FOUR STORIES

Scribbling away, Randal imagined his words falling from his perch and destroying the town–burying them with his success.

He stopped, leaned back, and rummaged through the rubble of his newly written thoughts. Nothing. He crushed the paper inside his clenched fist. A grunt escaped as his knuckles turned white, and he threw the scrap into the shadows. He took a deep breath, sat up in his chair, picked up his pencil, and yanked another piece across the desk.

He leaned forward. A light warmed his face–a new light. He squinted and recoiled. He searched for the source that disturbed the cool darkness through the only window. He meant to install more, bring more light in. He had promised many times to do the work, but above all, the novel came first.

His eyes adjusted to the brightness. The forest below swayed and surged like the sea under the pressure of the summer breeze. He continued until he found it–the town–the newspaper, He and Sal’s old loft, Jeanie’s apartment–off in the distance, far down below. From his perch, he noticed that a new building was being constructed–a common occurrence. That new building reflected the new light. He stood and backed up into the darkest part of the room. The reflection slipped to the middle of his chest.

The warmth stirred something he’d buried with the town. He stood for some seconds, submitting to the feeling. He stepped forward, leaning into the sunlight. The warmth lulled his eyes closed. He rubbed his fingers together as if trying to ignite a spark. The sweat trickled out of his pores and beaded on his forehead. The lead and dirt built up into crusty balls. His fingers snapped apart, and his eyes shot open. He brushed his hands clean and sat back down to search for words.

He scratched the pencil's tip across the paper, testing its durability. His knuckles grew whiter and whiter with every scratch. The pencil tip snapped, and he tore the paper in half. A noise burst through the room, rippling through the walls. The desk, the bookcase, and four books deadened the echo but could not silence it. The typewriter on the ground was the last to tremble, softly chattering loose a week’s worth of dust.

He picked up another piece of paper, palms moist with sweat, paused, and tore it in half. No rip. No echo. No reverberation. Nothing. He decided the sun was playing a trick on his mind.

Randal clenched the edges of the desk until the pressure hurt his hands. He released and ran his fingers along the wood, finding the many hours of measuring, cutting, carrying, and assembling to make the desk–his great work of art. The floorboards bent under the desk's weight. His hands inched along, lowering his body closer to the desk with every reach. His hands longed for some forgotten idol, for that long–lost fire, a spark to carry him off to the next idea.

His fingers stumbled past the desk and bumped the window, forcing his eyes open upon the forest. His eyes darted to an unfamiliar motion–tiny spots of misplaced green clashed with the memorized layout. The faint outline of a figure cycled through appearance and disappearance. Nobody knew he was up here–almost nobody.

Sal entered a clearing and then disappeared. Randal sighed and rolled his eyes. He shot up and twisted around, crashing his toe into the side of the desk. A scream escaped his lips. He clamped them back together and rested his hand on the desk. His toe still burning, he opened the drawer. The novel was fine–not a single page was out of order. After one more glance outside, he closed the drawer and headed for the staircase. He passed through the room and crept down the stairs, holding the handrail for guidance. He almost missed a step but caught himself.

Reaching the bottom, he turned the corner. Shadows replaced complete darkness. The second-floor hallway had a window on the other side, lighting his path through the corridor of doorways. His footsteps echoed through each unused room. He hadn’t decided on their purpose. He didn’t entertain, he didn’t have family or a partner, and he learned long ago how to live without material objects. The darkness permitted shadows of furnishings, people, and purposes. One day, some of this would change once his novel was admired and renowned. But for now, the rooms waited for enlightenment.

Randal turned the next corner and descended the final stairwell. He grabbed the beam at the bottom, catapulting him through the ground floor and out the door.

Sal stood in the dirt walkway, eyes closed, face to the sky, collecting sun rays on his tanned summer skin. A backpack, busting at the seams, sat at his feet in the adolescent grass. Randal closed the door, hand raised to shield his eyes as he emerged. Settling into a constant squint, he walked to the edge of the porch. The town sat in the distance behind Sal.

