume of thick black smoke reaching higher. 

  Above her, from the loft, a familiar, frightening bellow. She coiled in the hay. Missy dropped to the floor with a lifeless thud. And then daddy, laughing, jumped to the ground, cursing victoriously toward the engulfed house. He ran from the barn and disappeared into the woods.

  Through the slit in the boards, Henrietta watched the window where Mommy and Dillon slept. The room filled with fire.  

   And in the years to follow, it would consume her entirely.

copyright © David A. Duprey. All rights reserved

Reunions

  Damn. Three years already. Didn’t seem possible. Have to admit she looks good. Better than I’d hoped. I hated that. Her hair was different; she’d grown it out long and straight, tucked behind her ears. She knew I liked that. And she’d changed her style too: faded low-rise jeans, low-cut V-neck top, just a hint of belly. Daring for Melissa. Maybe I was lonely. Maybe I was depressed. But she looks good. It made me weak. And made things hard to remember. While I approached, she shifted her weight, eyes darting to the sidewalk. 

“Hey Melissa.”

  Damn. He looks like hell. Maybe I’m not ready. That little-boy shuffle. That wisp of hair in his eyes. Even that battered leather jacket I’d bought him a lifetime ago; still wearing it. He hasn’t changed. I should have picked him up at the airport. Why was I so stubborn? This was such a mistake. Christ. A V-neck shirt? Really, Melissa? Leave it to Cali to get us here together. Her and her schemes. He’s gotten a little gray. But it looks good. He looks good. What am I doing?

“Hey Alex.”

  Damn. They look great. Dad’s a little heavier, a little grayer. Still in that jacket. And Mom, she’s so beautiful. Love her hair. And that top. Can’t believe they’re here. Should have done this earlier. Just too angry. Too selfish. And for what? Three years lost. Sure could use ‘em now. Guess it’s kinda funny really. Boyfriend tells me I have too many headaches, I never want to do anything. Next, they say it’ll take two months. Start preparing. It’s “aggressive”. Okay, not that funny. Boyfriend’s gone now. With just about everything else.  All that’s left is this: Mom and Dad. Look at them. Together. In my house. What was I going to say?  

“Mom.  Dad . . .”

copyright © David A. Duprey. All rights reserved.

Dignity

  The Rec room lay strewn with the elderly, slumped in chairs under dim florescent light. I stood near the door waiting for my grandmother. 

  A woman in the corner, hunched in her wheelchair, sat at a card table heaping with clean white towels. One by one, she folded them.

  Her skin hung like wet rags on a line. Blotchy white hair snarled out her scalp. Hollow gray eyes glistened from within crags and folds. And with the arch of her back, her head seemed an overripe fruit dangling from the farthest tip of a tree’s thinnest branch.   

  She was a girl once, and young woman, perhaps good wife, mother and more.

 Over her shoulders hung her sweater, buttoned just so, up along the collar, with a tarnished broach pinned into the weave.

  In her hands, she pinched the corners of towel, twisted fingers ever so slowly smoothing the seam. Then on the table, a second fold, and upon a small carefully positioned stack it was laid. She took to her task with great diligence, contributing what little she could to the last home she would ever know.  

  When finished she leaned into the padding of her chair, rested her hands in her lap, and sat motionless, in silence. A moment passed, and from the hallway, a lively young aid bounded into the room, no more than twenty, with a long ponytail swinging behind her, her face a light, the chasm between her and those in the room a mystery, a needless worry with so many years still ahead. She walked to the card table, her careful words and tender touch evident, her compassion clear. She thanked the old woman, approved her hard work, and praised her efforts. The woman managed little more than a twitch in her mouth, but in her eyes was delight. A jewel of pride. She had worth.   

  The aid scooped up the towels and carried them out of the room, breaking the line of site between her and the woman. She then tossed the towels on a counter and began unfurling each and every one, continuing the cycle. With them all in a disheveled pile, she returned, giving me a smile, and laid them to rest again atop the spindly card table, into eager hands, in this last, solemn station. 

copyright © David A. Duprey. All right reserved.

White Lies

  I was eleven when the new doctor came to Sumner County. Handsomest man I ever saw. All tan. Hair slicked back. Big green eyes like bowls of pistachio ice cream. He come around the schools every year this time. When he got to me, he said, ‘You’re mighty tall to be in just the sixth grade.’ I slouched, making an S with my backbone.  

  I reckon he’d seen my type before, but standin’ in front of everyone, havin’ him point it out, didn’t feel all too good. Jimmy Corbin called me “Bones” and he called me it ag’in after what the doc said. He got a quick shush from Missus Browning.  

 I was new to bein' tall. Pop said I had a “growth spurt” durin’ the summer.  Ma couldn’t keep me in the same clothes much more ‘an a week or two ‘fore I was rippin’ out the seams. But bein’ skinny was hard. You can be the smartest or the prettiest an’ nobody says nothin’, but you go and get a foot taller and people is bound to take notice.  And notice they did.

 “You best keep it straight,” the doctor said, pattin’ me between the shoulder blades, straightening me out.  “Don’t wanna grow up all crooked.”

  I did as he said. Missus Browning smiled.     

  He probed my ears and shined a light in my eyes. Then I sat down and he tapped a little hammer on my knees. Whole class laughed. 

  Wasn’t ’till he listened to my heart when the doctor finally stopped his smilin’. Kept tellin’ me to take deep breaths, so I’d puff up my chest best I could—I wasn’t no good at catchin’ breaths.  I’d blow it out, kinda wheezy soundin’. Then I'd cough. Momma always patted my head when that'd happen.

  Doc took to writin’ things on his clipboard.  Missus Browning had her head tilted, her eyes kinda looking at the floor.

  “Bones ain’t got no heart, mister,” Jimmy Corbin shouted from behind me.

 Doc ignored him. “You like playin’ ball?” he asked.

 “Sure,” I siad.  “Got me a real Louisville Slugger at home."

  The do smiled. “Can you run?”

  “Oh yeah,” I boasted.  “Real fast.”

  Missus Browning nodded tot he doctor.

  Then he patted my head, like my ma, rumpling up my hair, then slid over to Kip Garney.  Next to him, I was like dried cornstalk.

  “I can run,” I kept tellin’ myself.  “I can run.”

copyright © David A. Duprey. All rights reserved.