If I could fall back

to any age

I’d choose an hour

of steady rain

on the rooftop of

my childhood days

as I curled atop

the familiar spread,

a bouquet of

fabric softener

filling my head,

listening in

to the muffled din

whilst staring up

at nothing too much

as the sounds of

my mother

fixing our dinner

dripped like a faucet

down the long,

distant hall

handbook

At first, there’s only absence.  A question breaking.  And then—the dull throb of awareness.

Something happened here.  Something happened to me.  Like a cavity in my tooth, I prod the thing with my tongue.  The hole widens; the nerve retreats.

People are everywhere.  The suggestions of people are everywhere.   Pointillist people.  Pixelated people.  Peter piper picked a peck of

A woman screaming.  Across the . . . field.  I envy her the sharp cry of pain.  The climax it stakes.  A child drifts by, dragging a stuffed animal.  Is this my responsibility?  Do I know this child, her glassy-eyed bear?  Before I can act, she is pulled through the grey curtain.

I sit down.

“Hello there.”

I look over.

“Hi.”

“Nice weather we’re having.”

I shrug.

“Bit hazy for my taste.”

He laughs.

“I used to live in England.  So.”

“Ah.”

“Are you waiting for the next flight?”

“No.  You?”

“It’s rather taking its time, isn’t it.”

“Yes.  Rather.”

I haven’t the foggiest of what he’s talking about.  But I find I can still be agreeable.

“You don’t know why you’re here, do you?”

“Yes, I do,” I say.

He nods.

“Tell me, friend.  What’s the last thing you remember?”

His hand-his hand-his hand on

“Nothing,” I say.  “I remember nothing.”

Peter Piper picked a peck . . .

“I see.”

. . . of pickled hands.

“It’s impossible to see.  There is nothing to see.  Therefore, you see nothing.”

He shrugs.

“It’s here if you look.”

“Excuse me.  I think I’ll wait over there.”

“So you are waiting for the next flight.”

“Yes.  No.  I’m waiting on my . . . tooth.”

I shake my head.  That can’t be right.  But he nods and starts to whistle.  An old Civil War tune.  Yet he said he’s British.  Or was.

My head is starting to hurt.  I need to walk.  My footsteps are vacant.  I drift like the child, I drag like the bear, but no one gets any closer than when I first started out.

Time is a crater.  I walk in the valley of moons.  The shadows of tides fight over me.  I let them all pull with the ghosts of their hands.

Mist has a weight.  You wouldn’t think—but yes.  It does.  It collects on my hair, my clothes, my teeth and eyes.  Like a greasy fallout.  At some point, I will become more mist than woman.  I will glow like a grey flame, I will scratch like a Geiger counter.  I will be buried beneath magnets and no pipers will play at my pepper.

Peter.

I look down.

Down at my hands.  There, at the ends of my arms.  They are turning red.  My hands are turning red. Crimson surrounding the nails, magenta at my wrists.  The site boosts the grime from my eyes.  I can see the blood light up my veins.  I look real close now.

I can even see what flowed inside.

And he came on a wave-and we loved on a cloud-and when the time came-he was right by my side.

My tongue touches its root.  I cry out.

“It’s only a lightning storm.”

“Just keep talking.”

“Happens all the time.”

“Not up here.”

“Sure up here.”

“Not to me up here.”

“Give me your hand.”

“Can’t. It’s taken.”

“I didn’t mean it like—”

“No, I mean it’s welded to this whatchamacalit.”

“I think it’s called an armrest.”

“I think it’s called a false sense of security.”

“What’s your name again?”

“Chloe.”

“Can you close your eyes for a minute, Chloe?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Because I might miss the lightning striking the wing of our plane.”

“Pretty sure you’d feel that.”

“Or that little gremlin from The Twilight Zone movie.”

“Oh, fuck! What is that?”

“What?!”

“Kidding.”

“Not . . . funny.”

“Sorry.”

“So totally . . . not . . . funny.”

“Really sorry.”

“I don’t know what your name is, but you are so totally not funny.”

“Linus.”

“Oh, God. Seriously?”

“Totally seriously.”

“You’re kidding, right? Linus?”

“Does it matter? According to you, we’re already dead.”

“True. So then . . . Linus. Any last words?”

“Give me your hand, Chloe.”