Randal peered down at the welcome intruder. Sal opened his eyes and scanned the sun-infested property. “How is the novel coming along?” Randal patted the railing and then sat in the nearby chair. “The novel is good. I was just working. I should still be working on it. I’ve just been busy.”

Sal surveyed the property. “The tree removal has really opened this place up to the sun. The stump holes are filling in nicely, and you’re finally getting some grass. Do you plan on letting the ground heal by itself?”

Randal’s fingers fluttered, and his arms tensed. His novel called–the farther away, the tenser he felt. “I think it’s better to leave it alone. It's doing a wonderful job by itself,” said Randal.

Something fell inside the house. Randal opened his eyes wide, then returned to a squint. He scanned Sal’s face, but no change. He hadn’t heard.

“I had a hell of a time cutting down the tree, chopping it up, and lugging it back to the property. There is a pile of it around the side of the house. Not sure what I’ll do with the rest.”

“It’s quite the accomplishment,” Sal said, “I’ve never heard of somebody building a three-story house by themselves.”

Randal’s face brightened, letting the novel slip from his mind. “Yeah, me neither. I have a few ornamental things to finish up inside the house, but they can wait. I have some–” Another crack and thud followed by the rapid knocks of something rolling along the floor.

“I need a second. I will be right back.” Randal turned and entered the house. He slammed the door and turned the lock. A crack followed and echoed through the forest of small beams. One day, they would hold walls, he promised. He stood and listened.

One giant tree trunk, sanded down to a rectangle, stood dead center in the room. The entire house leaned on this singular focal point of strength through all three floors.

A cracking noise came again. He took a step forward, head cocked, using his ear as a satellite. This time, Randal located the sound. It was coming from the trunk. He inspected every inch–up, down, and around. “Randal, I don’t have a lot of time!” pierced the walls and broke his focus, rattling through the first floor, buzzing in his ear like a mosquito. Randall glanced toward the back of the house and then returned to the trunk. He ran his hand along the beam, assisting his struggling eyes. His fingers bumped a tear. His finger dug into the tear, stubbing his finger and catching splinters. He clenched his hand into a fist and gritted his teeth. He used his other hand to relocate the crack and shouted back, “Hold on!” The crack vibrated and expelled a tearing noise. Was it bigger now? Probably not–A minor blemish that had gone unnoticed. He would inspect it further after sending Sal away. Everything will be alright. The trunk was sturdy; It could hold four stories. Randal took a deep breath, wiped his hands on his pants, and left the house.

Sal stood in the same place, leaning on his right leg, letting his left knee buckle. “What's wrong?” Randal asked. "I was doing a house call. Foot crashed through a floorboard... nearly broke my leg,” Sal said. Randal leaned against the porch post, “A house call?

“Only for families who are short on options,” Sal said.

“Could you bring down a couple of chairs? So I can get off my feet?” said Sal. Never averting his eyes from Randal, he continued, “I didn’t end up charging them anything. I felt too bad.” Randal resisted, “Come up on the porch. You didn’t charge them anything?” Sal answered, “No, I was just glad to help. The girl was getting better, and I already felt bad because I had to find them another doctor.” Sal paused and said, “Come on down. It will be too hard to get up those steps.”

Randal paused and read Sal’s face. He dragged his feet, picked up two chairs, and met Sal below. “Wouldn’t you get in trouble?" Randal said. “I didn’t tell anybody–well–except you.” Randal’s face elongated with surprise. “I couldn’t do what you’re doing–too much responsibility, too many people involved. Your whole career is teetering on an understanding,” said Randal.

“I’m helping people who need it,” said Sal. “You forget that you wanted to do the same thing once,” said Sal. Both men stopped. Randal stared through chattering birds and swaying tree limbs. Sal held a soft focus on Randal as Sal’s words sank in.

The newsroom pushed the silence aside–the shuffling and squeezing through the labyrinth of desks, the noise, deafening at times, the chattering of typewriters, the ringing of phones, the shouting of voices. Here on the property, his workspace was quiet, his house was quiet, but the town–the deafening negativity and doubt of the town. He heard the town every day.

