Recent fiction:sketchyetchings

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            This wasn’t the first and only incident. It was one of many of their little stunts that started shortly after their mother ran away with the neighbor’s wife. I told my boys that thieving anything and everything in the neighborhood that reminded them of her wouldn’t make things right, that littering the basement with the neighbors possessions wouldn’t make her appear at the foot of their beds.
            And after the neighborhood was picked clean, I told them that carving their mother’s name into the windows of the neighbor’s house wouldn’t bring her back.
            I even shrugged it off when the older one tried to cram the younger one in the freezer, after the older one said that the younger one needed to be preserved so when their mother came back, she would recognize him.
            But when I walked in on the older one convincing the younger one to gulp toilet water to moisten his innards so when he curled back into the freezer he’d be properly preserved, I told them both she wasn’t coming back, that she and the neighbor lady floated on over somewhere and that the only way she’d come back was if they gave me some peace and quiet so I could mold a figure of her out of the neighbors possessions, that I’d create a shrine so they could talk with her molding, as long as they left the neighbors alone.
            You’re not bringing her back are you? The older asked.
            Make her to look like a tree so we can climb her, the younger one said.
            You’re not bringing her back are you? The older one asked.
            And after that, the older one stopped saying her name, stopped mentioning her in all regards, but the younger kept asking about her as they both continued their little stunts.
            But none of their incidents were as bad as this one.
            It was the day of the one-year mark of their mother’s departure, and I still hadn’t completed the molding of her. I couldn’t concentrate on her features, couldn’t picture her—so I was in the basement, running my fingers over the thieved objects that lined the walls when I heard the shattering crash echo through the house.
            When I made it to hallway I didn’t know how to react. There they were, the younger one rocking in a pool of his own blood, the older one crumbling fragments of glass with the heel of his shoe while looking at the splayed fragments of the blood-clotted shards that covered the porch as the remaining glass swayed in the screen door before shattering on the floor.
            And there the younger one sat, dazed—with his arm raised above his chest, with blood dribbling and hanging from his elbow, the floor mat now soaking the blood—there he sat mumbling how the older one told him that he could float through the screen door if he leapt through hands first. And with his eyes the older one said he hadn’t a clue why the younger one was such an idiot.
            And after I realized the younger one wouldn’t bleed out, I told the older one to bandage his wrist up.
            Then I told the older one that if he didn’t stop telling the younger one he could jump through objects, or fold into freezers, I’d staple his lips to his nose using the shattered glass—how can you whisper into the younger ones ear with your lips sewn to your nose by a shard of glass? I said.
            We have names, the older one said as he began wrapping the younger one with a fresh towel, sliding the bloody mat that the younger one leaked all over toward me with the tip of his shoe.
            So I told both of them that I didn’t care who did what and who told whom what he could or couldn’t do— none of this would bring their mother back, that bleeding out and freezing up doesn’t patch wounds, that what I needed from both of them was simply to keep it down while I was working so I could concentrate.
            Are you’re working on her? The younger one asked.
            Just sweep up these shards or I’ll split your lip, I said.
            Is drinking whisky and staring at your screwdriver what you’re working on? The older one asked.
            How do you suppose I finish molding her, finish anything for that matter, when all I do is clean up his blood? I asked the older one.
            He just looked at me as the younger one winced.
            My tooph hurts, the younger one gargled.
            Perhaps if you sweep this mess up it’ll stop hurting, I said.
            Mom knowed how to make it stop, the younger one said.
            Well she’s not here, I said.
            I’ll operate on it with the rifle, the older one said, firming his grip along a jagged chunk of glass, forming it like a pistol as he pointed it at the younger one.
            I just did what I was told I could do is all, the younger one said, feeling at the piece of cloth that now secured his wrist.
            If I see you even looking at that rifle, and if I catch you carving into his mouth, or pointing anything near his mouth, I’ll replace your teeth with the neighbor’s dogs, I told the older one. And another thing, I said to both of them—the neighbor’s doghouse isn’t an outhouse, just leave the man alone, this isn’t his fault, this isn’t any of their faults, and if he brings me another sack of your shit I swear I’ll salt it and serve it for dinner.
            But his tooth is bothering him, just look, the older one said.
            We can’t afford another encounter with the neighbors—any of them—they didn’t do this to us, and they’ll lynch us if you pull another one of your stunts, I said.
            But my tooph really hurts, the younger said.
            You know the powers your brother always says you possess? I suggested.
            You mean the gills or the hammer fists? The younger one asked.
            Well you ought to use them all in a productive way and get us some cardboard so I can patch up this gaping hole in the screen door, I said.
            But the younger one just looked at the older one and the older one just pointed the jagged chunk of glass at his tooth, so I gave a look to the older one that suggested he put the chunk down, then I told both of them that if they weren’t going to sweep up their mess they should run around the block or climb a tree, then go fetch a slab of cardboard already so I could finally get some work done and so the breeze wouldn’t suck all the heat out the house.
            After they went outside, and after I swept the glass and sponged the blood from the hallway, I watched them from the upstairs bathroom window as I cleaned the mat that the younger one’s wrist leaked blood on. There they ran, in and out of the window frame, the older one chasing the younger one in circles, slapping him with a large piece of cardboard they had found—the younger one defending himself by jabbing holes in the cardboard with what appeared to be a stick.
            And as I turned away to slap the rung mat against the side of the tub, the sounds of the rifle firing shivered through me. Then shrieks from the younger one.
            Then silence.
            A bit of younger one’s blood still lingered on my fingertips as I ran down the stairs. And I approached the kitchen window to see if I could spot the younger one curled up, or the older one splayed out, see if either was drenched in a pool of his own blood, but all I could see were remnants of shredded cardboard tangled in the grass that surrounded the rifle.
            I rushed out back but they were still nowhere in sight. So I picked up the rifle and looked through scope, see if I could spot them in any of the neighbors’ yards.
            And I paused on the neighbor’s window, as the older one’s etching of their mother’s name caught my eye—and that was before I heard some squealing from the front of the house, before I threw my arm through the loop, before I strapped the barrel around my shoulder, before I followed the loose strands of cardboard that led me out front.
            There they were—the younger one shivering on the sidewalk, clutching his bandaged arm and bleeding from the mouth, the older one cackling and waving what was left of the cardboard. So I stepped over to them both, see if I could calm them before the neighbors saw anything.
            I fell, teeph first, the younger one said.
            It’s teeth, you moron, the older one said.
            It doesn’t matter what they are, cause there all over the ground, I said.
            I reached down and picked up a few, held them in my palm, showed them to the older one.
            The younger one howled and the older one’s eyes widened before he ran into the house.
            The younger one’s cries turned to a muffled scream, and he started to squirm, so I leaned down, careful to keep the barrel of the rifle away from him, and whispered how we’d put them back in, how we’d make things right.
            With tears streaming off his cheeks, he grabbed my ankle, and I remained on a knee, teeth in one hand, and the rifle over my shoulder as the neighbors, one by one, began appearing on the sidewalk.