A Short Story

by Sasha Fletcher

he came down from the carriage house to find us gathered
around everything we had ever lost
which we had made into a bonfire.

someone had,
just that instant,
returned from nepal
with news of artificial glaciers.

someone’s wife had packed a series of orange slices
which were being distributed as mouth guards,
to safeguard our mouths.

we asked
can things be done for us?
can we be made comfortable?
we asked who said the evening news was a suitable replacement for bedtime stories?
and demanded to know who was responsible for the myth of self-sufficiency
and why must we all be better harder faster stronger?
would everybody just mind backing the fuck up?

the president took to the podium,
and addressed us.
“my fellow americans,” he went,
“who said that anything is ever really lost?
is it so hard to think everything just moves around when we’re not looking?
why must a myth be anything other than an explanation?”
after a pause,
where he was very dignified,
“questions I am better at asking:
why did it take so long for coffee to taste so good?
what should be made for dinner tonight?
does anyone have a cigarette?”

we muttered, and awed.

he told us
“keep your distance.
keep serious.
look, a convertible is approaching us, with what appears to be great urgency.”

and it was, but we could not see who was driving.

they fired at the president several times and shot him
first in his leg
then in his good eye
then in his ribs
and then got him right in the neck,
which exploded with blood
as he stood very still
and then, very quickly,
lay down.

we looked to the distance.
our hearts stood still
for they were exhausted,
and we felt overwhelmed by possibility.

very quietly, and with little notice,
some children had gathered.
they looked at us,
at our science.

we looked to the president
with thoughts about his teeth.

those children stood stock-still
and stared out into the night
with expressions on their faces
we had every intention to read.

we again wondered what we would tell our wives
and would emergency elections be held?
was there anything that could have been done?
could this sort of thing be placed on our permanent records?
and where are these records, anyway?

we had, communally, never seen them.
we had also never seen a puppy kicked
or a tree fall in a forest outside of the tv.
someone asked what that had to do with anything.
they were quickly silenced.

we wondered what was for dinner
and how he had managed to keep his teeth so clean
and sparkling
and free of cavities.

the children slipped drawings
of their favorite convertibles
racing
into our pockets.

their mothers called to us
that dinner was ready
that dinner was on the table
that dinner was cold
that where have you been?

with one hand we tried to illustrate
the entire history of country music
while the other flipped furiously through the yellow pages,
for we had appointments to make.

it was in all the papers and on all the televisions and all over the internet
it had been mentioned in several text messages
and hurried phone calls.

some of us did not vote for him, this is true,
but even they think of him like an iceberg.

as life unfolded like the evening news,
there were those of us who still had a meal to plan
because there are only so many take-out restaurants in the world
which is a sad fact to come to terms with.

questions were being asked
about what should be done
about those assassins.

rumor had it they had tunneled to some foreign land
where our influence could never fully extend
like iran
or colorado.

it was said you could look into their eyes
and see the face of evil.

we tried to explain how looking into their eyes was no different
than looking into anyone else’s
and various ideas about ways
to make an extradition treaty with colorado.

we strove to be reasonable here.

somewhere behind us,
a chinese food restaurant was being established
with rumors of a buffet
and a lunch truck.

there were those who did not believe it,
but when presented with certain facts
who were we to argue?

we had thoughts on this,
which we recorded
directly to a portable home stereo system
with a plastic handle
for posterity
and the children.

we imagined them finding it later in life
when they have grown to become anything they ever dreamed of

if only we had any idea what that might be.

sometimes, we felt if it weren’t for christmas lists
we might not know them at all.

[Sasha Fletcher is an artist and writer living and working in Philadelphia. He also runs a blog.]


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And Friends, Let Me Tell You About My Hat, Please Leave The Lights On & Your Own Personal Trainer, & And Friends, Let Me Tell You About My Hat

Poems by Sasha Fletcher

And Friends, Let Me Tell You About My Hat

federal savings and loan walked outside to a very open space
and began, very slowly,
to build something,
on the sort of day when the rains come hard
for one solid unrelenting minute
and are forgotten like motel bibles.
as he hammered, he thought about the act of slowly borrowing
everything in his next door neighbor’s bedroom
item by item
and keeping them in a far smaller duplicate room
that he was making
for exactly that purpose.

she, the neighbor, stopped to ask him, federal, what he was building,
which was obviously not a part of the plan,
and so, visibly shaken, he said to her
“friend, let me tell you about my hat”
even though he was not wearing one,
and she asked to hear the story,
and federal savings and loan told her the story
but explained that in order to do so, he would need to borrow a pillow,
which, she felt, seemed like reasonable request.
she went to her room to get it,
while he attempted, very quickly,
to not get excited.
what the next door neighbor would do when everything was placed
in the far smaller room being built for just that purpose
had not been directly addressed yet.
if you had any thoughts on the matter it might be best
to keep them right where they are.

a house rested playfully
just beyond the trash can’s horizon
a vacuum cleaner was humming
the smell of sealant in the air
as she brought federal savings and loan a pitcher of lemonade
which, of course, he thanked her for.
she said to him “please tell me the story about your hat again.”

Please Leave the Lights On

i stayed down on the ground and let them all have my neck
and in the morning something had changed.

categorically, there is something about ghosts
that i cannot understand.

imagine death as a skeleton on a skeleton horse.
now picture that skeleton riding the skeleton of an automobile,
or some type of dirt bike.

i thought about that last night
and then i dreamed about a man with a peg leg
and a pea coat
standing on a pier and watching as the seas parted
in such a way that he could never cross them again.
and as a great big clipper ship carried something very important to him
very far away,
his eyes made me think of the way a lighthouse must look to a sailor
intent on synchronized shipwrecks
or, that is how things seemed
as he climbed into the dinghy.


Your Own Personal Trainer

today at work murph seemed to be struggling with something
that was very heavy.
at the end of the night
once the grills had been turned off
and the steamers cleaned with vinegar and water
i said "murph," i said, "what is it?"
he opened his chef's coat and i saw
he was wearing a weighted vest.
"murph," i said, “are you training for something?"
he said yes and so i asked him what he was training for.
after a beat or two, he said "guilt."
then a little later he said "no,
that's not what I meant."

[Sasha Fletcher is an artist and writer living and working in Philadelphia. He also runs a blog.]


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