by Baird Nuckolls
She came to Keystone West in the Cotton Candy Nebula to get away from the routine of her life, the humdrum stress that wore her down like a nearly flat sine wave. She wanted to sit by the pool slathered in sunscreen and sweat, broiled by the fiery blue sun, reading a trashy novel and drinking some sickly-pink concoction that the pool bartender had splashed over frozen helium in a plastic cup. Staring off toward the Cuban archipelago, her eyes pinched against the sharp sun, she could hear the fluted call of Gentian tourists beyond the wrought-iron fence.
She couldn't sleep the first few nights in the sticky heat, but after a few days of no schedule and no real conversation, she slept like the dead, falling into bed as the rowdy young Falindal offspring on their gap-year tour pedaled past on the way to Duval Street for their night of drunken revelry. She woke in the dawn to the crowing of a flexi-cock and found her way down to the dusty street in the lavender half-light. Walking through the empty streets, she looked at the decaying architecture and the aggressively carnivorous vines overgrowing fences. Stopping to read a historical marker that was hidden in an riot of greenery, she discovered four vegan chicken-bots roosting in the trees just inches from her face. They stared at her in alien, transgendered silence, hoping she would move along so they could sleep.
The smell of hot caffeine stereo-isomer drew her down to the waterfront, to a stand frequented by unshaven dock workers and a few bare-footed beach bums, who stood over their steaming dark brew, inhaling brain cells, firing new neurons in the cool damp day.
Later, she wandered further afield, renting a quadricycle to circumnavigate, past faded cera-melt bungalows and shoddily constructed time share communities clinging to the edges of the airport. The strips of crude consumerism gave way to graceful old homes hidden in groves of tall native trees, ceiling fans stirring the porch air, bird-bots calling from the hidden shade.
The abandoned Federal fort was all flat light and crumbling brick, a home to feral feline-reciprocals; the most promising part was the cache of iced H2o for sale in the lobby shop. She understood, standing on the end point of land, looking out of sand bars and shallows filled with waving aquagrass, why Hemingway drank, surrounded by legions of six-toed cats. She'd visited his home once in the original Key West, wandering the grounds and staring at the books behind glass in his study, the deer mounted on the wall over his desk and the descendants of his cats lounging on the wrought iron furniture beside the faded aquamarine pool.
She rode through the oldest part of the habitat, as tour buses rumbled by on the cobbled streets, their garbled narrative announced on the breeze, their aisles filled with off-world visitors stupefied by rum drinks and the heat. From every street corner, young people hawked day trips on giant heliospores, spun their daydreams of jet pack flights, bikinis and umbrella drinks to the crowds. She ignored them all, searching out the secret gardens instead.
The last night of the week, she stood at lands' end and watched the blue sun sink into the ocean, far from the raucous crowd at AltMallory Square. Keystone West had become a private oasis, the heat burning through the fog in her brain, replacing the sharp edges of her toil with the worn down and faded colors of the town. She found herself amused, renewed, content. When it was time to leave, she contemplated slipping the ties of her life and remaining behind, washed up on the silicate beach like so many before her, seduced by the lure of ease.
But it wasn't entirely necessary to leave the ease behind. She packed her sunglasses, along with a few nautilus fossils to remind her of the sound of the foreign sea. The chicken-bots raced across her path and under the porch as she walked away. They would await her return in the cool shade.
Copyright ©2012 Baird Nuckolls. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.
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If you like this story, check out Baird’s other stories, published on this site: He Preferred Red, Jet lagged and Scarred.
#
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
Baird Nuckolls left her heart in Key West one Spring Break and longs to return. She is a writer and editor, living in Northern California.
Showing posts with label Baird Nuckolls. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Baird Nuckolls. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Scarred
By Baird Nuckolls
I still have the scar. I think about it every year when the weather turns cold and the leaves start to fall. We buy a pumpkin and I help the boys draw spooky faces and cut them out. When they were very small, their dad and I did the work of cutting and sawing through orange shell and paler flesh. They got to scoop out the seeds. Their little hands were good for that and besides, they loved the slimy feel of the seeds in their pulpy webbing.