“Can’t.”

“Just do it.”

“Fine.”

“Better?”

“Sweaty, but . . . yeah. Better.”

“Put this in your ear.”

“Can you do it?”

“Sure.”

“Sorry. My hair.”

“I got it.”

“What are we listening to?”

“Give it a second.”

“Oh . . . wow.”

“I know.”

“Oh . . . God.”

“Are your eyes closed?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“What is . . . ”

“Just listen.”

“’Kay.”

“Chloe?”

“What.”

“My hand isn’t normally this sweaty.”

“Shh.”

“‘Kay.”

“Linus?”

“Yeah?”

“This being your sweaty right hand and all, and me missing gremlins because my eyes are closed, and on the very astronomical chance we somehow survive all this and . . . well . . . is there a Mrs. Linus waiting at the airport?”

“ . . . shhh . . . ”

He left on a Tuesday.

I remember, because Mama said that we had forgotten to take the trash out, and trash days were Tuesdays. And because I remember the week after, having to stuff two weeks’ worth of trash into the can and carry it to the curb. I was seven and a half, and Mama was already not right.

We had a long driveway, then.

My father had big hands. A gun looked like a kid’s plaything in them. When he picked me up for a hug on the platform, I tried to imagine that I was a gun. Cold. Hard. Watch that trigger, motherfucker. It was the sort of thing I imagined him and his army buddies saying. Over games of poker.

I didn’t cry.

There were tears enough. A whole unit’s worth. Lots of snotty kids and wailing women to bump elbows with. Lots of kisses to choke on. This one lady? She kind of humped her husband’s leg. Right there in the open. Like she saw us kids and decided, at the last second, that she needed to make her own brat, to keep away the dark nights.

It never seemed to help Mama much.

It was a Tuesday morning. I want to say 9:15, but I guess that’s neither here nor there. Only this: one minute he had that big hand on my head, sort of ruffling my hair. The next, he was gone.

And I can’t, for the life of me, remember his final words. If he had any. I just know I was embarrassed, later on, for having a big wad of Mama’s skirt in my hand, as I tried to grow tall enough to see him in the car.

A train makes a lot of noise. It’s an impressive business, a first-rate sight. Something so heavy, kind of waking up. We all felt it, standing there. Holding our breaths. Because they needed something to do, people waved flags at it. Which made me feel like I was in a movie. I liked that.

I liked it a lot.

First off, I’d like to thank everyone who participated in this contest—writers and commenters alike! The contest surpassed my expectations, and it was a delight to see so many entrants, in addition to all of the enthusiasm and support in the comments section. I truly appreciate everybody who took part, and I’d especially like to give my heartfelt thanks to Aniket for hosting the contest. We had a great deal going–I got to sit back and have fun; he did all the work.

Until last night, that is, when I made my final choices. And what a decision it was. I’d like to talk about my judging process a little, for those of you who are curious. First, I narrowed the entries down to five. These five, to me, demonstrated the highest facility of writing. Each of these stories or poems was a wonderful, fluid reading experience for me as a reader. There were very few hiccups in terms of grammar, punctuation, awkward phrasing or dialogue, or excessive wordiness. These entries flowed, lending a precious believability to, and immersion in, the story itself.

From there, it became harder. I had to squeeze down on each line of each piece. Minor problems—like sloppy sentences, overwrought phrasing or dialogue, or a lack of narrative immediacy—were accounted for. Ultimately, I believe that good writing trumps everything. Good writing is what makes the story breathe on the page, and is what translates emotion to the reader’s heart. The selections I made are wonderful examples of writing we all can aspire to.

And here, in no particular order, are the two winners whom I selected to receive free copies of Plum Blossoms in Paris:

Morning Maelstrom by May Anderton

Because it relied so heavily on “telling” and peripheral action, this was an exceptionally tricky story to pull off. But May did so beautifully. It wouldn’t have worked nearly as well as a straight-up breakup tale. As it was, I found it hypnotic. The swirl of events occurring on the narrator’s fringes—the excruciating detail of what she distracts herself with—contrasted with the vast remove of her emotional state felt acutely realistic to me. As if she had become the stranger to herself.

To me, this entry was a French film, played out in deep, deep focus.

Congratulations, May! Impeccable craftsmanship.

