THE SOFT ROOM

Okay. One time I was wheeling down the hallway at the Rehabilitation Center, waiting for my dad to pick me up. He usually goes for coffee across the street till I’m finished my exercises.

There was an open door that’s normally closed, I went through it down another hallway that was darker. I turned once, and just before the second turn I saw one half of a long glowing window in the wall that went down almost to the floor. There was a man and woman standing in front of the window, looking through it. They seemed pretty worried and caring like parents. As I moved closer I could see more of the window, and a man in a lab coat standing beside an empty wheelchair. He was looking through the window too, and sometimes writing something on a clip-board.

This was all none of my business, but I was curious, so I went closer. The people didn’t seem to notice me. They were talking about something in quiet voices, I just wheeled up quietly behind them until I could see in the window, too.

It was a big white room. There were lights, but not much else. The walls and floor were all white foam. There was a guy, maybe ten years older than me, with a beard, on the floor. He was just rolling around on the floor groaning. All he seemed to be able to do was roll. If he came up to a wall he just kicked it or flailed against it. Then he rolled the other way.

The mother said, “I really think this will help with his rage.” Then she waited a while and said slowly, “If only he’d had this when he was younger. He really could’ve used this. Things would’ve been … so different.”

The father shook his head, but didn’t say anything. Then he said, quietly, “No. They wouldn’t've, Helen. They wouldn’t've one bit.”

Then the man with the clipboard looked at me. He was about to say something I think, but I just kept going around the corner like I had somewhere to be. Also, I felt sick to my stomach and wanted to at least get to a water fountain.

The empty wheelchair was sitting next to a door. As I passed by it I looked up. The sign on the door said “The Soft Room.”

I’ve always thought I’d be a happier kid if I’d never seen the Soft Room.

 

 

THE SEA-WAVE

“The sea-wave comes and goes forever. It rushes against everything forever….” A new story, for you. An extract … from an unpublished novella. Read it here.

 

 

THE RIVER

We were in a thunderstorm and we were going really fast downhill. There was a river at the bottom of the hill, and also some gloomy-looking trees. We were both so wet. He must’ve been wet. My glasses were wet and I couldn’t see anything hardly.

I started going too fast, it was extremely bumpy. I wondered that the old man could run so fast. Then I heard something that was like far-away yelling. Oh my god, I thought. It’s happening. I’ve gotten away. I am rocketing down a steep hill, into deep water. This is every wheeler’s nightmare.

My teeth were rattling, so I pressed my teeth down hard together. I held down hard onto my armrests. I’m thinking that was probably the wrong thing to do, now. I should’ve tried to fall off my chair as soon as possible, and let it drown. But I was scared of falling off, I was going so fast. The rain made it confusing.

I hit something, the wheelchair hit something. Probably a huge rock or something. The wheelchair kind of stayed still, and I kind of went flying. I’m not a very goddy sort of person but I remember thinking god don’t let me fall in the river and drown.

Then I landed in the river.

So I was drowning. Drowning is probably a worse thing even that being a wheelchair person. Especially when you’re a wheelchair person. I just couldn’t do too much about it. I have ok movement in my arms but in my legs not so much. My feet are the worst and just soft and hanging like lamb-chops. Water was pouring into my throat like it was the Titanic, and into my lungs. I was trying to breathe so bad but there was only ice-cold water. I think I was crying.

I was just about dead, but then I was in a lot of pain because someone grabbed me by the hair and pulled me up out of the water.

The old man was crying. He just hugged me, but didn’t say anything, but put me back in my chair, there was nothing to dry off with. Then he pushed me back up the hill. The whole time he pushed me, he was crying. Eventually he stopped crying. Then it stopped raining, too.

I just about died.

THE WHALE WITH THE HARPOON EARRINGS

I’m quiet and still and the trouble with being quiet and still is that people will occasionally mistake you for a toilet. It’s easy to take things out on me or blame me for things. Mom does this pretty much daily. She used to love me. She’s like the dolls with the smaller dolls in them, but she forgets they’re there, that one of those moms really loved me. Or she could never hurt me. I’m a different kid now, too. But I still remember the smaller kid, in her sarcophagus, who loved her mom and felt pretty loved. I still feel her, sometimes. I guess life would be easier, if I couldn’t.

