Since I'm on streak of sharing lately and because I've been told quite directly I don't do well at promoting myself (as in I simply don't do it. . .), here we go.
The following is an updated version of the story "Hickory" which appears in my fiction collection Twisted Together. This version of the story is perhaps a bit more to the point, and I plan to include it in the collection I'm working on currently, Between Beats. It will be the only cross over story, and I kind of like the idea that two collections will share something.
It will be awhile before Between Beats is ready as I'm finishing up editing a horror collection that I hope, really hope, to have out before October this year (Title TBA).
So, in the meantime, enjoy this new version of "Hickory," and if you want to enjoy more, check out my collection Twisted Together, currently available on Amazon and as an ebook through various platforms.
P.S. I apologize for any formatting issues. Moving from Pages to Blogger didn't go as smoothly as I had hoped.
We laid naked under the large tree. We hadn't made a sound in several minutes.
To break the silence, I asked if he always made love to young women under hickory trees in the middle of broad daylight. He scoffed. Then the silence returned.
I could see bits of blue peeking through the canopy of leaves like bright stars in a green, vein-filled sky. A little bird, simple and brown, hopped along the sturdy branches.
We were in his yard, a tall privacy fence the only thing protecting us from prying neighbors and unsuspecting kids on bikes. I could hear them not far off, ringing their bells and riding races.
Then he turned to me and in a voice much weaker than the one that yelled out threats and demands and due dates over a crowded classroom of sixty or so people, much weaker still than the soft, joking voice he used in his office, the one reserved for his TA (me) and department secretaries, he asked, “You’re not going to tell anyone are you?”
I resisted looking at him despite the need to reassure him. I couldn’t pair his face with that wispy lack of confidence.
Of course I wasn’t going to tell anyone. That was simple enough. Mr. Gregory Johnson wasn’t exactly the hot talk of the town. He was loud, boisterous, aging. As far as the general population was concerned I could have done much better than this with the last guy left at a drunken frat party. He lay his hand on my arm, tentatively. The warmth of his hand blocked the breeze. I smiled. Frat boys didn’t do anything tentatively.
“I’m married,” he said. Irritation rushed through me. That was his problem. Besides, I knew it. His students knew it. His colleagues knew it. The lunch ladies knew it. His wife even knew it. Who did this fearful whisper belong to? This obvious statement? Not the man who lifted me up, pushed me against the rough bark. Not the decisive creature who said he needed me, had to have me then, “now, here. Please?”.
Gentle or stern, that man knew what he wanted. He would never insult me by asking if I’d tell or by reminding me he was married. I had neither ulterior motive nor naivety. Either would be an embarrassment. I looked back to the little, hopping bird in the tree. I watched it nibble at the bark, likely chasing things I could not see.
I placed my hand over his, which was growing heavy on my arm.
“Embarrassed of me, old man?” I teased him, finally turning to look at him. Here’s your chance.
Redeem yourself.
His gaze grew pained, his face scrunched. I stopped smirking so he’d take it more lightly. He let out an enormous sigh. I was suddenly very aware of his large, sweaty body. I could feel our skin peel apart as he rolled away. My back began to itch.
“No,” he said in a voice closer to the one I was used to. “No. You, never. But my wife. . .”
I had met his wife once. She was pretty in a simple way. A way I liked to think of myself. She had come by his office looking for him and found only me, grading papers.
“Hi, Allison,” she had said. I remember being surprised she knew my name. “Is Gregory around?” I was also surprised she called him Gregory. Everyone called him Greg. His often frightened students. Me. Even the cafeteria workers who found him pompous, overly picky, and a bit incredulous about salad bar etiquette.
I told her he must still be in class, that that one usually ran late, and after, he usually went to lunch. He might stop by if she wanted to wait.
“Oh, that’s all right,” she replied. “Just let him know his wife popped in. My name’s Helen, by the way.” She walked over and offered her hand. I shook it awkwardly. It felt cool, which made me feel unpleasantly warm. “Nice to meet you,” she pipped. “So long.” She waved at me with her fingers only.
Her whole being bothered me.
I peeked out when I heard her say hi to “Gregory, darling” at the end of the hall. He was surprised to see her, but seemingly delighted. Then, slowly, he placed his hand gently on the outer edge of her hip, leaned down, and kissed her forehead for a prolonged moment, his eyes closed. She whispered something I couldn’t hear. He smiled, a real honest-to-God smile that went all the way to his eyes. How had she caused this large, strong, busy body of a man to stop, to stoop, to pause, to smile? How did his hand feel on her hip? How could someone so delicate entice someone so strong, so firm. He weaved his fingers through hers, and she led him out of sight.
And that was the moment. I knew I had to be touched like that. I had to be touched just like that, and it had to be by him. It was all I could think about, making him stoop.
“Allison.” There was the voice I knew. Demanding, bringing me back to the present.
But if it was meant to intimidate, it didn’t. He looked weak. I touched the side of his face. He flinched a little, like I had frightened him. Perhaps I did. Then, he touched me gently, as he had earlier that afternoon, when he took the sweating lemonade from my hand, caressed my forehead with his lips, just as I had wanted him to, bending down to me. But, this time it was not success that surged through my veins, nor happiness. It was failure.
He did not caress me for the same reasons he caressed her. I could destroy his career, but I had no real power over him.
“I won’t tell Helen,” I said, shifting uncomfortably. Dirt was sticking to my body in places I didn’t want it.
He said nothing, not breaking his stare.
