Parable of the Drought / In Circles
By Merridawn Duckler
Parable of the Drought
I was rattling the inside of an old saltine tin when you came home. We’re out of tears, I said. Again, I said. You put the bags down in a huff. They were supposed to last until the party, you said, where do they go? We both know the answer to that. You spent them. Pretending it’s for others, to be donated or sent overseas. But it’s crap. Everyone knows you cried up all those tears for yourself. My eyes have been dried for fifteen years. My mouth is like a ghost lake. Sadness scurries in rat feet at the bottom of my well. A soul could drop a rock in there and hear no echo. Whereas you are a fountain, bountiful crocodile. The world is your blue handkerchief, wrung once and snapped out fresh. I am sad, I said, I’m broken. I walked to the other room and saw you absorbed in the images, taking a screen shot and superimposing it on your face. What do you want now, you said. I tried to explain to you about my hollow. My dust. You turned your face to me. Goddamn, you are beautiful. I’m so sorry, you said. And your eyes filled up with tears
In Circles
Every day we walk the waterfront to get out of the house and enlarge our circle. The balding man who always grimaces when he sees us. But it is a tic. The thin girl speaking pleasantly to air. Her voice carries. The super buff tall man, cutting quite close to people on his run, perfectly coiffed, his radiant shaved chest. The drunk one. The other drunk one. Couples follow us, since we are also a couple. If they seem mis-matched or glum, we raise our hands, to show one method. We have been in love for as long as there has been love. We recently admitted an international, from Canada. Long-necked, neck like a drain snake, with a purpose-driven waddle. Marvelous bright obsidian tail feather created a perfect triangle and the flat feet hid a regal spot of shit. On the throat was a white dot, like those that fall from paper when the hole punch does its trick. Species can join. Even flies, blown senseless in soft wind. The sun itself seemed to apply, reaching for the back of my neck. An audacious move, we’ll see how that pays off in the long run. A man leaning on the tall barrier that separates the strollers from the ruffled surface of the river showed no interest. It’s fine. We’ll be back on the waterfront again tomorrow. For the second time we saw that young girl sniffling on the littered bench. Eventually all will be in, sooner or later, willingly or by enforcement. This is our circle. You cannot put it off forever.
Merridawn Duckler is a writer from Oregon, author of INTERSTATE (dancing girl press) and IDIOM (Washburn Prize, Harbor Review) She won the Jewish in Seattle fiction contest and the Elizabeth Sloan Tyler Memorial Award from Woven Tale Press. Recent work in FRiGG, New Flash Fiction, Penn Review, and as a finalist at the Mid-American Fineline contest. Residencies/fellowships/awards: Yaddo, Vermont Post Graduate Conference, Horned Dorset. She’s an editor at Narrative and the international philosophy journal Evental Aesthetics.