When they were old enough to hold the knives themselves, I tried to encourage thinking outside the box, to distract them from the knife. How about painting the pumpkins? We could decorate them with feathers and leaves, using the hot glue gun. It never worked. I don't know why that seemed safer to me than knives, but burns are better than blood. Because there can be a lot of blood.
I was four and a half. Old enough to keep a secret. My brother, six, thought he was old enough to carve the pumpkin himself. We were out in the garage; Mom was doing laundry and not paying much attention. Keith got the boning knife from the kitchen drawer. He let me draw the eyes and the nose, but he drew its jagged row of teeth.
I sat, in rapt attention, as he muscled the pumpkin between his bare knees, the black face leering up at him. His arm came up and in a flash, the knife descended, impaled in the middle of one eye. He sawed away, grunting as he turned his hand to make the circle. The knife slid through the flesh easily.
“I want to do one.”
“No, I'm doing this bit.”
I scooted closer, the toes of my Keds nearly touching his leg. I leaned forward, pushing my bangs out of my eyes. He moved on to the second eye. This one was larger; I wasn't good at drawing both eyes the same. Again the arm came high, again the knife was buried in the pumpkin. I imagined the tinny screams of the dying pumpkin, and giggled as he cut out the second eye, then the nose.
When he started on the mouth, I rose onto my knees. “Please, let me try.” I reached for the knife, but he held it above my head.
“Un-uh.”
“I'll tell Mom what you’re doing.” I rose to my feet, pretending I meant to get our mother. I wanted to do the cutting, not get him into trouble. But he didn't know that.
“Okay. But be careful.” He handed me the knife, handle first, and wiped his hands on his shorts.
Filled with my childish power, I bent over the pumpkin that still rested between his knees. I raised the knife over my head, like he did, but when I brought it down, it skittered off the pumpkin, not even scratching the surface.
Keith tried to wrest it from me. “You had a turn.”
I held it away from him. “I'm not done.”
Tongue caught between my teeth, I steadied the pumpkin with one hand and raised the knife again. The knife came down and I felt searing pain in my hand. The knife was buried in the pumpkin between my fingers, but things were not all right. I lifted my left hand to inspect what I'd done.
The knife had bisected my middle finger, down to the bone. I held my palm to my face and saw the white knuckle of the middle joint gleaming in the sea of blood that cascaded from my finger. I screamed. Keith jumped up and ran for Mom. I stood over the pumpkin, dripping blood, still screaming.
Our mother came running. She scooped me up and took me to the bathroom, where she cleaned and bandaged my hand. I don't remember being taken to any doctor for stitches. I don't even remember being punished for attempting to carve the pumpkin without adult supervision. All I remember, when I look at the thin white line crossing my finger like a ring, is the flash of the knife and the blood.
Copyright ©2011 Baird Nuckolls. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.
#
If you like this story, check out Baird’s other stories, published on this site: Chickens roosting in the trees, He Preferred Red and Jet lagged.
#
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
Baird Nuckolls continues to cut herself occasionally with sharp knives; it's a known hazard, but it's worth the risk. She lives and writes in Northern California.
I still have the scar. I think about it every year when the weather turns cold and the leaves start to fall. We buy a pumpkin and I help the boys draw spooky faces and cut them out. When they were very small, their dad and I did the work of cutting and sawing through orange shell and paler flesh. They got to scoop out the seeds. Their little hands were good for that and besides, they loved the slimy feel of the seeds in their pulpy webbing.
When they were old enough to hold the knives themselves, I tried to encourage thinking outside the box, to distract them from the knife. How about painting the pumpkins? We could decorate them with feathers and leaves, using the hot glue gun. It never worked. I don't know why that seemed safer to me than knives, but burns are better than blood. Because there can be a lot of blood.
