So here’s an attempt at a very short story I wrote this past summer. I reread it tonight, and it still resonated for me, so I’m sharing it with you. Seakettle is my fictional New England town. I occasionally visit there, and watch the inhabitants. Enjoy.
Ethan woke up with the sea at his side. There weren’t many walls between him and Bass River, where the salty Atlantic lapped up into the crevices of Seakettle. In fact, he had only to walk twenty paces to the small apartment’s sun room to be in eyeshot of the water. It took a long inland suffocation for him to recognize his kinship with the ocean. Now he promised himself he wouldn’t take it for granted.
After a tiring two days of moving, Ethan could appreciate the informal still-life of the bedroom. Two sealed boxes made a night stand for his keys and wallet. The floor all around the bed was stacked with boxes, some stacks straight and uniform, some roughly spire-shaped. Amidst the brown angles, an easy mess of clean white sheets suggested an easy and long night’s sleep. Beside him, one delicate arm casually draped out of the sheet, and the weightless hand reached beyond the bed, palm up, in thoughtless supplication. Tangles and single strands and brushstrokes of blonde hair mostly concealed the soft, exhausted face. He could feel and smell her close breath.
Never wanting to ruin the serenity, the sheer beauty of an exhausted room and a gentle, exhausted woman, Ethan quietly shifted his feet to the floor, where his jeans were ready to receive him, still facing up, still scrunched like two accordions. He had to carefully leaf through the sheets to find his T shirt. He was out the front door in thirty quiet seconds. He knew this space, this life would never afford him the luxury of simplicity again. Once we own a place, we worry it into submission, into order, and we lose the grace of exhaustion.
The air outside felt relaxed after being ravaged by wind and rain the night before. Seakettle was breathing heavy, warm and long: sweetness of sea air, ripped limbs of trees still scattering the side street, their still-living leaves dancing as if still rooted. The city’s submissive posture aroused his affections. He was deeply glad to be home, and he loved the place with unmatched awareness of her every little part.
Dresden Ave. had been unfamiliar to Ethan up until today. An unimposing cul-de-sac, it never occurred to him to notice it. Now that it was home it grew quickly familiar, even on this first casual walk. All the patient signs of old New England graced the houses and gardens: salt-worn siding, colonial colors, hydrangeas and burly evergreen bushes. The general consistency of it suggested a slow and unconscious personality, an old spirit of the sea.
As he walked, Ethan relished his homecoming. He had wrestled with his wandering demon to the point of exhaustion, and now he could quietly and confidently reclaim his subtle city. Her unknowing rhythm now lay in wait for his hungry senses. She didn’t resist his closest study, his constant contact.
Now on the bridge over the river, he slowed to observe the attitude of the water. It had neither an abrasive calm nor an agitated boil. It rather lapped thick and sweet. It made soft sucking sounds against the bridge’s concrete supports, and although it was flowing fast toward the ocean, it wasn’t racing. It didn’t seem to care enough to race. Exhausted by the tension and demands of the storm last night, the river bled quietly seaward.
Beyond the bridge, now passing through the train station, Ethan reviewed the faces of morning travelers. How strange it was to see people in the attire of work, of anxiety and organization, and yet there faces so exhausted. The man with the comb-over in the pinstripes looked oddly unaware of his appearance, the skin around his eyes sagging. The woman in red made no attempt to match her expression with her eye-catching outfit. Her lips drooped absently under fresh paint. Ethan grinned tightly thinking of these things.
He stepped into the breakfast place without his wife this morning. She was obviously benefitting from her lengthy rest, and his pleasure in a big breakfast was unique, and best observed alone. If his stomach allowed him to be thoughtful, he would remember to bring her a muffin. For now he sat, smiled intensely at the waitress, and became consumed with the menu’s options. After unnecessary deliberations, he settled on the usual over-easy eggs, white buttered toast, sausage links, coffee, home fries, and Tabasco sauce. He was becoming, in subtle ways, a man of habit.
