E. Ellis Allen's Blog
February 15, 2016
In Due Time (excerpt)
The old man lived in the in-between mostly, not the distortion of a broken mirror, but the crack itself. He appeared from a crevice between stacked buildings lining the street, early, before the birds, before the traffic, even before the sun. Rooting around his old brown suit, he retrieved his watch. He held it up and listened for its rhythmic tick, tick, tick. Nothing.
He shoved the watch back into his pocket, as well as the rim of his glasses back onto his nose. Gravity had begun to bend the old man forward, and his spotted and sun-pocked skin sagged on his bones.
The old man walked through a streetlight shining down on the sidewalk and left no shadow trailing behind him. He had ruddy cheeks that pinched up sides of his face and caught beneath his spectacles. A long braid crept down his back and wagged back and forth when he moved and ended in a point.
He loosened his hair allowing it to spill down his arms and off his fingertips. Upon seeing his reflection in a storefront window, he thought, “You’re growing more into a tree than anything else!”
Sunlight began to flicker on the towers, and the old man rushed to find a shadow. He turned onto a side street and took a right. Following the slope of a green grass embankment, he wandered down to where it leveled and then he stopped. With knotted fingers he massaged circles into his forehead. He berated himself, “You are silly to try and hide…it is not as if you are noticed.”
His eyes swept the clearing scrutinizing the tall trees pinning him in. How long had it been since he had stood in a clearing, how long since he enjoyed the life around him?
The old man paused; he felt the wind on his back. It picked up his long strands and played with their ends. He inhaled the fragrance of the forest; the grasses, new blooms, and morning dew.
High above him, a bird sang as it soared between branches. The old man watched the bird. He could see exposed white feathers on the tips of its wings. And he was fascinated as it dove off tree limbs and rode the bumps in the breeze.
As he watched, the scent of the world around him evaporated. His eyes began to tint inky and dark. His arms flew behind him, braiding his hair with the agility of a black widow knitting a web. The old man bent forward taking a runner’s stance and tracking the bird with his clouded eyes.
The bird flitted through treetops not noticing the man's pursuit.
After a while, the bird dove down and rested among the green. It raised and lowered its beak. Pecking at the soil, it pulled up a long fat worm.
The man crept out from behind a large oak. He tiptoed to where the bird was feeding. Step by step the man inched closer. Steady. Soundless. Soulless.
“Ha! Caught it!”
He clapped his hands around the bird. It wiggled and squawked. Its head lobbed forward and back to escape the man’s clutch. The more it struggled to free itself, the tighter the old man held on. Its wings fluttered against boney palms until it knew there was no escape and it lay still, waiting. The man twisted up his hands to look into the bird’s wide round eyes. Fear and panic had filled the creature up.
Then from deep inside the bird, came a low whine. Gray welled up within it, washing over its soft body and along its once white tipped wings. Gray also blackened its beak before turning the bird to charcoal. Then the old man squeezed his hands together. The bird-form crumbled between his fingers. Unfortunate. His prey had been nothing but a time killer, or a filler of time, to him it mattered very little which.
He shoved the watch back into his pocket, as well as the rim of his glasses back onto his nose. Gravity had begun to bend the old man forward, and his spotted and sun-pocked skin sagged on his bones.
The old man walked through a streetlight shining down on the sidewalk and left no shadow trailing behind him. He had ruddy cheeks that pinched up sides of his face and caught beneath his spectacles. A long braid crept down his back and wagged back and forth when he moved and ended in a point.
He loosened his hair allowing it to spill down his arms and off his fingertips. Upon seeing his reflection in a storefront window, he thought, “You’re growing more into a tree than anything else!”
Sunlight began to flicker on the towers, and the old man rushed to find a shadow. He turned onto a side street and took a right. Following the slope of a green grass embankment, he wandered down to where it leveled and then he stopped. With knotted fingers he massaged circles into his forehead. He berated himself, “You are silly to try and hide…it is not as if you are noticed.”
His eyes swept the clearing scrutinizing the tall trees pinning him in. How long had it been since he had stood in a clearing, how long since he enjoyed the life around him?
The old man paused; he felt the wind on his back. It picked up his long strands and played with their ends. He inhaled the fragrance of the forest; the grasses, new blooms, and morning dew.
High above him, a bird sang as it soared between branches. The old man watched the bird. He could see exposed white feathers on the tips of its wings. And he was fascinated as it dove off tree limbs and rode the bumps in the breeze.
As he watched, the scent of the world around him evaporated. His eyes began to tint inky and dark. His arms flew behind him, braiding his hair with the agility of a black widow knitting a web. The old man bent forward taking a runner’s stance and tracking the bird with his clouded eyes.
The bird flitted through treetops not noticing the man's pursuit.
After a while, the bird dove down and rested among the green. It raised and lowered its beak. Pecking at the soil, it pulled up a long fat worm.
The man crept out from behind a large oak. He tiptoed to where the bird was feeding. Step by step the man inched closer. Steady. Soundless. Soulless.