I was four and a half. Old enough to keep a secret. My brother, six, thought he was old enough to carve the pumpkin himself. We were out in the garage; Mom was doing laundry and not paying much attention. Keith got the boning knife from the kitchen drawer. He let me draw the eyes and the nose, but he drew its jagged row of teeth.
I sat, in rapt attention, as he muscled the pumpkin between his bare knees, the black face leering up at him. His arm came up and in a flash, the knife descended, impaled in the middle of one eye. He sawed away, grunting as he turned his hand to make the circle. The knife slid through the flesh easily.
“I want to do one.”
“No, I'm doing this bit.”
I scooted closer, the toes of my Keds nearly touching his leg. I leaned forward, pushing my bangs out of my eyes. He moved on to the second eye. This one was larger; I wasn't good at drawing both eyes the same. Again the arm came high, again the knife was buried in the pumpkin. I imagined the tinny screams of the dying pumpkin, and giggled as he cut out the second eye, then the nose.
When he started on the mouth, I rose onto my knees. “Please, let me try.” I reached for the knife, but he held it above my head.
“Un-uh.”
“I'll tell Mom what you’re doing.” I rose to my feet, pretending I meant to get our mother. I wanted to do the cutting, not get him into trouble. But he didn't know that.
“Okay. But be careful.” He handed me the knife, handle first, and wiped his hands on his shorts.
Filled with my childish power, I bent over the pumpkin that still rested between his knees. I raised the knife over my head, like he did, but when I brought it down, it skittered off the pumpkin, not even scratching the surface.
Keith tried to wrest it from me. “You had a turn.”
I held it away from him. “I'm not done.”
Tongue caught between my teeth, I steadied the pumpkin with one hand and raised the knife again. The knife came down and I felt searing pain in my hand. The knife was buried in the pumpkin between my fingers, but things were not all right. I lifted my left hand to inspect what I'd done.
The knife had bisected my middle finger, down to the bone. I held my palm to my face and saw the white knuckle of the middle joint gleaming in the sea of blood that cascaded from my finger. I screamed. Keith jumped up and ran for Mom. I stood over the pumpkin, dripping blood, still screaming.
Our mother came running. She scooped me up and took me to the bathroom, where she cleaned and bandaged my hand. I don't remember being taken to any doctor for stitches. I don't even remember being punished for attempting to carve the pumpkin without adult supervision. All I remember, when I look at the thin white line crossing my finger like a ring, is the flash of the knife and the blood.
Copyright ©2011 Baird Nuckolls. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.
#
If you like this story, check out Baird’s other stories, published on this site: Chickens roosting in the trees, He Preferred Red and Jet lagged.
#
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
Baird Nuckolls continues to cut herself occasionally with sharp knives; it's a known hazard, but it's worth the risk. She lives and writes in Northern California.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Jet lagged
By Baird Nuckolls
I slept with my face in your pillow. I wore your sweater. I wandered the apartment, checking the clock. Eight hours difference and it seemed like my soul was out of phase with my body. You called at the strangest times, which pissed me off, but left me yearning for your voice the minute you hung up.
Now you are home, smelling of airports and stale coffee; the cat is hiding, and I keep tripping over your shoes. I need to press my breasts against your wet back in the shower. I want to fall into your kisses, forgetting myself until we are in the same time zone again.
Copyright ©2011 Baird Nuckolls. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.
#
If you like this story, check out Baird’s other stories, published on this site:
Chickens roosting in the trees, He Preferred Red and Scarred.
#
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
Baird is a writer, living in Northern California, who has too many stories that want to be written. She multitasks as much as possible.
I slept with my face in your pillow. I wore your sweater. I wandered the apartment, checking the clock. Eight hours difference and it seemed like my soul was out of phase with my body. You called at the strangest times, which pissed me off, but left me yearning for your voice the minute you hung up.
Now you are home, smelling of airports and stale coffee; the cat is hiding, and I keep tripping over your shoes. I need to press my breasts against your wet back in the shower. I want to fall into your kisses, forgetting myself until we are in the same time zone again.