 

Occasionally my dad stands up and whispers to mom not to say this or that in front of me but it doesn’t matter. I can hear her from the kitchen. I can hear him. He doesn’t talk much about me so I have to listen.

 

What are we going to do with her? What will happen to her? What’s, going, to happen?

 

Then I’m swallowing water and sinking. I’m listening and I’m sinking. I’m the whale with the harpoon earrings. I’m sinking.

 

When my parents are suddenly alone I try to get to my room fast but the elevator doors don’t always close fast enough. Or they open and drop me in the middle of something, a storm cloud that I thought was just fluffy nest material. I listen and I watch my parents roll out of the kitchen like smoke, looking only at the space exactly above me or beside me. Then I look at them sinking down on the two big couches and I think, What have I done to these people?

 

I’ll bet they ask themselves the same thing.

 

THE ANGEL LADY

Our daughter vanished.

The woman looked pretty normal. She had long hair even though she was over 40. She had a brittle voice that made you listen carefully in case you dropped it.

She was a beautiful, healthy girl. And she vanished.

The whole time she spoke to us she didn’t blink. The trick to not crying might be to dry out your eyes.

She was a prostitute. She got into hard drugs.

I have to admit that sort of made her less angelic in my book. I was picturing Little Dorrit or something. I’m pretty judgemental.

We found her in the Parliamentary Gardens. In a rose bush. Bleeding. They were actually white roses.

Even my teacher swallowed hard. I stared at her like, Where do you find these people? She stared at a square on the floor.

My daughter is an angel. She speaks to me. She hovers above me, and guides me. She forgives me. She loves me.

Without really realizing it, I think the whole class looked up at the ceiling. All I could see was the curved mirror they put in after the shootings. In her warped back reflection the woman’s shoulders were a bit like folded-back wings.

I looked at my teacher again. She started clapping. I guess it was over.

CORAL

My fat aunt Coral is a riot and a lousy person. She is just so pink and fat. She laughs too much, and wears too much enormous jewelry. She is like a pig on a pearl leash sniffing out gossip then trotting up to your table and vomiting. I like her gossip because it’s so malicious, and it’s nice to know who’s dying. She is shallow and destructive.

My dad and Coral are siblings but don’t talk much. When she comes over he likes to say hi then take a nap or run errands. Then Coral will put her feet up, and talk to my mom for hours. She asks for tea, but mom knows this means cake.

I typically avoid my family but with Aunt Coral I don’t mind hanging around and listening. It’s great listening to people gossip because it’s the one time they mean what they’re saying. It has to be a huge relief to people. Aunt Coral likes to kick off her tight shoes – it probably feels like that. She just gets so comfortable, it’s like she’s lounging on her skeleton. And then she says the most shocking things about everyone I ever heard of, and never stops smiling.

I like Aunt Coral, though it’s hard to guess why. She’s maybe the only person in my family who has a sense of humor. She’s healthy-looking, though she can’t be healthy. Mostly, she talks to me without changing her voice, like I’m an everyday person. She even talks to me when other people have left the room. That’s a small thing, but it means a lot.

One time she told just me that her one daughter wasn’t even her husband’s daughter, but just from some fling with the butcher. I thought why are you telling me this, but I guess it was because she needed to tell someone and that I likely wouldn’t tell anyone. In reality, I could easily go out of my way to tell someone, it’s just that I wouldn’t, it’s not me. I might tell my memorandum book, that’s it. Believe me, I can keep a secret.

The last time I saw Aunt Coral she was maybe fifty pounds heavier than the previous time. She wheezed just coming up the front steps, and right away sat down. She doesn’t leave her house much now but sits in her armchair with the phone in her hand. “I tell people the truth,” she told my mom once, “but I tell my telephone everything.” All day she sits there soaking up gossip and getting fatter and fatter. She needs a cane now just from the knee strain, and soon might need a wheelchair, too. That’s sort of pathetic. But I’ve kind of been looking forward to it, too.

                                                              

Artwork by Rolli

Rolli is the author of the new short story collection God’s Autobio (Vancouver: N.O.N.). Visit his blog (www.rolliwrites.wordpress.com), and follow his epic tweets @rolliwrites.

DENTISTRY

I bit the dentist. If you gouge your hook into my cavity and ask me if it hurts I’m going to bite you. Like the crocodile in Peter Pan. My main virtue may be my strong teeth.