“Ha! Caught it!”
He clapped his hands around the bird. It wiggled and squawked. Its head lobbed forward and back to escape the man’s clutch. The more it struggled to free itself, the tighter the old man held on. Its wings fluttered against boney palms until it knew there was no escape and it lay still, waiting. The man twisted up his hands to look into the bird’s wide round eyes. Fear and panic had filled the creature up.
Then from deep inside the bird, came a low whine. Gray welled up within it, washing over its soft body and along its once white tipped wings. Gray also blackened its beak before turning the bird to charcoal. Then the old man squeezed his hands together. The bird-form crumbled between his fingers. Unfortunate. His prey had been nothing but a time killer, or a filler of time, to him it mattered very little which.
A Walk with My Daughter (excerpt)
Outside my window, purple mountains with serrated peaks link and stretch across the horizon. The landscape resembles paper cutouts pasted on a blue canvas. It’s September, again.
My house is quiet except for the buzz of electricity coming from all powered things. It’s so quiet, too quiet. Unnerving. I close my eyes.
I imagine hearing the piercing cry of a hawk circling my house. It’s scream mirroring a child’s excitement or whimper. My daughter and I used to peer out the window and watch them fly; wings spanned open, dipping and roving along invisible ocean waves. We loved to watch the Hawks play.
Every year, they came, until the sky was polluted with rooftops and sightings of the magnificent birds became less and less and then, not at all.
I gulp down my lukewarm coffee and head to the kitchen. Dirty dishes tower in the kitchen sink and topple onto the counter. I balance the mug precariously on top of the mess and leave. I’ll clean it up tomorrow. It’s a lie. No one will clean it up. Not today or tomorrow or anytime, soon. Henry will try, but I won’t let him.
I’m numb walking through the house, and I’m uneasy moving up the staircase. I’ve come to loath the top of the stairs.
I’d developed a habit of sprinting the last steps, barely pausing, before darting left and into the sanctuary of my bedroom. I would hurry by the hallway and the door at the end of it, the white door with the contrasting metallic sticker bearing my child’s name.
At the top of the stairs, I force myself to stop and look down the darkened hall. Fear ratchets up my pulse. My eyes adjust through the shadows. I can see the small vinyl lettering, “Lylia.” I tremble, step backward and escape into my bedroom.
I suck air back into my body and hold onto the bedpost to steady myself. My palms are sweating. I can do this, can’t I? Doctor George thinks I can. Therapy. I needed therapy, now.
Week after week, I sit across from my therapist, staring at his collection of lighthouses spread through his office. Were they supposed to represent hope? Did my therapist see himself as some sort of hope-keeper?
Doctor George sits with a spiral notebook in hand; I assume, drawing caricatures of his patients. And Henry sits on a folding chair in the waiting room.
“You must challenge your fears,” Doctor George tells me at the end of each visit. I promise to. It’s another lie.
Last week, Doctor George skipped the preliminaries of how-do-you-feels and how’s-your-week-goings and dove right in.
“What’s your goal? Have you come up with one?” He asked.
“Yes.” I couldn’t look at him.
“And?”
I shrugged. Doctor George leaned back in his chair, waiting.
“To get out.”
“You go out when you come here. You go out when you go to the store. Can you be more specific?”
“I mean out in my neighborhood…walk up the hill, alone.”
“So, what’s stopping you?” He asked.
“I don’t want to.”
“What are you really afraid of?” Doctor George was kind. His eyes danced in laughter when he spoke. I’d like him if I didn’t hate that I had to come to him, discussing such agonizing things, such terrible things.
“I’m scared,” I said. “I feel so alone.”
“Kate, it’s time,” he said. “Do it for Lylia and for Henry. Do it for yourself.”
He was right. I had to do it, today before I lost my nerve. Before I became part of the family room couch, forever.
I pull a sweater over my pajama top and replace the bottoms with a pair of jeans left crumpled on the floor.
In the bathroom, I scowl at my reflection. My hair is tied in a loose ponytail at the nape of my neck. I go over my teeth with my toothbrush. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.
I edge into the hallway with my back towards my daughter’s room and run downstairs.
“I can do this!” I yell at the ficus on the entry table. I throw on a jacket and turn the doorknob of my front door.
“You don’t have to do this, today,” I reason. “Tomorrow would work, too.”
I open the door.
“It’s just outside. I’ve done it a million times,” I say, hurling myself onto the porch.
It’s quiet.
My house is quiet except for the buzz of electricity coming from all powered things. It’s so quiet, too quiet. Unnerving. I close my eyes.
I imagine hearing the piercing cry of a hawk circling my house. It’s scream mirroring a child’s excitement or whimper. My daughter and I used to peer out the window and watch them fly; wings spanned open, dipping and roving along invisible ocean waves. We loved to watch the Hawks play.
Every year, they came, until the sky was polluted with rooftops and sightings of the magnificent birds became less and less and then, not at all.
