Fiction: Selections from Dave Nash

Victoriously

 

the rat rises over the barren landscape as he smiles at my demise, his fat sides thump, a drum beating bump-bump through his mottled body to his beady eyes bearing witness to my last day — it couldn’t happen to a better person, he would if he could say 

 

as the sun scorches my skin, as it kindles last fall’s leaves, as it stokes the faded duff fluttering in the underbrush, as it combines with a hot wind to stifle shoots along the field’s edge where I lay

 

with the bare roots as we grasp for a trickle from winter’s deluge that left branches strewn, that left logs stacked for a fire we won’t start

 

but why does this rat bastard pop out as if this was a bon voyage, as if he were offering thoughts and prayers  — sanctimoniously, as if he wasn’t facing an existential threat too, as if those pinned back pink ears pinned could hear me curse him in my arid throat

 

while a fiery sermon plays through my mind’s dull pain as I fail to find relief from to the desire that still writhes through me — even at this hour — sensations that curl toes and open sesame and I know that it’s not from lack of trying that I’ve failed to produce an heir even after I returned to the homestead that bore my mother and my mother’s mother to try now even as brown persists through winter into this dusty spring shade, dun and umber, chipped bark like paint, shrubs braced for snow that never came, unwilling to open for want of rain, I ignored the doomsayers until

 

now the greenhouse across the parched grass needs panes, the main house a roof, and the bathroom sink leaks — pining and plucking rhythmically alone in the endless hours before the sun returns

 

as the rat chews in anticipation for the feast of my deathday as I crawl as the carrion birds circle as I hope the twisted hedge protects my eyes, my ribs 

 

my body unable to settle for a quiet bed death craves to be one with the land, so only then shall the rat summon his unkempt horde to chant surly, turbulent in the new morn to a being in their likeness, a god in their rat image, and in their song, they will know fellowship in dirt, in feet stomping, in mixing dust rising like smoke seeding clouds — chanting, drumming, strumming…. 

I Remember

 

how the lightweight breathable construction made us forget we were even wearing our hats when I took you to the playground.  

 

Now when I look at our coat rack, at the top, the wooden knobs, I see my reflective white Outdoor Essentials running hat, but yours is missing. 

 

I remember that I first got my hat for running, but one sweltering day I wore for our regular playground trip and I remembered that you hated sunglasses and that day the sun was in your face on the swing and how you squinted closed your eyes, which scared you to death. 

 

So, I gave you my hat. 

 

Then I ordered another one and the next day we were twins when we held hands in the crosswalk on the way to the playground in our matching nylon and polyester mesh hats so we could play on the monkey bars and the see-saw. 

 

I remember opening our premium thermal bag that shimmered silver in the sun and promised to keep foods hot, cold, or frozen for three hours, so I could give you your Capri-Sun and peanut butter and banana sandwich on white bread with the crust trimmed off and a little honey drizzled in the middle because one time a banana was too green and you wouldn’t eat it until I sweetened it. 

 

After snack I’d flip my hat backwards and you’d do the same - my mini-me. 

 

I remember that you’d never let me leave our coat rack for the playground without my hat, even when it looked like it would storm, but we’d risk a shower anyway so you could hang upside down on the monkey bars, giggling when your hat fell off. I knew that the VividPlay Rubber Playground Flooring Tiles would provide certified protection if you fell down — you had no fear.

 

I remember how blue the sky was the day you ran ahead of me. 

 

I’ll never forget the screech of the tires. 

After we put in the air conditioner

 

we high-five that it still works. Then slump against the wall, exhausted. Relieved it didn’t fall out the window. It marks the unofficial start of summer. We get nostalgic. “What did people do before it,” I ask. 

 

After we think about it, you say, “sit on the porch, swim in the lake, go to the country.” Like we have time. There’s no going back when, when we were young, when we had summers off, when it wasn’t this hot. It’s difficult to do anything in this smothering heat, this fatigue without exertion. Our favorite season has become our least. Will the wildfires come like last year? What’s the forecast for next week? Will there be any relief? 

 

After a while the heat dome doesn’t seem as bad as they predicted. The air conditioning, the ice water, and the gazpacho protected us. Con-Ed texted us - Limit Usage between 2 and 10 PM. We set our iPhone to clean battery charging, so there’s that. You tell me if my phone gets too hot it will shut down. 

 

After my foot falls asleep because we are still slumped against the wall you suggest a walk to get out of this one bedroom. “Okay, okay, can we get some ice cream,” I say. Summer brings out the inner child in me. 

 

After we make it back to our building we breathe a sigh. We had our mint chocolate chip cone and what else is there besides doom scrolling through hot night under the compressed air of our A/C? That’s when the lights go off. Then flicker, then reappear across the street and then go out for good. This happened once before we remember - The Blackout. The elevator is out of course, we can take the stairs, maybe. 

 

After we walk back out a few blocks, we find Viva La Vida. There’s sidewalk seating and just enough ice preserved for margaritas. Everyone’s out and about. Freddy. Our neighbors from down the hall. Over there that couple we haven’t seen since COVID. Has it been that long? Come in, come in, come into Viva La Vida! High-five, relax...

Dave Nash (he/him) does his best writing in the tunnel between New York and New Jersey. His work appears in places like The South Florida Poetry Journal, Bulb Culture Collective, and The Hooghly Review. You can follow him @davenashlit1