“The novel is almost finished. I believe that it would have been completed by now if there were not so many distractions.” Beads of sweat appeared on Randal’s brow, and sweat soaked into his shirt.

“Jeanie left town,” said Sal. “Oh, yeah,” Randal held tight, bluffing with a stoic expression. He gazed up at the house with disinterest. Sal pushed, “A few weeks ago. She went west… Oregon, I think.” Jeanie joined the newsroom, swirling around his mind. Randal felt like the whole house was swaying back and forth and turned his attention to the dirt.

Sal pushed, “I have a few things for you.” Randal rubbed his hands together. “I think I might be ready to send it out,” Randal said. Sal stared, waiting to see a reaction. Sal reached down and pulled a folder out of his bag. He held it out for a few seconds, then rested it on Randal’s lap.

A single paper peeked out with her writing. Randal slid the paper out enough to read a full line.

“Randy, I can’t believe that we found each other in such a small place surrounded by wilderness. A truly remarkable convergence of two hearts: intertwined.”

Her lovely writing, writing meant for his heart only. He continued reading, exposing more paper until he saw red faded remnants of his scribblings.

“Such is unnecessary to the meaning. Also, a comma should come after ‘place.’”

He swallowed, shoved the letter back into the folder, and set it on the grass. He rubbed his thumb over his lips, hiding any feeling that might push through.

Sal pushed, “You said the novel is finished. I would love to read it. Who are you sending it to?” Randal said, “No, I said it was almost done. I haven’t quite perfected it yet.”

“I used to read your stuff. It was fantastic.” Sal pushed the words out with great force. Randal never removed his attention from the dirt, adding the novel to his spinning mind.

Sal pushed, “Randal, Jeanie left something else–.” Randal snapped, “I don’t want them!” Randal burst out of his chair, kicking it backward across the grass.

“You can’t seem to take a hint today?” Randal said. Sal was ready. He got what he wanted. “I-I wanted to see your state! You’ve shut yourself up on this property for years like a ghost haunting your own house.”

“I’m just fine on my own away from… away from prying eyes,” pointing towards the town. “That whole town is… tainted… idiotic. You know what I mean.”

Randal turned away. The house was swaying back and forth. He stumbled forward and climbed the stairs, ignoring the noises from within. His hand grabbed the doorknob, and he paused. He turned, wanting to look him in the eye one last time and say goodbye.

Sal was bathed in bright white light–a sun of blinding luminescence. The light radiated from Sal’s hand and threw a spotlight on Randal. Randal’s eyes adjusted. Sal rearranged the object, diminishing the light’s strength. A bust lay cradled in Sal’s arms like a sleeping child, dormant and oblivious. The bust was a relic, forgotten, purposefully shielded from his mind.

“Why do you have that?” Randal said. Sal stared down, inspecting the tiny scratches and indents on the miniature bust–time had won every battle against the once pristine relic, but it never lost its shine. After taking a few steps forward, Sal said, “He–Persius–left it to you in his will.” Randal pushed back, “It was never his to leave.”

Sal lifted his head and stared at Randal with raised eyebrows. Randal rewound the situation in his mind. His expression softened, “Oh.” Sal, seeing the change, continued, “I thought you might like it back for–I don’t know–for some reason,” said Sal, “He meant something. He was trying to help.” Sal walked forward and placed the bust on the top stair.

Sweat soaked through Randal’s shirt, beaded on his forehead, and ran down his arms. He rubbed his fingers together, circling and circling.

“In your dorm room–I spent so much time complaining about teachers, grades,... girls. You were always writing, and Earnest just sat there watching you, making sure you never lost sight. Sometimes, I thought you didn’t see me in the room with you.”

Randal looked at the bust, now scraped and scratched, and smirked.