After taking more than usual pleasure and precision in his breakfast, Ethan walked outside and felt the tension of a home full of boxes and lists pulling him back. He remembered the muffin only now, and felt the awkward tension of possibly reentering the café and buying one. His sentiment shifted slightly but significantly, from absolute freedom to subtle resistance. Should he get back before she wakes, before the day demands something of him? He and the city grew tenser, and the morning’s graceful exhaustion was moving out to sea. Unwilling to submit to orders, he decided to follow it.
Beyond the river, it would take another ten blocks to get to the outer harbor. Ethan, though not in top shape, was a ruthless walker, and took it upon himself to get to the shore before the city woke up completely. He would face the consequences of avoidance only when they caught up with him. For now it was block after quiet block of drooping colonial houses in old blues and yellows, and city workers walking toward the train station, heads down. This directional flow worked against his own, and his steps felt heavier. Another layer of resistance, another weight to pull.
The park on the water was was littered with tree limbs. A plastic swing had been unhinged on one side from its chain, and dangled lazy and dead. All of this relieved Ethan deeply, these little ruins.
Now at the concrete wall that separated grass and sand, he looked out, eyes blank. He nursed his thoughts about things retreating, exhausting, ending. He felt a bit guilty for his pleasure in all of it, but held on to its dire beauty. His imagination sought to complete the brutal scene. He envisioned a beached whale at the center of the beach. Huge and rotting, taking the center of his field of vision, its eyes still rolled in docile resistance, but its huge bone frame already gave way to defeat. He saw a tear in the whale, over the rib cage; flies swarmed the rotting space. A stench rose visibly from the open wound, and he watched the wind wash it over the city.
One layer deeper and darker than the giant ribs, something heaved unevenly. He took up his umbrella like a rifle, butt leaning on his chin, and aimed. His finger pressured the imaginary trigger, but his dark determination was suddenly stayed. The sun, a fierce fire in the sky, shot out from behind a large and billowing cloud, brightened and blinded his eyes. He lowered the black umbrella, and walked home heavily, apace with the morning commuters.
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the seakettle settler 
A Seakettle Tale
Posted in fiction, social commentary, tagged ethan, moving, northeast, seakettle, walk on March 2, 2010| Leave a Comment »
So here’s an attempt at a very short story I wrote this past summer. I reread it tonight, and it still resonated for me, so I’m sharing it with you. Seakettle is my fictional New England town. I occasionally visit there, and watch the inhabitants. Enjoy.
Ethan woke up with the sea at his side. There weren’t many walls between him and Bass River, where the salty Atlantic lapped up into the crevices of Seakettle. In fact, he had only to walk twenty paces to the small apartment’s sun room to be in eyeshot of the water. It took a long inland suffocation for him to recognize his kinship with the ocean. Now he promised himself he wouldn’t take it for granted.
After a tiring two days of moving, Ethan could appreciate the informal still-life of the bedroom. Two sealed boxes made a night stand for his keys and wallet. The floor all around the bed was stacked with boxes, some stacks straight and uniform, some roughly spire-shaped. Amidst the brown angles, an easy mess of clean white sheets suggested an easy and long night’s sleep. Beside him, one delicate arm casually draped out of the sheet, and the weightless hand reached beyond the bed, palm up, in thoughtless supplication. Tangles and single strands and brushstrokes of blonde hair mostly concealed the soft, exhausted face. He could feel and smell her close breath.
Never wanting to ruin the serenity, the sheer beauty of an exhausted room and a gentle, exhausted woman, Ethan quietly shifted his feet to the floor, where his jeans were ready to receive him, still facing up, still scrunched like two accordions. He had to carefully leaf through the sheets to find his T shirt. He was out the front door in thirty quiet seconds. He knew this space, this life would never afford him the luxury of simplicity again. Once we own a place, we worry it into submission, into order, and we lose the grace of exhaustion.
