Maybe they
save ‘em up for really important moments. The noise that came from Johnny’s
throat was like nothing I had ever heard, primal and utterly free of restraint.
It rose and rose, higher in pitch and volume, then, suddenly, seemed to fill
with gurgling liquid. Then all was silent. I listened, not daring to breathe.
Seconds stretched out unbearably and I strained to hear. A slippery sound
finally came across the line, a sound like wet rubber being pushed across
metal. The phone popped and a voice came over it. “Hiiiiiii Tommmmy.” It was a
whisper made through wet leaves, “Caaann Iiii cooomme oooverrrr?” I dropped the
phone, then scrambled to pick it back up.
“Zan! Zan, is that you?” But
there was no one there.
Mr. Snodgrass didn’t answer the
phone when I called. Everyone that had worked the Lindsey seam was away from
their phones and their cell phones. So were their families. I sat on the couch
staring at my burned hands. Every bit of exposed skin I had was cooked by the
black substance and I had been around it for less than half an hour. Zan
probably experimented with the shard for hours. Did he notice what was
happening? Did he feel himself changing? I wondered what would happen if he’d
tried to taste the thing? He had been desperate to keep our find a secret. How
much more did that matter after he’d realized what was occurring to him? Did he
take the shard and flee into the woods? Bury himself in the cold dead ground
like some grub, shedding skin and hair, coming out changed into something new,
something mean and repellant?
I had to get Annie out of the
house. She refused to go to her parents until I gave her a good reason. I know
she thought I was hiding something, drugs probably. In a last desperate bid to
get her out of the house, I slapped her. Whoever finds this tape, make sure she
knows I didn’t mean it. I just wanted her to be safe for as long as possible. I
know that nobody will be safe for long. Whoever you are, don’t let the Lindsey
mine open back up. I hope to God that the coal price drops. As long as it’s
running high, some fool will try and open up that godforsaken pit.
I can hear him. He’s on the
roof. I know what feet sound like on our roof. The neighbors kid cleans my
gutters and I know the sound of feet. That’s not what I’m hearing. I’m not
hearing feet. I can’t tell you if I am hearing limbs. The bugs and frogs have gone
quiet. Even the mosquitoes have stopped buzzing in my ears. I hear its breath,
like a hot-air balloon inflating.
The Nature of Blood
George Mann
I fell in love with a red-head
on the bus.
Her eyes were sparkling windows
of blue, glassy and serene. Her hair was a shock of amber that fell in waves
about her shoulders. Sometimes she wore it tied back in a taut ponytail. When I
think of her, I see a pair of skinny trousers, cut short, in black and white
pinstripe, and an old cream jumper wrapped around her body, pulled up
underneath her chin. It was winter. Our breaths made steaming clouds in the
night air; fogged up the windows on the inside of the old Leyland bus. We
watched each other with cautious eyes.
Her name was Isabella.
She spent her time making
blood. Later, she would talk to me about the nature of blood; show me her
little laboratory that smelled of formaldehyde. She would hunch for hours over
her enormous electronic microscope, rearranging plasma, synthesizing the fluid
of life. She would smile to herself at little triumphs; rub the back of her
aching neck with her left hand. I never quite grasped the complexities of those
hours, the nuances that made the blood of one person so different from that of
another. Still, now, I have difficulty understanding the allure, the reasons
she did what she did. Looking back, with the benefit of hindsight, I think she
saw it as a failure on my part, this lack of comprehension, and it undermined
our relationship from the very start. But at the time we were full of hope and
optimism, and
save ‘em up for really important moments. The noise that came from Johnny’s
throat was like nothing I had ever heard, primal and utterly free of restraint.
It rose and rose, higher in pitch and volume, then, suddenly, seemed to fill
with gurgling liquid. Then all was silent. I listened, not daring to breathe.
Seconds stretched out unbearably and I strained to hear. A slippery sound
finally came across the line, a sound like wet rubber being pushed across
metal. The phone popped and a voice came over it. “Hiiiiiii Tommmmy.” It was a
whisper made through wet leaves, “Caaann Iiii cooomme oooverrrr?” I dropped the
phone, then scrambled to pick it back up.
“Zan! Zan, is that you?” But
there was no one there.
Mr. Snodgrass didn’t answer the
phone when I called. Everyone that had worked the Lindsey seam was away from
their phones and their cell phones. So were their families. I sat on the couch
staring at my burned hands. Every bit of exposed skin I had was cooked by the
black substance and I had been around it for less than half an hour. Zan
probably experimented with the shard for hours. Did he notice what was
happening? Did he feel himself changing? I wondered what would happen if he’d
tried to taste the thing? He had been desperate to keep our find a secret. How
much more did that matter after he’d realized what was occurring to him? Did he
take the shard and flee into the woods? Bury himself in the cold dead ground
like some grub, shedding skin and hair, coming out changed into something new,
something mean and repellant?
I had to get Annie out of the
house. She refused to go to her parents until I gave her a good reason. I know
she thought I was hiding something, drugs probably. In a last desperate bid to
get her out of the house, I slapped her. Whoever finds this tape, make sure she
knows I didn’t mean it. I just wanted her to be safe for as long as possible. I
know that nobody will be safe for long. Whoever you are, don’t let the Lindsey
mine open back up. I hope to God that the coal price drops. As long as it’s
running high, some fool will try and open up that godforsaken pit.
I can hear him. He’s on the
roof. I know what feet sound like on our roof. The neighbors kid cleans my
gutters and I know the sound of feet. That’s not what I’m hearing. I’m not
hearing feet. I can’t tell you if I am hearing limbs. The bugs and frogs have gone
quiet. Even the mosquitoes have stopped buzzing in my ears. I hear its breath,
like a hot-air balloon inflating.
The Nature of Blood
George Mann
I fell in love with a red-head
on the bus.
Her eyes were sparkling windows
of blue, glassy and serene. Her hair was a shock of amber that fell in waves
about her shoulders. Sometimes she wore it tied back in a taut ponytail. When I
think of her, I see a pair of skinny trousers, cut short, in black and white
pinstripe, and an old cream jumper wrapped around her body, pulled up
underneath her chin. It was winter. Our breaths made steaming clouds in the
night air; fogged up the windows on the inside of the old Leyland bus. We
watched each other with cautious eyes.
Her name was Isabella.
She spent her time making
blood. Later, she would talk to me about the nature of blood; show me her
little laboratory that smelled of formaldehyde. She would hunch for hours over
her enormous electronic microscope, rearranging plasma, synthesizing the fluid
of life. She would smile to herself at little triumphs; rub the back of her
aching neck with her left hand. I never quite grasped the complexities of those
hours, the nuances that made the blood of one person so different from that of
another. Still, now, I have difficulty understanding the allure, the reasons
she did what she did. Looking back, with the benefit of hindsight, I think she
saw it as a failure on my part, this lack of comprehension, and it undermined
our relationship from the very start. But at the time we were full of hope and
optimism, and
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