Sensible Shoes

I saw a woman on the train today,

her plump ankles and feet stretched the seams of her sensible flats.

She read a book whose cover was tantalizingly out of view and

a golden snitch keychain dangled from her quilted purse.

It made me wonder if she dreamt of magical places,

where one doesn't have to worry about wearing comfortable shoes.

Story by BKane

Big Norman

Norman Morlock was one of those kids who wore 1950's era horn rim glasses which gave him a distinctly nerdy appearance. This was however 1978 and Norman Morlock was my best neighborhood buddy, geekiness be damned.

His home-life was also a bit more stable than mine (at least by outward appearances), so I took to hanging out there as much as possible. For a number of years his house became my second home and I probably spent as much time there as at my own.

It's funny the things you remember after so many years, for example, I can still picture the layout of the entire house and all the games we used to play. His family had this great closet that was filled with board games like mousetrap and skill games like Pick Up Sticks. And if memory serves me, I even remember playing "Seven seconds to Heaven" for the first time with his sister in her bedroom closet. Prepubescent groping and fumbling that seems quaint and innocent by todays standards.

Norman's dad was a large man, (well at least in my minds eye he seemed larger than life) and I remember they called him "Big Norman". I'm not really sure if it was due to his size or the fact that he was the senior to his namesake son.

Big Norman, like the whole family, had taken me under his wing as sort of a surrogate member of the family. One of the most vivid memories of my then 10 year old world was the time that Mr. Morlock decided to teach me how to throw a baseball, which ended in less than stellar results. As the tutorial began, I remember throwing the ball rather clumsily and being chastised to "Throw it like a man". This of course, I found extremely ironic, since I was in fact, just a kid. Never the less, I moved a few steps closer and dutifully tried again, to equally disastrous results. To this day I can hear the exasperation in his voice as he once again intoned for me to "quit acting like a girl and throw the damn ball". This last admonishment, along with the not so quiet snickering of little Norman in the background set off a chain of events that is etched in my memory forever.

"Okay fine", I thought to myself, "I'll show you I'm not a girl". I took a few steps closer still, bringing myself in fact much closer than I realized at the time. I inhaled a deep breath and with every ounce of strength in my body I leaned back for the wind up and hurled the baseball at something approaching mach five toward the Senior Morlock. He was, to say the least, taken by surprise as the ball hit him squarely between the eyes, shattering his glasses and cutting his face in a number of places. Although, I was more than a bit terrified of this large man, I could not help but feel entirely vindicated in regard to his questioning of my masculinity. His only response of course was "Damn son, you don't throw it that hard when you're so close", as he stumbled inside to clean the blood from his face and shirt.

When we hit our early teens, Norman and I had a terrible falling out and never spoke again. I wish I could recall what the argument was about, but the memory escapes me. It was, no doubt, extremely important at the time.

Years later, I heard through the grape vine that little Norman's parents had split and that junior had even gone so far as to change his name to "Andy" in a rebellious move against his dad.

Well, here' s to you Norman . . . uh errr. . . Andy Morlock!

The Thrush

The ‘64 Dodge Dart careened down highway 83, the once brilliant powder blue paint now faded and pock marked by three bitter winters and hundreds of salty, slushy miles. Inside, the driver Tom Fenton fared little better, the road had taken its toll on the man, as much as his once beloved machine.

Minutes later the driver opened his eyes to find the car had skidded to a halt on a wet, muddy patch of embankment. His bottle of bourbon lay on its side near his feet gurgling its last contents onto the stained floorboard. As an eighteen-wheeler passed, it whipped up a wet spray which covered the Dart in a milky brown ooze and somehow seem to add insult to injury. The trucker, who was rushing to get home to supper with his wife, didn’t even offer a passing glance at the little car or it’s driver. This was of course, no surprise to Tom, as very few people ever took notice of him.

It would be kind to note here, that Tom had not always been so forgettable, that he had been the star quarterback in high school. That he was the life of the party in his twenties, and had even deflowered the homecoming queen. It would be kind to say these things, but it would also be untrue. The sad fact was that Tom’s high school years, young adulthood and whole life, had in fact been as bland and unexciting as it was when this dreary day began.

It occurred to Tom, the homoerotic nature of this, his final act as he wrapped his lips around the barrel of the gun. This only only served to deepen the suffering, and his resolve. The muffled shot barely registered outside the car. A lone thrush watched emotionless from a wire high above. The bird, silhouetted in the darkening grey sky pondered the noise for a moment, squawked and took flight. - BKane