Copyright ©2011 Baird Nuckolls. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.
#
If you like this story, check out Baird’s other stories, published on this site:
Chickens roosting in the trees, He Preferred Red and Scarred.
#
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
Baird is a writer, living in Northern California, who has too many stories that want to be written. She multitasks as much as possible.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
He Preferred Red
By Baird Nuckolls
Her hair was palest silver, curling in wisps on her head, yet she had it “done” every Friday, without fail. When I came in last week, she asked me to clip her toe nails, too. She said she couldn't reach them any more and they were growing crooked.
With her tiny foot in my lap, I asked her about the dress she was wearing. It was a clear shade of blue, the color of the summer sky.
“I love this color,” she told me. “I wear it all the time.” She twisted the wedding band on her left hand. “Stewart always said he liked it, but I don't think he did.” She leaned forward. “He preferred red.”
I continued to work, rubbing lotion into her heels. Sylvia was silent for a while, then resumed the conversation, as if she had to rest between sentences. It was hard to be nearly a hundred. She told me once that after she turned ninety-five, she wished she was eighty again. Not young, not twenty-five? I asked her. No, she didn't mind being old, but everything hurt less when she was eighty. She liked talking about Stewart. He was her husband for sixty-eight years, until the cancer got him.
“I never liked red. It was too gauche.” She chuckled. “He bought me a red dress once.”
“Just once?” It was the way she said it that made me ask.
“Oh, he knew I didn't like it, but he bought it for my birthday.”
“What did you do?” I put down her right foot and picked up the left. “Did you return it?”
“Oh, no. I wouldn't do that. I wore it once.” She was silent for a long time while I clipped her nails. “Then, I buried my mother in it.”
It was so unexpected, my laugh burst out. She certainly showed him her true feelings.
“Yes, I never had to wear it again.”
Copyright ©2011 Baird Nuckolls. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.
#
If you like this story, check out Baird’s other stories, published on this site:
Chickens roosting in the trees, Jet lagged and Scarred.
#
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
Baird lives to write; the rest of the time, she drives around, feeling lost. Eating chocolate helps, but time spent in the middle of a story helps even more.
Her hair was palest silver, curling in wisps on her head, yet she had it “done” every Friday, without fail. When I came in last week, she asked me to clip her toe nails, too. She said she couldn't reach them any more and they were growing crooked.
With her tiny foot in my lap, I asked her about the dress she was wearing. It was a clear shade of blue, the color of the summer sky.
“I love this color,” she told me. “I wear it all the time.” She twisted the wedding band on her left hand. “Stewart always said he liked it, but I don't think he did.” She leaned forward. “He preferred red.”
I continued to work, rubbing lotion into her heels. Sylvia was silent for a while, then resumed the conversation, as if she had to rest between sentences. It was hard to be nearly a hundred. She told me once that after she turned ninety-five, she wished she was eighty again. Not young, not twenty-five? I asked her. No, she didn't mind being old, but everything hurt less when she was eighty. She liked talking about Stewart. He was her husband for sixty-eight years, until the cancer got him.
“I never liked red. It was too gauche.” She chuckled. “He bought me a red dress once.”
“Just once?” It was the way she said it that made me ask.
“Oh, he knew I didn't like it, but he bought it for my birthday.”
“What did you do?” I put down her right foot and picked up the left. “Did you return it?”
“Oh, no. I wouldn't do that. I wore it once.” She was silent for a long time while I clipped her nails. “Then, I buried my mother in it.”
It was so unexpected, my laugh burst out. She certainly showed him her true feelings.
“Yes, I never had to wear it again.”
Copyright ©2011 Baird Nuckolls. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.
#
If you like this story, check out Baird’s other stories, published on this site:
Chickens roosting in the trees, Jet lagged and Scarred.
#
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
Baird lives to write; the rest of the time, she drives around, feeling lost. Eating chocolate helps, but time spent in the middle of a story helps even more.
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