I gulp down my lukewarm coffee and head to the kitchen. Dirty dishes tower in the kitchen sink and topple onto the counter. I balance the mug precariously on top of the mess and leave. I’ll clean it up tomorrow. It’s a lie. No one will clean it up. Not today or tomorrow or anytime, soon. Henry will try, but I won’t let him.
I’m numb walking through the house, and I’m uneasy moving up the staircase. I’ve come to loath the top of the stairs.
I’d developed a habit of sprinting the last steps, barely pausing, before darting left and into the sanctuary of my bedroom. I would hurry by the hallway and the door at the end of it, the white door with the contrasting metallic sticker bearing my child’s name.
At the top of the stairs, I force myself to stop and look down the darkened hall. Fear ratchets up my pulse. My eyes adjust through the shadows. I can see the small vinyl lettering, “Lylia.” I tremble, step backward and escape into my bedroom.
I suck air back into my body and hold onto the bedpost to steady myself. My palms are sweating. I can do this, can’t I? Doctor George thinks I can. Therapy. I needed therapy, now.
Week after week, I sit across from my therapist, staring at his collection of lighthouses spread through his office. Were they supposed to represent hope? Did my therapist see himself as some sort of hope-keeper?
Doctor George sits with a spiral notebook in hand; I assume, drawing caricatures of his patients. And Henry sits on a folding chair in the waiting room.
“You must challenge your fears,” Doctor George tells me at the end of each visit. I promise to. It’s another lie.
Last week, Doctor George skipped the preliminaries of how-do-you-feels and how’s-your-week-goings and dove right in.
“What’s your goal? Have you come up with one?” He asked.
“Yes.” I couldn’t look at him.
“And?”
I shrugged. Doctor George leaned back in his chair, waiting.
“To get out.”
“You go out when you come here. You go out when you go to the store. Can you be more specific?”
“I mean out in my neighborhood…walk up the hill, alone.”
“So, what’s stopping you?” He asked.
“I don’t want to.”
“What are you really afraid of?” Doctor George was kind. His eyes danced in laughter when he spoke. I’d like him if I didn’t hate that I had to come to him, discussing such agonizing things, such terrible things.
“I’m scared,” I said. “I feel so alone.”
“Kate, it’s time,” he said. “Do it for Lylia and for Henry. Do it for yourself.”
He was right. I had to do it, today before I lost my nerve. Before I became part of the family room couch, forever.
I pull a sweater over my pajama top and replace the bottoms with a pair of jeans left crumpled on the floor.
In the bathroom, I scowl at my reflection. My hair is tied in a loose ponytail at the nape of my neck. I go over my teeth with my toothbrush. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.
I edge into the hallway with my back towards my daughter’s room and run downstairs.
“I can do this!” I yell at the ficus on the entry table. I throw on a jacket and turn the doorknob of my front door.
“You don’t have to do this, today,” I reason. “Tomorrow would work, too.”
I open the door.
“It’s just outside. I’ve done it a million times,” I say, hurling myself onto the porch.
It’s quiet.
Standing
Standing, standing, standing
My feet grounded in sand
My head stuck in a cloud.
I cannot think ahead
I cannot think behind me
I feel the water rising
Cupping each ankle
And lapping each toe.
I am weightless
Because I am hollow
And I am heavy
Because of my heart.
Standing, standing, standing
Until gravity’s final tug
Until I am forced to fold down.
My feet grounded in sand
My head stuck in a cloud.
I cannot think ahead
I cannot think behind me
I feel the water rising
Cupping each ankle
And lapping each toe.
I am weightless
Because I am hollow
And I am heavy
Because of my heart.
Standing, standing, standing
Until gravity’s final tug
Until I am forced to fold down.
Life Boat
Sailing a boat in a landless world
No one remembered to teach me to swim
Or thought in the end, I would need to learn how.
I fear too much to teach myself
No trust for water, for the things inside
No trust that if in the sea I dove, again to the surface I’d return.
On a current crossing the blue I crumble
Dried and cracked, and peeling away
Layer by layer my person erodes.
To question is useless, and to reason is worse
Wind and sun don’t know such words
And I have no reason to stay afloat.
No oars at hand or motor to churn
Stagnantly bobbing, and pitifully lost
I’m nearly drowned, and self-marooned, listing, listing among the waves.
Adrift along a landless world
The horizon draws near, and still I sit
Wishing I had less to know, and dreaming I had learned to swim.
No one remembered to teach me to swim
Or thought in the end, I would need to learn how.
I fear too much to teach myself
No trust for water, for the things inside
No trust that if in the sea I dove, again to the surface I’d return.
On a current crossing the blue I crumble
Dried and cracked, and peeling away
Layer by layer my person erodes.
To question is useless, and to reason is worse
Wind and sun don’t know such words
And I have no reason to stay afloat.
No oars at hand or motor to churn
Stagnantly bobbing, and pitifully lost
I’m nearly drowned, and self-marooned, listing, listing among the waves.
Adrift along a landless world
The horizon draws near, and still I sit
Wishing I had less to know, and dreaming I had learned to swim.