I get my dentistry done now at the hospital. They put you under and after you can’t have solid food or your lungs will collapse. The doctor illustrated this by drawing eyes on a sandwich bag, then blowing it up and popping it on his chest. At the same time as the pop the nurse jammed the IV in. The last thing I remember is the doctor crumpling the puppet with its head blown open.

I couldn’t eat for three days. I could have broth but chose not to. Not snacking is murder. I wanted some mixed nuts but kept imagining my chest flattening like the card guys in Alice’s Adventures. Or my head blowing open.

On the fourth day I ate breakfast and threw up. Life is simpler, my mom said as she wiped it up, when you don’t bite people.

She’s probably right.

 

                                                                           

Rolli writes – and draws a little – for adults (Hayden’s Ferry Review, New York Tyrant, Rattle) and children (Ladybug, Spider, Highlights). He’s the author of the new short story collection, God’s Autobio (Vancouver: N.O.N.), which has so far been reviewed by no one.

 

CANDY EYES

My one uncle is so nice to me I can’t believe it. It’s like he has candies instead of eyes. He’s always smiling, he comes up to me smiling, shakes my hand, and leaves a candy in it. My mom doesn’t really approve of sugar, but sugar doesn’t really care. Sometimes it’s a mint candy with a chocolate center, sometimes a caramel candy with a chocolate center. I’m happy as long as there’s chocolate.

My uncle doesn’t dry up when he touches me. He doesn’t use the Dog Voice or the Cute Toddler Voice. He talks to me. He hugs me and gives me money. Because I can’t do the standard tricks, but I still deserve it. I don’t get an allowance. Even a buck means something. It helps me out.

When my uncle leaves I feel homesick even though I’m home. The calendar gets larger. It’s a big pail I have to fill up with raspberries. I don’t even like raspberries.

I miss my uncle.

Too bad I only see him once a year.

 

MRS. RAMSHAW

Like most kids with no friends I’ve had imaginary friends. I used to have a cat and a friendly octopus but now I just have Mrs. Ramshaw. She’s an old lady with swollen legs who I imagine lying in the guest bedroom, which is the next bedroom down from mine. I’ve never really pictured her face, just her swollen legs projecting over the edge of the bed. I guess she’s that tall.

I can’t fall asleep without first thinking of Mrs. Ramshaw in the other room. I think of how old and sick she is, and how her fat legs stick out. It doesn’t make sense but I only feel comfortable and ok if I know she’s there. She doesn’t say anything or do anything, just lays there breathing. My mom takes pink tranquilizers. Mrs. Ramshaw’s legs are my pink tranquilizers. I just think of them sticking out and I drift to sleep.

I guess I try not to think about Mrs. Ramshaw’s face because I’m worried – it might be my face. In the morning when I wheel past the guest bedroom, I always check. I can’t go by without checking. But I know if I ever really saw Mrs. Ramshaw lying there with my face I’d flop over dead. It’s unhealthy, but it’s always how I imagined I’d die.

It could possibly be a lot worse.

***

Rolli writes – and draws a little – for adults (Hayden’s Ferry Review, New York Tyrant, Rattle) and children (Ladybug, Spider, Highlights). He’s the author of God’s Autobio (short stories) and Plum Stuff (poems/drawings). Visit his blog (www.rolliwrites.wordpress.com), and follow his epic tweets @rolliwrites.

THE GLASS JAR

The glass jar my mom throws pennies in plays the wedding waltz when you open it. You just have to wind it. When I was younger when my mom rolled her pennies it was my job to wind up the jar. When I heard the wedding waltz I knew my presence was needed. It made me feel needed. It was something I could do usually without help. It was important. Small things keep you going.

Over time the jar stopped working. The music got so slow it was chilling. You felt suspense. I’d imagine skeletons dancing. My parents seemed happier when they were younger.

Once when I wound the jar it went clank and died. I knew it was dying, I felt bad. My mom said look what you’ve done. She didn’t need me after that. She just rolls her pennies herself now, in silence.

But sometimes when she opens the jar it still makes one ding like a last gasp of romance. I can hear it even from my room. It reminds me of how things were. And for a long time, I’d get so sad. I’d close my eyes for a long time. But not anymore. I stopped winding my heart up a long time ago.