“I won’t tell anyone,” I added, and I looked back up at the branches. “Not a soul.” I could feel his tension release as the little bird finally flew away, leaving the stiff branches to be pushed by the breeze.
The following is an updated version of the story "Hickory" which appears in my fiction collection Twisted Together. This version of the story is perhaps a bit more to the point, and I plan to include it in the collection I'm working on currently, Between Beats. It will be the only cross over story, and I kind of like the idea that two collections will share something.
It will be awhile before Between Beats is ready as I'm finishing up editing a horror collection that I hope, really hope, to have out before October this year (Title TBA).
So, in the meantime, enjoy this new version of "Hickory," and if you want to enjoy more, check out my collection Twisted Together, currently available on Amazon and as an ebook through various platforms.
 |
| Found at photopin.com |
Hickory
We laid naked under the large tree. We hadn't made a sound in several minutes.
To break the silence, I asked if he always made love to young women under hickory trees in the middle of broad daylight. He scoffed. Then the silence returned.
I could see bits of blue peeking through the canopy of leaves like bright stars in a green, vein-filled sky. A little bird, simple and brown, hopped along the sturdy branches.
We were in his yard, a tall privacy fence the only thing protecting us from prying neighbors and unsuspecting kids on bikes. I could hear them not far off, ringing their bells and riding races.
Then he turned to me and in a voice much weaker than the one that yelled out threats and demands and due dates over a crowded classroom of sixty or so people, much weaker still than the soft, joking voice he used in his office, the one reserved for his TA (me) and department secretaries, he asked, “You’re not going to tell anyone are you?”
I resisted looking at him despite the need to reassure him. I couldn’t pair his face with that wispy lack of confidence.
Of course I wasn’t going to tell anyone. That was simple enough. Mr. Gregory Johnson wasn’t exactly the hot talk of the town. He was loud, boisterous, aging. As far as the general population was concerned I could have done much better than this with the last guy left at a drunken frat party. He lay his hand on my arm, tentatively. The warmth of his hand blocked the breeze. I smiled. Frat boys didn’t do anything tentatively.
“I’m married,” he said. Irritation rushed through me. That was his problem. Besides, I knew it. His students knew it. His colleagues knew it. The lunch ladies knew it. His wife even knew it. Who did this fearful whisper belong to? This obvious statement? Not the man who lifted me up, pushed me against the rough bark. Not the decisive creature who said he needed me, had to have me then, “now, here. Please?”.
Gentle or stern, that man knew what he wanted. He would never insult me by asking if I’d tell or by reminding me he was married. I had neither ulterior motive nor naivety. Either would be an embarrassment. I looked back to the little, hopping bird in the tree. I watched it nibble at the bark, likely chasing things I could not see.
I placed my hand over his, which was growing heavy on my arm.
“Embarrassed of me, old man?” I teased him, finally turning to look at him. Here’s your chance.
Redeem yourself.
His gaze grew pained, his face scrunched. I stopped smirking so he’d take it more lightly. He let out an enormous sigh. I was suddenly very aware of his large, sweaty body. I could feel our skin peel apart as he rolled away. My back began to itch.
“No,” he said in a voice closer to the one I was used to. “No. You, never. But my wife. . .”
I had met his wife once. She was pretty in a simple way. A way I liked to think of myself. She had come by his office looking for him and found only me, grading papers.
“Hi, Allison,” she had said. I remember being surprised she knew my name. “Is Gregory around?” I was also surprised she called him Gregory. Everyone called him Greg. His often frightened students. Me. Even the cafeteria workers who found him pompous, overly picky, and a bit incredulous about salad bar etiquette.
I told her he must still be in class, that that one usually ran late, and after, he usually went to lunch. He might stop by if she wanted to wait.
“Oh, that’s all right,” she replied. “Just let him know his wife popped in. My name’s Helen, by the way.” She walked over and offered her hand. I shook it awkwardly. It felt cool, which made me feel unpleasantly warm. “Nice to meet you,” she pipped. “So long.” She waved at me with her fingers only.
Her whole being bothered me.
I peeked out when I heard her say hi to “Gregory, darling” at the end of the hall. He was surprised to see her, but seemingly delighted. Then, slowly, he placed his hand gently on the outer edge of her hip, leaned down, and kissed her forehead for a prolonged moment, his eyes closed. She whispered something I couldn’t hear. He smiled, a real honest-to-God smile that went all the way to his eyes. How had she caused this large, strong, busy body of a man to stop, to stoop, to pause, to smile? How did his hand feel on her hip? How could someone so delicate entice someone so strong, so firm. He weaved his fingers through hers, and she led him out of sight.
And that was the moment. I knew I had to be touched like that. I had to be touched just like that, and it had to be by him. It was all I could think about, making him stoop.
“Allison.” There was the voice I knew. Demanding, bringing me back to the present.
But if it was meant to intimidate, it didn’t. He looked weak. I touched the side of his face. He flinched a little, like I had frightened him. Perhaps I did. Then, he touched me gently, as he had earlier that afternoon, when he took the sweating lemonade from my hand, caressed my forehead with his lips, just as I had wanted him to, bending down to me. But, this time it was not success that surged through my veins, nor happiness. It was failure.
He did not caress me for the same reasons he caressed her. I could destroy his career, but I had no real power over him.
“I won’t tell Helen,” I said, shifting uncomfortably. Dirt was sticking to my body in places I didn’t want it.
He said nothing, not breaking his stare.
“I won’t tell anyone,” I added, and I looked back up at the branches. “Not a soul.” I could feel his tension release as the little bird finally flew away, leaving the stiff branches to be pushed by the breeze.
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