This Week's Story
The Storyteller
The room was dark.
A woman was running down the street. The rain followed her; translucent white sheets gusting in the wind. She was running to someone, no perhaps away. She couldn’t tell at this moment, she wasn’t sure.
She looked up from the sidewalk, the moon, bright, illuminating the clouds. The air was cold, it touched her cheek and her neck where her hair brushed back over her shoulder. She fumbled in her purse for the keys.
A child stepped out of a train. The sky was golden, a man ran towards the child and brushed him back against the train. He couldn’t see if the child had been hurt. He thought he hear the voice of a woman, asking where she could buy sandwiches. Someone screamed.
Words tumbled into sentences, tumbled into meaning. Making pictures.
The keys were warm from her bag. She pulled them out, spilling tissues, bits of crumpled paper, a lipstick tube to the ground. ‘Shit’, she whispered.
There were more people running. She saw the thigh of a naked woman stretching from the tub, dripping water to the floor. She noticed two faces, an elderly woman and man, clenched together against the cold, against the fear, against death, against something. The child stood up and rubbed his eyes. His face was dirty and he opened his mouth. He was missing his front teeth. The old man whispered in the woman’s ear, something he had thought of twenty years ago and just remember to tell her, something he had been wanting to say for a long time.
She crouched down and leaned to catch the things before they blew away. Her foot slipped off the sidewalk. She felt a pain on her tail bone and she paused, the dampness beginning to crawl into her clothing. She stood and leaned against the mailbox.
The woman was young. Had she noticed that before? She was no longer running, it was a dog, or was it a cat? That had flashed past her in the dark. She turned and began walking home, the rain stopped, the sky opened, the moon peered out at the earth. It was her mother, or her brother that had betrayed her. It was her friend, or her father that had killed the animal. It was her sister or her uncle that had told her about her late boyfriend, her lover, her husband. She couldn’t remember where she lived and she sat on the curb.
Her hands were cold and she cupped them over her mouth and blew.
The train was late and the mother didn’t see the child as he stood and rubbed his eyes. She looked and asked the ticket taker if she could buy some sandwiches from the store with the magazines. She knew he would be hungry after such a long trip. She hated taking the train. He would be tired too. She tucked the pillow tighter under her arm. She didn’t see the elderly couple as she turned to walk towards the platform.
The keys were cold. She felt a dull pain at her elbow as she inserted one into the lock. It stuck. She jiggled it and stamped her feet to warm them.
Words tumbled into sentences, tumbled into meaning. Making pictures.
The woman reached for a towel. It was dark green and large, she could not see her body as she pulled it around her torso. The phone rang. She heard her say hello as she lifted her wet hair from her shoulders and squeezed it with one hand. She shook her head and laughed. Her head tilted to one side and she smiled. Water dripped to the floor around her feet. The lights were off.
The hall was dark. She thrust the door open. She touched the wall to gain her balance. Her fingers pressed against the metal of the mail boxes. They felt warm.
The old man pressed his lips against the old woman’s hair. It smelled of books. A man brushed past him to get to the pay phones. He did not say excuse me. The old man stumbled and bumped into a young woman.
She placed her palm flat to the wall and breathed in the warmth of the building. It was dark and it smelled of wood.
The young woman noticed a girl sitting on the ground next to the waiting room. She was young. A dog sat next to her. Her head was in her hands. She was crying, or maybe talking to herself. The young woman bit her bottom lip. She put the bag of sandwiches into her other hand. She was lonely, or maybe nervous, she wasn’t sure, she couldn’t tell.
She felt perspiration on her lip. Her armpits were wet. She picked up her purse and stepped up the stairs.
The child cried and held out his hand. The girl stood up and walked over to him. She crouched down and told him her dogs name. It was China, or Trajan, he didn’t know. The boy’s name was Peter. The girl’s name was Apple. The man picked up the phone. He was smiling as the quarter slid into the metal slot. He took a deep breath and said hello.
She frowned and stumbled against the landing. The lights were broken.
Words tumbled into sentences, tumbled into meaning. Making pictures.
The girl screamed at the man as he bumped the child against the train. She grabbed the boy’s hand. He started to cry. The young woman looked up. She dropped the bag of sandwiches as she ran towards her son, or maybe her nephew. She wasn’t sure, she couldn’t tell. The old man pressed the hand of the old woman and she stepped aboard the train. He knew, or maybe he didn’t, that he would never see her again. She had cancer, or Alzheimer’s. She would die peacefully at her daughter’s house, her son’s apartment. He would be struck by a car while jogging or riding his bike.
She knocked on the door.
She didn’t know for sure. She couldn’t tell. Behind the woman, a cat was laying on the sofa. She hung up the phone and walked into the bedroom. Her hair was dark and long. Her room was white, or maybe green. She couldn’t tell. The lights were off. The moon shone in the window. A white patch of light lay on the floor. The woman lied on the bed.
There was no answer and she kicked the door softly with the toe of her boot.
The sandwiches were crumpled but the boy ate them anyway. There was salami or ham, she wasn’t sure. The woman ran her hands over her stomach and then stretched her arms above her head. She lay on the bed, a square of moonlight against her torso. The phone rang, or was it the doorbell. The girl stood watching the young woman walk to a black car. She was holding the boy’s hand. The boy was talking and looking up at her. He heard the train start to leave and turned to look. The girl pulled on the dog’s leash and watched the train leave. She didn’t notice the old woman looking out the window.
The door swung open slowly. The apartment smelled like spoiled milk. She poked her head in the door and called his name. There was no answer.
Words tumbled into sentences, tumbled into meaning. Making pictures.
The old woman sat back in her seat. She would never see the old man again. She opened a magazine and began to read. The boy stuck his finger in his nose. He wondered about his sister, or maybe his uncle. They never told him what happened. He watched out the window. A young man rode by on a bicycle. He was tall and had pimples.
A blue light came from the back room. He tiptoed toward the light. The computer was on. She had typed a few words. ‘A woman was running down the street.’ She was sitting in the chair, her eyes open and fluttering, shifting in their sockets, as if she were dreaming. He whispered her name. He screamed.
The door closed. The light turned off. The curtains shut.