He grew out there to twice his size it seemed
More from "Some Stones Don't Roll"
My chest itches. I wonder if that consciousness I had will return. I hope not. I am in no mood for panic now. There is a change afoot I know. I feel it. The itch is gone. Now another one. And another. Sweet mother of mentality! Did Bill have a sister? Did Bill speak once of a sister? Does she hold the key? Each one of us is different. Each one of us a destiny? No that's too easy. I hear noise in my head a higher pitch than what rises from below, the traffic punctuated by the workers. Always there are workers moving things about. We had a woman named Mrs. Detchen who came each week to clean. I never knew one thing about her. She came in and she went out. The only thing left now is a smell. But I can see her. Or perhaps some celebration beyond the rub-a-dub of cloth on shelf and cabinet doors closing. I shall Google her perhaps. Find a vampish great grandchild somewhere who knows the granddaughter of Bill's sister. Only four degrees of separation this AM. When I write, the sound is still here. I multitask. It's all reality. We contribute to reality with every scratch. Bill became a giant. That is what a winter's bloat will do. He lay inert on a hospital bed in Pittsfield.
Woof woof woof woof went the doggie. I do not know what the dog said. I do know when winter breaks smells return and that Stockbridge still has woody areas ascending and descending and adjacent to its structures including the odd structure of that building just down the hill toward the railroad tracks where Bill went after being at the Red Lion Inn or rather the Lion's Den. The very place where Bill and I sang songs I can't remember. The doggie found Bill in the forest as the spring began to stretch from a long winter's sleep. Make that woods. Forests are for books. They got him moved from where he lay in clothesless innocence, the ice preserving him, and yet he grew out there to twice his size it seemed. I did not recognize him on the slab. I lied when they asked is it him. It was and it wasn't. Woof.
She is taking a shower. It is 7:34 AM. A detective came during those months Bill lay frozen in the woods near Blue Hill Road. No one knew he was not still off somewhere wielding the knife. But as time passed we thought it likely he had done what he did. Wandered off. No one went so far as to suggest he would have plunged that serrated knife straight into his heart. With all the force he used playing pool at Mundy's. When we knew he had stabbed George within a few centimeters of whatever artery life hangs upon, that is all we knew save Bill was gone. We figured we might be next. We spent a night up on Yale Hill and then returned sheepishly, survivors. Charley Pride went through my head. I began questioning my ex about the ethics of not telling me that Bill might become violent without his daily pills. I became a fundamentalist committer. Lock them away. Did I say I had empathy? No I did not. Shower is over, No drip. No itch. I think I saw a pigeon moving toward 33rd Street.
Some Stones Don't Roll (FicMemOne by Stephen C. Rose) Kindle Edition
My chest itches. I wonder if that consciousness I had will return. I hope not. I am in no mood for panic now. There is a change afoot I know. I feel it. The itch is gone. Now another one. And another. Sweet mother of mentality! Did Bill have a sister? Did Bill speak once of a sister? Does she hold the key? Each one of us is different. Each one of us a destiny? No that's too easy. I hear noise in my head a higher pitch than what rises from below, the traffic punctuated by the workers. Always there are workers moving things about. We had a woman named Mrs. Detchen who came each week to clean. I never knew one thing about her. She came in and she went out. The only thing left now is a smell. But I can see her. Or perhaps some celebration beyond the rub-a-dub of cloth on shelf and cabinet doors closing. I shall Google her perhaps. Find a vampish great grandchild somewhere who knows the granddaughter of Bill's sister. Only four degrees of separation this AM. When I write, the sound is still here. I multitask. It's all reality. We contribute to reality with every scratch. Bill became a giant. That is what a winter's bloat will do. He lay inert on a hospital bed in Pittsfield.
Woof woof woof woof went the doggie. I do not know what the dog said. I do know when winter breaks smells return and that Stockbridge still has woody areas ascending and descending and adjacent to its structures including the odd structure of that building just down the hill toward the railroad tracks where Bill went after being at the Red Lion Inn or rather the Lion's Den. The very place where Bill and I sang songs I can't remember. The doggie found Bill in the forest as the spring began to stretch from a long winter's sleep. Make that woods. Forests are for books. They got him moved from where he lay in clothesless innocence, the ice preserving him, and yet he grew out there to twice his size it seemed. I did not recognize him on the slab. I lied when they asked is it him. It was and it wasn't. Woof.
She is taking a shower. It is 7:34 AM. A detective came during those months Bill lay frozen in the woods near Blue Hill Road. No one knew he was not still off somewhere wielding the knife. But as time passed we thought it likely he had done what he did. Wandered off. No one went so far as to suggest he would have plunged that serrated knife straight into his heart. With all the force he used playing pool at Mundy's. When we knew he had stabbed George within a few centimeters of whatever artery life hangs upon, that is all we knew save Bill was gone. We figured we might be next. We spent a night up on Yale Hill and then returned sheepishly, survivors. Charley Pride went through my head. I began questioning my ex about the ethics of not telling me that Bill might become violent without his daily pills. I became a fundamentalist committer. Lock them away. Did I say I had empathy? No I did not. Shower is over, No drip. No itch. I think I saw a pigeon moving toward 33rd Street.
Some Stones Don't Roll (FicMemOne by Stephen C. Rose) Kindle Edition
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