Unplanned Departures

            Soldiers stalk the sidewalk with guns pulled close to their bodies, hands ready in their grip, in the silver light of retreating rain. Nell peers out at them. Her eyes meet the gaze of one of the men, dressed all in black, with blue eyes punched into a face half hidden by protective head gear. David has stopped talking. He scrutinizes his soup. It is black in the eatery’s broken yellow light. Nell looks at her empty bowl. The air is pregnant with the stench of burnt coffee.             “David,” she says.             He doesn’t look up.             “David.”             He raises his head. His eyes negotiate a thought.             “What?” h...

            On a sidewalk, during the first days of winter, people huddle into their coats and try to pass each other without touching. Morris shields his eyes from the sun. Ernie stands in his usual spot. People scuttle past them. Ernie speaks. “All the people are cardboard cutouts. They look real, if you breathe at them just right, or at least real enough so you don't notice they aren't. The birds are tracing paper. The streets are still crowded, just like here. The sidewalks display the same sea of business wear, civilian sensible and modern bum chic. A stiff breeze and it all waves like a flag. The people are pretty sturdy. They don't topple easy.             “Some come equipped with movable elbow joints and little motors. They never stop waving. They have speakers hidden behind their smiles. They crackle out catch phrases and genuine folk wisdom. I don't know who cha...

            Michael perceived little eyes at the heart of the fire, points of flame pining for fresh tinder and bursts of existence. The fire spoke into the corners of the dark room with a warm light that described the shadowed spaces of the house. The ravages of flame, a gray smoke devoid of life, escaped through the chimney. Out in the chill of a fall night, smoke dissolved in a stiff breeze. The wind twisted the gray billows out and knocked through an old wooden fence, barely hanging on its hinges.             From the ceiling he caught the sound of his wife moving upstairs. He imagined her packing darkness. No light flooding the glass. No warmth spilling out into midnight. Familiar groans and creaks with every move, finding her way over steps she'd walked so many times. She closed drawers she'd never touch again, the grain of the wood beneath her fingers a map of uniq...