Sal laughed, "You used to get so mad while writing. You'd tear and crumple paper. You were a little bit of a hothead." Randal smiled in reluctant agreement, restraining a laugh. "When you really had enough, you'd drape over your desk. Like you died. Your fingers would pull you along, searching until they bumped into that bust." Sal whistled, snapped, and said, "It was like lightning. You'd remember what you wanted to say–that bust reminded you, spoke to you–and you’d start tapping away."

Sal saw the town, scanning back and forth, studying and imprinting every detail. Randal stared down at the bust, cycling between reaching and recoiling. He didn’t want it on the ground, but he couldn’t touch it. He wanted to hug it, tear it in half, solder it together, and embrace it again. Randal cleared his throat, “I-I also miss those days… when everything was in front.”

Everything fell silent. A cool breeze blew through the property. His shirt embraced the cold wind, cooling his body. Randal rested his hand on Sal’s shoulder. Sal sat up straight, leaning into Randal’s embrace. Sal breathed in and blew it out. He got up and said, “I’m leaving–” “When will you be back?” Randal interrupted. Sal walked down the stairs, looking at the town. Randal followed. Turning to meet Randal’s eyes, he said, “I’m not coming back.”

The wind blew–the grass nubs swayed, the fence posts whistled, the chicken coop rattled, and a chair thumped against the house as it creaked and cracked. Randal's eyes opened wide. The bust fell on its side. He walked and picked it up. Sal’s eyes brightened.

“But I want you to come with me,” Sal said.

The old electricity sparked. The lightning, as Sal put it, spread through his body. His legs burst with energy, ready to carry him off to the third floor. The bust, a present from his mother–"A person can be defeated but never destroyed,” she repeated as she handed him the newspaper-wrapped box. He always smiled and laughed at her misquoting of the idolic writer. Persius found him after his big article. It got him a job. His fingers tingled. It got him THE job. But not one article in two years, not one–the rhythm is off, the hook doesn’t grab me, the angle is all wrong, or we can’t say that about him. The electricity shorted and broke the connection.

The town, the house, and the novel all paraded back into his mind. Those people wouldn’t escape that easily. The sun descended, and the house's shadow grew. Randal walked backward, engulfed by the shade. He dropped the bust with a thud, “I’m not going to quit.” Inside the house, something broke and crashed to the floor.

“Something might be wrong,” said Sal. “Yes,” said Randal, “something is wrong. That question offends me. It’s selfish. Find someone else to inspire you,” said Randal. Cracking, tearing, and dropping wood permeated through the walls. Randal's face turned red with sweat. “Leave.”

Another large crash sent Randal lunging forward, grabbing Sal by the arm. Sal snatched his backpack just in time. Randal yanked him close and ushered him around to the front of the house, stumbling with unrestrained movements.

“I don’t know why you keep coming here!? Thank god you are leaving. You have been just another barrier, sniffing and prodding around like everybody else. I might finally get some work done,” Randal said. His words drifted away as he led Sal around the house, replaced by the sounds of his falling achievement, crashes, and thuds rising as he walked. “I didn’t need Janie, I didn’t need Persius, and I don’t need you.”

Sal tore his arm away as they arrived at the front of the house, “Do you know–”

CRACK, “–why I still come here?”

Randal fidgeted.

“I was–”

SMASH “–hoping that I could find you, the you I remember, but you’ve been–”

THUD “–emptied out by those failures. You spend all your time supposedly writing. The only thing I’ve seen you do is build this house… by yourself and for yourself, I half-expect to find you dead every time I come. That’s what people think–the few that remember you–that you’re dead. Move on!” Randal was muttering to himself, “I need to go, I need to go.”

TEAR “Do you even still write?” Randal dropped his head, staring at the dirt, eyes flittering back and forth. "Persius tried to help you.”

CRASH "I’ve been trying to help you, Jeanie tried to help you, but there isn’t anything left to salvage.”

Silence. Randal scrambled to recover. Sal searched his face, fidgeting between pain, anger, and confusion. Sal pulled back, “Goodbye,” turning away from Randal and his house.

There was no gate at the front of the property–Randal never had any need or want to go in that direction–so Sal shimmied over the fence, struggling through his limp, and then headed up the steep meadow. Randal spun around and raced for the house.