Present by Precie

To me, Precie’s title could be interpreted in two ways. One, of course, is that the painting was a gift to her parents. But there is also an important realization congealing from those unsatisfying layers of paint: that Dee’s present relationship with Chris cannot compare to her parents’ past. She will not give up on that dream, just as she cannot give up on painting that perfect work of art.

Precie’s writing painted the details well here, and Dee’s epiphany felt organic to me. I had great sympathy for Chris, but Dee’s stubborn sense of artistic and romantic idealism struck a nerve of painful authenticity.

Congratulations, Precie! Matisse would be proud.

Note from Aniket:

* Winners please mail your shipping address to aniket.thakkar@gmail.com for your soon-to-be-cherished copy of Plum Blossoms In Paris. Congratulations for your deserved win! *

handbook

The train lurches forward, and I kick my carry-on bag, which holds a hodgepodge of items in disarray. Slumping forward, something cylindrical and urgently green rolls down the long aisle. I gasp and make a grab for it, but it’s too late. The thing lazily ricochets across the rubbery aisle, alerting everyone of my presence. Every French eye, snatched from perusing Le Monde or Le Figaro, watches its progress, as it pitches this way and that, according to the undulations of the train car. It hits an older lady on the back of her chunky heel before banking across the aisle and coming to rest against a leather bag whose owner I cannot fathom.

It’s the portable oxygen mask sealed in a canister—“The Life Force 3000”—I take on every airplane flight, in case of emergency. My father bought my first one twelve years ago, before our family flight to England, and I have purchased this one, the third, from a catalogue that sells such things as radiation suits and water filtration devices and, well, lifesaving oxygen. The third, because they expire. Oxygen doesn’t last forever, apparently.

I bolt from my seat, mortified to be an instigator. Each placid eye finds new focus, zeroing in as I stumble forward, fixing me with such a look of scientific detachment that I feel like a lab rat put through a maze for their study. At least the rat has some cheese to focus on. I compensate for my gaffe by mumbling, “Sorry, sorry,” not even capable of locating “Perdón” in my small French repertoire during the low tide of this second, petty humiliation of the day. I am cognizant of how overly abused the word surreal is in our language, but I don’t know how else to describe chasing down my emergency oxygen mask in a train barreling toward Paris on a foggy morning, with the imperious eyes of France judging me. I almost expect that lady, the one three rows up, with the fussy white dog whose eyes bulge and whose tongue pinkly protrudes, to drink her coffee from a cup wrapped in fur. I have never seen a dog like that, much less on a public train. It’s wearing a pompadour and roosts like a hen on its silk, saffron pillow.

“Sorry. Sorry,” I repeat as I inch forward, smiling nervously, hopeful that, at the very least, they find me colorful. But nobody, not even the dog, cracks a smile. A ticket agent approaches, and I perform a soft shoe number with him, during which he has the nerve to frown disapprovingly. “Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur!”

Finally, I’m in range of the ridiculous object, which shrieks, For Emergency Use Only! I bend down to retrieve it. My outstretched fingers brush against the leather of a black satchel. The bag is soft yet firm, like the skin of a man’s shoulder. I lock onto the canister, relieved to be done with this genuflection, and start to rise.

“You bring your oxygen with you at all times, then?” a voice asks.

Half-crouching, I confront a pair of almond-colored eyes, inches away. Startled, I retreat to a fully upright position. The stranger, the owner of the interested eyes, offers an amused half smile and continues, “Or is it only in France?”

Flustered, I laugh a little. I scramble to think how he knows I’m not French. There are three languages of cautionary warnings on the canister. Why couldn’t I be French?

“I could use some right now. I think I just sucked all the air out of the car.”

His face is long and intelligent, and when he looks at me, I feel like I might finally forget my name. “Do not let them fool you. Parisians are like a—how do you say?—a cult. They enjoy making outsiders, particularly Americans, feel like outsiders.” His accent is thick, but his words aren’t clunky, delivered with a natural rhythm that makes me believe he has spent a lot of time abroad, in England or the U.S.

“How did they know I’m American?” I can’t help but ask, forgetting my little performance of thirty seconds ago.

“Well, are you not?”

“Yes, but I don’t understand.” I frown. “Are we that hopelessly out of place?”

