Kyle Muntz - Voices

seen something beautiful, I’d never seen life, or meaning, but she gave me that, and

she gave me so much more.

When

she pulled me onto the bed,

into

all

that

was her, she brought my world

into focus. She made me complete

and for that

I’ll never

forget

her.

"If you were a metaphysical object," I asked, "where would you be hiding?"

Markus gave me a strange look. His eyes fluttered. We kept walking. Cars passed, kicking up dust and rubble, stones, sticks, scattered. Trees swayed in the breeze, bent over; gigantic floral apertures, praying to the earth. I kicked a rock. The rock turned as it crumbled.

"I’m not really sure," he said.

"Somehow," I said, "I’m not surprised."

We kept walking

::::::::::::::::::::

until Ashley picked us up. She was pretty, and she had long, flowing brown hair, the gorgeous kind, so I guess her hair wasn’t brown anymore, it was auburn . Markus had a crush on her, but that wouldn’t end well. Ashley only went for athletic guys, the kind Markus wasn’t- who could take off their shirts without being embarrassed, and smile without turning her away. Ashley was more expensive than her car. Her aura smelled of hyacinth and ambrosia. She gave us a ride because she owed me. I’m glad we didn’t have to walk.

::::::::::::::::::::

Never listen

to anything I say because I like

to

play

with words.

I visited Jacob again. I didn’t know why I came back. Every time he I saw him he got lower. He pulled his legs in, crumpling, and something in him got less human. He’d become part of the place, brick and mortar, oppressive. When I spoke to him he groaned, oblivious, not drinking this time, or even smoking, though there were bottles by his hand, and a scattering of ashes. He’d become like the steps and the stones, inanimate as the corner.

He moaned

again, tilting his head. Maybe he noticed me. Drool fell past open lips, pooled by his collar. He moaned. The spiders must have him by now: yeah, his hand was a

scarred marking of wounds, needles and poison, they’d sunk their fangs in him,

they’d made him their king. Pitiful, dirty, he was their aboriginal God, their arachnid

mandala of being. He moaned.

"Jacob?" I asked. "You there, dude?" Though I knew he wasn’t. He was a husk

peeling, his flaking skin, his quivering eyes. The vultures would come for him soon,

they would come, hardness to tear strings of flesh, his apathetic fingers.

Mercilessness, they were the end for him, they were coming, unfeeling as the sky,

putrid and cool, they came.

::::::::::::::::::::

I visited my neighbor while she knitted. I found her watching TV. It was all the world had left for her: one eye and vision. Age had taken life from her, taken strength and feeling, so it gave her television. Always watching, she knitted (old), with knobby fingers and a crooked nose, and thought: of things the world had taken from her. It hadn’t always been like this, she said, though she wasn’t sure if it was all life, or just hers, getting caught up in representation. Nothing was real anymore.

Old pictures hung up on her walls, and tapestries. They were faded. Here everything was faded, where the years were. She had pictures of old things, brightly colored banners, triangulating stars, from an era when it was almost possible to escape anonymity. Sometimes I asked her about them, but she never wanted to talk. Her voice would get tight, and she would sob, and she would scream go, just go, it wasn’t any of my business where she’d been, what she’d done, just go. Now I hardly asked her anything at all.

"But sometimes," she said, "when the memory hits (glorious, glorious memory), it makes you remember." As she spoke, her fingers weaved, making the needles move. "I’ve been alive so much longer than you have, but I feel younger than you do. You don’t understand what it means to be alive, you’re still too caught up in living. But it passes someday," she nodded, "it really does. And then you’ll know."

She gestured at her hands, still threading. It was a mechanical motion, habitual. She didn’t have to think, and she didn’t have to be. This was her new purpose, fading grasp on function. She made socks and sweaters, stockings, blankets and more blankets. First she made them for her family, so they could wear her memory, and then when they stopped taking them (they hadn’t worn them at all) she kept them, and now she threw them into the fire, so she could see them die.

She kept a fire going all year round, so her house was always hot. I was never sure why I went there. I’m not sure why I came.

"I hate this, you know." She looked at her hands, getting older. They were very ugly, and useless, but good for knitting. She was cynical and angry; she was an old woman in a forgotten place. Even the ghosts didn’t visit her anymore. She hadn’t been alive for so long. The heat, the dust, the dying, she had corpse on her breath, and there was nothing left for her here.

"Yeah," I said, "I know." All the while

wanting very badly

to leave.

::::::::::::::::::::

My neighbor was bitter, and she hated me. I was young. She could never forgive me for that.

::::::::::::::::::::

I don’t go

to concerts anymore.

They suffocate

me. "She’s so beautiful." Markus leaned forward, taking a drink. He drank orange soda because he said it matched his hair. He had red hair, it wasn’t quite orange but it was red if you understood language. Behind him a girl almost as attractive as Ashley came in, walking to the counter. The guy working there was probably her boyfriend. She wore short shorts (a compound meaning), and she never looked Markus’s way. "Yeah," I said, "I guess she is."

He looked at me strange. "You don’t think so?"

"I never said that."

"But you just did, didn’t you."

"You’re just getting caught up in inflection."

I paused for a second.

Sometimes I could be better at feeling. I’m more things than one, and I don’t understand what it means to subliminify. It’s gone beyond the point of trust. I’m too fond of making up meanings.

"Where did you meet her?" he asked.

"You know where."

"But why do you know her?"

"You know that too."

He sighed, and sat his drink down again, fizzing. He said I shouldn’t be right so often.

I am.

::::::::::::::::::::

Travis wanted a rematch.

::::::::::::::::::::

James threw another rock. He missed; he always missed; he was obligated to miss. Markus hung back. He picked up a strand of grass, twining until the filling bled. I stood. A cloud passed by. The sky was higher than we were. Most likely this would never change.

"Hey Ashley," I tapped her on the arm. Markus gave her appreciative looks. "Don’t go this way." She asked why and I’m sure Markus wanted to answer. I almost let him.

She smiled. Her lips were wide, full, dark, luscious. All sorts of words that have nothing to do with vision. She was an ostentatious, prettyful lie, and she might have been the most beautiful girl in the world.

I bet Markus wanted to touch her hair. Maybe, if she was in a good mood, she would let him.

::::::::::::::::::::

"James is throwing rocks at cars," I said. "Oh," she said, and went another way.

::::::::::::::::::::

"So where did you meet her?"

"School."

"Did you become a single person in two bodies?"

"Only once."

"How long ago?"

"A long time."

The girl with the legs was still at the counter. She was unreal. Her legs were too

dark for nature, and she was too naked to be human. We're all the same underneath, or so they say. I pointed her out to Markus. He stared for longer than I did.