"I'm not a very good writer, but I'm an excellent rewriter," -James Michener
These 869 words got me to New York. Enjoy.
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Clutching Roses
Olivia J. Bennett
The man rubs his gray mustache, staring up at the blue sky outside of the grimy window. He brushes some coal dust off of his lunchpail, stepping out of the elevator, rising from the bowels of the earth.
“Have a good evening, Ernest. Tell your wife I said hi!” Carl says, tipping the bill of his hardhat. The light shines into the old man’s eyes for a moment, and he squints back at Carl.
“You too. Hope tomorrow isn’t as rough as today,” Ernest says, not facing the man.
“Anything to serve the masses of this good, God-fearing town,” Carl says, laughing spitefully.
Pushing open the creaky, wooden door, Ernest walks on the gravel road through the fluorescent-lit town. The sun has ripened to orange.
The man walks this path every day. He could do it with his eyes closed. In fact, often, he does, soaking up the smells and sounds of the northwestern settlement. He knows everything about this little town, so much so that he can recognize the women in their patterned dresses smelling of gardenia and lavender, and the men coming home to their wives smelling of sweat and spice.
“Evening, Ernest,” the grocer says from his storefront. “Hope Rose is doing well!”
The friendly voice of the grocer forces the man to open his eyes. “Yes, she is. I’ll let her know you asked.”
On his way out of the town’s main drag, the gravel crunches under his heavy-bottomed boots. The clouds are an explosion of white, purple, and orange, and he finally sees the small, tin-roofed house emerging from the treeline.
Ernest runs his fingers along the bark as the gravel slowly dissipates and becomes a worn, dirt path. The white blooms of baby’s breath line the path, along with the petals of bright yellow and purple wildflowers. Pain creaking through his back, the man leans over to pluck a small daisy from the side of the path. He puts it up to his nose, and smells the sweet, earthy aroma of the flower.
His lungs contract, coughing, and the scent of the flower dies. Now, all he can taste or smell is the coal dust. Still, the man gets down on his knees, and gathers a bouquet of flowers for his wife, Rose. She loves flowers, and Ernest would always tease her about it because her name was a flower, but Ernest knew she loved them because they could brighten any room.
The grainy wood of the house comes into view. The sun glints off of shards of broken glass. Oh, no, the man thought, an animal must have broken the window again.
He runs his fingers over the remaining shards, seeing a small tuft of fur caught on the corner. He wrinkles his leathery face and pushes open the old door. It sticks, as it most often does, and the old man nearly tumbles into his own house. He gazes into the musty home, the evening sun casting thick bands of light onto the floor.
“Good evening, Rose. What have you made for dinner tonight?” Ernest says, like he does every night.
But she doesn’t answer. She just sits there, in her pastel dress, staring at the wilting bouquet of flowers on the table.
Sighing, Ernest sets down his lunch pail and turns on the generator under the sink. Small lamps on the walls flick on and the gray refrigerator hums to life. A small floor fan blows dry, brown leaves around the floor.
“Carl asked about you again. I think he’s got a thing for you, even though he’s got his own wife and kids to look after.”
Ernest scrapes out something from a corroded pot and fills it with water. In goes the cabbage, carrots, and roast beef. With a click, he turns on the gas stove.
“The grocer asked about you, too, old William, who used to be our neighbor. He’s a nice man - grows the sweetest corn in the county if I’ve ever seen it.” Suddenly, Ernest turns around to face his wife, who still hasn’t acknowledged him. “You miss him, don’t you? I’ll bet you miss a lot of the nice men in this town . . .”
Ernest suddenly hears a scratching, gnawing sound. Nearly dropping his wooden spoon, he moves over to the leg of the crooked wooden table. A racoon gnaws on his wife’s anke.
Aghast, Ernest cries, “shoo! Shoo! Get on out of my house, filthy animal!” The old man chases the vermin out of his house, suddenly sweaty and out of breath.
His pot is boiling over, too, so he brings it over and sets it down on the table, already perfectly set for a dinner for two. Finally, Ernest takes the bouquet for his wife and begins plucking out the fresh, aromatic flowers. The larger bundle he places within her gnarled, bony fingers. Several strands of baby’s breath go between her meaty ribs and collarbones, and finally, the last two daisies, a lively white and yellow, he places in his wife’s two hollow eye sockets.
“There,” the old man says, slowly sinking back down into his chair. He unfolds his napkin and places it on his lap. “Now you’re truly dressed for dinner, Rose.”
~
*mic drop*
~The WordShaker