“I heard your accent; the others likely did too. And the apologizing?” He nods and offers a wry smile. “For all their occasional bluster, I find Americans to be the most insecure nation of people.”

Stung, I retort, “And I am finding the French to be the most judgmental.”

He laughs. “You are probably right about this.” His eyes flick to his book, about the size of his hand. Small, intense font. He seems finished with me.

His ready detachment curls my toes into their Keds.

The ticket agent returns to find me still making his life miserable. Turning to leave, I realize I have a book in my left hand, a finger marking some phantom place on page who-gives-a-crap. Before I can take a step, the stranger’s eyes, alerted to the book by the flapping of its pages—a soft, airy phfft as I allow the leaves to run over my thumb in dissatisfaction—catch the title. I don’t know if it’s my imagination, but his face illuminates, like a child’s who is entrusted with a delicious secret, and he exhales from a pocket of ecstasy I cannot fathom. Looking up at me, eyes burning, he remarks, “I apologize. I see the whole of your situation now.”

“And what is that?” I ask, baffled. I’m not used to people talking like this. You know, with sincerity.

His eyes are like my father’s at his best: clear and brilliant, believing the best in me. “You are no tourist.”

He turns back to his little book without another word. I am transported, without legs, back to my seat. I do not think I breathe until the train pulls into a station, and the doors part with a soft swoosh. He rises to exit the train, never looking back.

I watch him go.

1924

 

His voice slipped through the louvers of the doors. 

“Marie.”

She touched the wood.  The sands covered everything with a gritty talc.  

“I know you’re in there,” he said.  “The nurse told me.”

She thought he must hear her heartbeat, even above the pounding surf. 

“Or not,” he muttered.  Chair legs scraped the tiles.  

“I’m here!” she said, pressing both hands against the doors.  Her fingernails clung to the slanting edges. “I’m here, I’m here!”

His voice, closer now.  Lower. 

“Marie.  The door was locked.  Let me in.” 

“N-no,” she said.  “I told you not to.”

“Let me in.”

She rested her cheek against the grit.  “I can’t.”

“I’m not asking.”

She coughed.  A violent wrenching that splintered her ribs.  She grabbed one of the handkerchiefs and held it over her mouth.  Watched it spray with red.  

“Now, Marie.”

Her knees slid out from her, and her shoulder slumped against the door.  Her lungs burned. 

When in truth, they were drowning.  

“If you come in here,” she said, “I must already be dead.  Because you would not ask it of me, otherwise.”    

He was inches away.  His breath felt hot and salty on her face.  The breath that had bathed her neck, her eyes, her body entire.  Those lips.  Those lips that had kissed her very center.  Broken her open, and drank of her darkness.  Those lips were right—

She turned away.

“The nurse gave me a mask.”  His voice wobbled a little.  “It will be safe enough.”

She bunched the handkerchief in her fist.  A shaft of light from the small window pierced the dank room.  Dust and sand swirled in a promiscuous dance.  Her eyes dropped to where the sunshine hit the floor.  A dark drop beaded and gleamed. 

“Marie, I don’t care!”

She squeezed her eyes shut. 

And saw him there.  With sunlight on his shoulders.  Water jewelling his hair.     

Her eyes blinked open. 

“I was trying to remember,” she said, her voice stronger.  “The other day.”   

He offered nothing.  She looked to the bird of paradise the nurse had cut for her.  Perched high in its vase.

“Remember what?” he finally said.

She clasped her knees.   

“Everything.” 

She felt him shift.  The pressure from his shoulder centered her head.   

“’Everything’ is too much.  ‘Everything’ is a burden.”  He paused.  “How about a ‘something’, instead?”

Her breath came easier now.  She waited. 

“The best something I know,” he said.  “Our first evening together.  Remember it?  I had the lobster.  You had the chicken.  I wore black . . . you wore red.”

She looked down at the handkerchief.

“You barely touched that lobster,” she said. 

“I was ill.”

A laugh bubbled from her mouth.  “You were talking too much!”

“I was ill with the need to talk to you.”

She could hear the smile in his voice as that slant of light thinned by degrees.  As darkness drained into the room like a slow and steady tide. 

She heard his smile.  As he talked.  And she listened.  With her eyes fixed on a bird, seized in flight.  Tilting toward paradise.