Little Like a Military Man

Her good cheer had a cadence to it. Like an army teaching turbulent post-adolescents to march, she had drilled her inherent repulsiveness into regimented civility.

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Posted by Gregory Taylor

The trumpeter on the street corner plays staccato bursts into the gloaming air.
No band behind him, no radio beside him, only the evening commute to catch his notes.

An old man in trilby and checked scarf walks past, head down to the pavement,
A young man in dark coat and tie passes him to take the cross street, and
A woman intent on the beat of her shoes and the click of her heels sees only the road in front of her, heading east.

Two blocks away the woman's heels still click and clack to the beat
To the south the young man catches himself humming a bassy line
And the old man whistles to the night, as the trumpet's voice floats on the evening commute.

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Posted by Gregory Taylor

Bluemont

A tall woman with sleight shoulders stooping over her thickening middle grips the railing of a faded red sundeck.  Her face flaps open and shut, a screen door squeaking in the late summer wind—she is speaking to someone below.  My window is closed against the lingering weight of the evening air and I cannot hear what she says.

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Posted by Gregory Taylor

I want to tell you a story

There was a dog, once, whose master was sick beyond the skill of any doctor. When the dog heard that there was a magical fruit that could cure his master, he left immediately in search of that fruit. Ever
just out of reach, the fruit drew him to search higher and lower, farther and wider across the land, beyond mountains and oceans until at last he found what he was looking for. The fruit hung lonely at the edge of the world, guarded by the world-spirit in the form of an old man seated in front of the gnarled, ancient tree. The world-spirit asked why he had come, and laughed kindly when the faithful dog revealed his mission.
"I'm afraid that will be quite impossible, for you have already died, and can no longer return to your master's side."
The dog had indeed died, many years into his journey, but such was his entire devotion to the quest that his spirit had not noticed when his body fell behind.

I always hated that story.

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Posted by Gregory Taylor

Her eyes glinted like ice cracking under freshly poured scotch--cold, fragile, intoxicating.

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Posted by Gregory Taylor

Silent Cal

"Can he even hear us with those things in?"
"Yes, I hear you all perfectly well."
Everyone jumped to hear Silent Cal speak. Amanda recovered first.
"Why do you wear headphones all the time?"
Her question, and those that followed, went unanswered as Cal resumed his customary reserve. Until Dain asked, "Are you listening to anything good?"
Cal paused halfway through turning the page of his book. He looked over at Dain with something in his eye that was neither pain nor laughter completely. Then without a word he reached up, removed the speakers from his ears, and handed them to Dain. With a glance to his friends Dain put the headphones to his own ears expectantly. His face slowly contracted as if he were taking small sips of lemonade short one teaspoon of sugar: not completely unpleasant, but unsettling.
"It's just static!"
"Yes, I was afraid that was all you would hear." Cal took the headphones from Dain's outstretched hand and replaced them on his ears.
"Why, do you hear something different?" asked Claire.
Receiving only a silent stare in response, Claire looked back in his eyes and realized what was so strange about them: they reflected nothing. Like a vast cavern that refuses to let the light of a candle tear back even the slightest corner of the darkness, Cal's eyes were untouched by the world around him.
"What do you hear?" she whispered.
"Eternity."

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Posted by Gregory Taylor

Origami folds

The hard times, the origami folds
Give us depth where we were lacking.
Though we fear the same pain
From the knife or the flame
Perhaps we brighten an eye in passing.

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Posted by Gregory Taylor