*** the end of a story... scroll down and read the other parts first ***
From the darkness of the doorway jutted shimmering feelers, poking the shadows with their glistening and strangely familiar contours. A quartet of eyes followed their bobbing.
One pair of peepers flickered lids from the floor, peering out of the darkest of corners at the miraculous parade. Fractured beams of moonlight bounced awry into nothingness, and Dirvin's eyes followed.
Roger, on the other hand, thought about the Wizard of Oz and Dorothy's ruby slippers. Afraid to settle his gaze upon his gorgeous reclamation shivering in the blackness, he focused on his bestowal. Rolled by his own pearled waves for three weeks before tumbling up the beach sands, the long loafers gained a shine reminiscent of the fabled shoes that delivered a little girl from Kansas home. His extended arms held them as steady as any brave man could.
Dirvin lifted his palms toward the huge fingers that held his treasured shoes. Roger lifted his gaze to the apprehensive face and hesitated. In one fluid motion, he released the flippers and snatched at his back pocket. Pitted rubber soles were snatched in eager grasp as Dirvin pulled his slippers close to his chest. Roger brought down his gripped fists and tried to look away.
On the beach, sticky sea bubbles refused to pop on the pointed rocks.
*****
The little town of Kennebunk hadn't felt the same since the storm had swept away a small part of their soil. Everyone's shoes were heavier, and their coffee was too bitter. Conversation at Estelle's was mostly shoe shuffling and the clinking of flatware on porcelain.
The memorial was placed near the jagged cliff where a shack used to lean. An enormous curled "C" dominated the horizon, followed by "arnation". The recession had left no extraneous funds for attractions unvisited by tourists, and so Nestle donated a left over crate to pay tribute.
Moving at astonishing speed for bureaucracy, the crate was condemned as an eyesore and a hazard to the greater public. Attending it's hasty removal, Clem Silter bounced an abrasive cast iron hook in his thickly calloused hand and studied the timber box for a proper anchor point. The crude, heavy claw made a muffled thud as it hit the sod, slipping from the suddenly frozen fingers that had bounced it.
From a toothy hole, Clem watched one filthy fist protrude followed by another, both preceding a crinkled sack atop two shoulders. A few moments later, Dirvin Morris was completely birthed from the crate of Carnation Instant Breakfast and shuffling shimmering sandals toward his outhouse.
And while there was no formal announcement, no official gathering of charities, a slow event took place. Individuals would stop at Dirvin's dwelling and ply their skill. Spare screws were shaken from their coffee cans. Moist boxes emerged from beneath moldy sinks to empty random adhesives. As the crate was connected to the outhouse and gradually made slightly more habitable, people left smiling. And the smile was infectious. And the town breathed well again.
And each twilight, two beautiful eyes batted their lids lazily, gazing at a very brown view and listening to the seagulls, and the waves.
2 comments:
A note.
I've learned something from writing this. Short stories are hard, because I find myself cramming too much description into every sentence. I would reread a paragraph and cut the whole thing, replacing it with a few words at the beginning of the next section.
So, my apologies if some of this story feels rushed. I probably deleted as much as I published, perhaps more. And sorry if the last few sections weren't as entertaining as the first. I tried to keep each one interesting, but completing a thought sometimes trumps sheer prose.
i agree. i was overwhelmed with detail after about pt. 4 but still enjoyed the story. i'd like to hear more mundane stories about your day to day life. that is the stuff that really interests me.
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