face in the crowd

[chrryblssmninja]

uhh, yeah. here it is. -hides-


Nothing
by Diandra Rodriguez

inspired by summer, as well as "The Mystics of Muelenberg," by Thomas Ligotti



I am certain it began in summer, when it could appear with little notice. Of course the weather was warm, baking, dry - just look at the calendar. Sheer golden-white air during the day, plants flowering or fading, and above it all the relentless blue, an endless matte ceiling that showed strength in being pale or paler. We weren't a backward town; it was near midcentury and we had roads and radio. Yes, even out there. Summer produced langour, made accomplices of the the dust trailing behind cars, the certain leaning of light, the taste of food running on the tongue, the texture you could hear of radio in the afternoon.

It was during the nights that I felt something different. No more nightime glows and chills that I'd come to know each June, July, August. A wall of heat seemed to stand, left over from the sunlight hours - not too thick, more like talcum powder, dispersed. Unusual summer nights, they said, nothing unusual. Probably last 'til August, come back in a few years, nothing like that one fiery summer the grandparents always speak of.

We sweated through August, mentally grasping for the hints of winter we'd first welcome and then come to curse. But the heat remained. Day and night, through stuttered harvests. The high school's homecoming was a bit more lively without the fall weather. We were preparing for Thanksgiving when the reporters from other towns came to check what's the matter. One radio report, too. We were quite the novelty.

Christmas wasn't white that year. I imagined that this was how it must feel in California. Miss Miller said to someone that it reminded her of a vacation in the tropics, without the humidity or mosquitoes or specialty drinks. Less and less of my garden made the struggle to survive. I overlooked this at the time. It was December, they'd be hiding from snow anyway.

Chalk white on chalkboard green, outlining harvest plans. Meetings held under holiday decor past its time. People wondered, talked, joked, pleaded in silent rooms. Complaining and then joking, that's what people did most. There was one less family in town to celebrate New Year's alongside the radio. I noticed more clearly the dusty, gray, defeated look of the wooden porch in front of the general store. It was always like that, all my life, but I only started to notice it that January.

Some of our winter clothes became material for other things. A bulky coat with less lining, ripped threads hastily mended. A few more houses grew vacant, no one wasting the time to find new tenants. Only the thorniest, most twisted of weeds remained, claiming the homes from the outside.

Those who left by then were the lucky ones. In spring, the measurements said that the temperature had risen. It took long for our bodies to confirm this. We had become so used to the situation.

Anyone above sixty years of age was forced to move out. Next door, their grandfather gave a great fight. Punched, kicked, said it was his land. He looked like a scared child in that car, staring at the house until the road forbade him.

Even the weeds started giving up by May. They set up a system of fans for some buildings, but the temperature kept rising steadily. One person died working at City Hall. I heard that Miss Miller began living out of her bathroom, with its cool marble and tile and water.

I took a shower twice a day. I worked extra to make up for the water bills, but with the sweat clenching my skin and the pure, cleansing feel of the water- even today I embrace the water, my dearest friend, my simplest joy. My fingers still caress the underside of the shower stream, its force and being like smooth, firm skin.

We were truly baking, not metaphor now but fact. Birds even avoided or flew quickly through the air above. No one could explain the heat, nor how it remained so neatly within city limits. One by one, each living being found it time to depart.

Only by chance, not attachment, I was the last to leave. The buildings, petrified. The weeds, withered fingers. All things empty or left behind. A silence that pierced if you let it.

In that town, nothing remains. And nothing still rules to this day.

Comments

[claennis.livejournal.com]

HEY. I LIKED THIS. A lot. I am all for imagery and your is sublime, sublimely catering to our six senses. I like how you don't use conjunctions so there is nothing holding your words together which I find, correlates to how nothing is really holding together at all in the story.

clever. depressing. but clever. :)

[chrryblssmninja.livejournal.com]

aww thanks a lot. -tacklehugs-

I like how you don't use conjunctions so there is nothing holding your words together which I find, correlates to how nothing is really holding together at all in the story.
whoa shoot I didn't notice that. very perceptive.

haha I make stories about KILLER HEAT

[chrryblssmninja.livejournal.com]

also, I cannot spell "dry." I put "dary" up there. agh, and I was copying it from a handwritten copy too...

[nakhrewali.livejournal.com]

I loved this! The way it all sort of just creeped up on the people of the town, the growing unease, the voice of the narrator, the different scenes with that constant heat all form a seamless whole. And ths scariest thing is it is not all that hard to imagine something like this happening.

[chrryblssmninja.livejournal.com]

thanks so much! I'm glad you found it scary. :)

[lavillenie.livejournal.com]

Oh, this was well done. I love the imagery you used, very vivid and it makes me curious as to why this all happens.

[chrryblssmninja.livejournal.com]

Thanks! Sorry there was no explanation, though...

[lavillenie.livejournal.com]

Oh no, I don't think you need one. Sometimes the best stories are ones left vague :)