Randal slammed into the door. The door opened partially, knocking his head against the wood. Shaking off the stun, he jerked his head inside. Planks and shards of wood littered the first floor, obstructing the door. Sunlight shone through onto the floor in a speckled pattern of white and black.

He stepped back and burst forward. The door gave enough for Randal to slide in.

He fluttered between options, stutter-stepping in different directions like a clumsy dancer to an unfamiliar beat.

Check the trunk. He lunged forward through a steady snow of sawdust. Cracks of all shapes and sizes covered the trunk, vibrating under the immense pressure.

The wood. He raced out the back door, rummaged through the pile, and gathered a few tall planks. He sped back and tripped, kicking the Hemingway bust, sending him sprawling to the floor. The bust rolled forward, disappearing into some dark crevice of the house.

He picked up the wood, rushed in, and set the wood in place. He sped across the room, tripping and kicking wood trimmings in all directions, and picked up a hammer and nails. The cracking noise was everywhere now–inside him as much as the house. He held the plank in place and swung the hammer. He missed.

The hammer fell, and his thumbnail followed. He screamed. The two planks cracked in half, flying in separate directions. He threw his arms up for protection. The first floor bowed lower and lower. He turned and ran for more.

As he returned, the front door split in two, leaving the frame jagged and misshapen. Through both doorways, Sal limped up the hill, struggling with his bag, unaware of the destruction behind.

He threw the wood aside and sprinted through the door. As he ran, the floor creaked like a crackling campfire. He rushed to the stairwell. The remains of his bookshelf blocked his path. He turned back to Sal. He walked over the summit and disappeared down the other side. Randal howled, “Help!” He waited and waited. Nothing happened. Sal was gone. Randal was alone.

The floor opened up beneath him, and he tumbled onto the dirt basement below. The beam cracked, echoing through the whole house. All three floors fell at once. Randal kept his eyes up for as long as he could, ducking and dodging large chunks of wood.

Something big rattled downward, a pinball destroying everything in its path. The desk crashed through and widened the hole. He leapt out of the way and shut his eyes. The desk exploded as Randal covered his face and rolled over. Shards of various sizes and weights buried him, then all was black and still.

Randal gasped, clawing for breath. He searched his body for pain–nothing but pressure and weight. His breath slowed to a whisper. All was quiet.

He kept his eyes shut, hoping for Sal’s voice. Everything would be better. He could stand up tall. Tears flooded his eyes, forcing them to flutter and drain. He tossed and turned among the rubble, struggling against the weight of his desk. He broke free and sat up. Light fell into the hole, projecting a striped picture of light and shadow.

Wood in all shapes and sizes, all touched by his hand, orbited around him with book scraps sprinkled in between. Little strips of paper lay scattered amongst the rubble of the desk. He picked up a strip at a time, reading small passages and discarding them.

“Help!” he screamed. Holding his breath, he listened, gazing upward through the wood bars, but nobody came.

Something shiny caught his eye. A glimmer of sunlight amongst the rubble. He crawled over and dug through the wood, Splinters filling his prying hands as he dug and dug and dug. He grasped the cold metal object and pulled it through.

Dented at the side of the mouth, the once stoic, now slightly frowning face stared up at him, cradled in his hands. Randal did not recognize it. He knew it was the bust, but the attachment was gone. The face just stared. Randal rubbed his hand over the head, tracing a solitary finger along the features, trying to remember, but nothing happened. There was no desk to sit on and no writer to inspire. It was just an object.

A tear fell, trickled over the bust, and dropped into his hand. His face reddened. He squeezed the bust, knuckles turning white. Something sharp underneath cut his finger. He turned it over. An inscribed plaque–something new–had been inserted with the middle torn off. He read the inscription, and the bust fell from its perch.

[A person] ————————— [destroyed]

–Persius

Taylor Moss is a writer and educator. He holds an M.Ed. from Lehigh University and teaches in Pennsylvania, where he lives with his wife and cat.