The air outside felt relaxed after being ravaged by wind and rain the night before. Seakettle was breathing heavy, warm and long: sweetness of sea air, ripped limbs of trees still scattering the side street, their still-living leaves dancing as if still rooted. The city’s submissive posture aroused his affections. He was deeply glad to be home, and he loved the place with unmatched awareness of her every little part.
Dresden Ave. had been unfamiliar to Ethan up until today. An unimposing cul-de-sac, it never occurred to him to notice it. Now that it was home it grew quickly familiar, even on this first casual walk. All the patient signs of old New England graced the houses and gardens: salt-worn siding, colonial colors, hydrangeas and burly evergreen bushes. The general consistency of it suggested a slow and unconscious personality, an old spirit of the sea.
As he walked, Ethan relished his homecoming. He had wrestled with his wandering demon to the point of exhaustion, and now he could quietly and confidently reclaim his subtle city. Her unknowing rhythm now lay in wait for his hungry senses. She didn’t resist his closest study, his constant contact.
Now on the bridge over the river, he slowed to observe the attitude of the water. It had neither an abrasive calm nor an agitated boil. It rather lapped thick and sweet. It made soft sucking sounds against the bridge’s concrete supports, and although it was flowing fast toward the ocean, it wasn’t racing. It didn’t seem to care enough to race. Exhausted by the tension and demands of the storm last night, the river bled quietly seaward.
Beyond the bridge, now passing through the train station, Ethan reviewed the faces of morning travelers. How strange it was to see people in the attire of work, of anxiety and organization, and yet there faces so exhausted. The man with the comb-over in the pinstripes looked oddly unaware of his appearance, the skin around his eyes sagging. The woman in red made no attempt to match her expression with her eye-catching outfit. Her lips drooped absently under fresh paint. Ethan grinned tightly thinking of these things.
He stepped into the breakfast place without his wife this morning. She was obviously benefitting from her lengthy rest, and his pleasure in a big breakfast was unique, and best observed alone. If his stomach allowed him to be thoughtful, he would remember to bring her a muffin. For now he sat, smiled intensely at the waitress, and became consumed with the menu’s options. After unnecessary deliberations, he settled on the usual over-easy eggs, white buttered toast, sausage links, coffee, home fries, and Tabasco sauce. He was becoming, in subtle ways, a man of habit.
After taking more than usual pleasure and precision in his breakfast, Ethan walked outside and felt the tension of a home full of boxes and lists pulling him back. He remembered the muffin only now, and felt the awkward tension of possibly reentering the café and buying one. His sentiment shifted slightly but significantly, from absolute freedom to subtle resistance. Should he get back before she wakes, before the day demands something of him? He and the city grew tenser, and the morning’s graceful exhaustion was moving out to sea. Unwilling to submit to orders, he decided to follow it.
Beyond the river, it would take another ten blocks to get to the outer harbor. Ethan, though not in top shape, was a ruthless walker, and took it upon himself to get to the shore before the city woke up completely. He would face the consequences of avoidance only when they caught up with him. For now it was block after quiet block of drooping colonial houses in old blues and yellows, and city workers walking toward the train station, heads down. This directional flow worked against his own, and his steps felt heavier. Another layer of resistance, another weight to pull.
The park on the water was was littered with tree limbs. A plastic swing had been unhinged on one side from its chain, and dangled lazy and dead. All of this relieved Ethan deeply, these little ruins.
Now at the concrete wall that separated grass and sand, he looked out, eyes blank. He nursed his thoughts about things retreating, exhausting, ending. He felt a bit guilty for his pleasure in all of it, but held on to its dire beauty. His imagination sought to complete the brutal scene. He envisioned a beached whale at the center of the beach. Huge and rotting, taking the center of his field of vision, its eyes still rolled in docile resistance, but its huge bone frame already gave way to defeat. He saw a tear in the whale, over the rib cage; flies swarmed the rotting space. A stench rose visibly from the open wound, and he watched the wind wash it over the city.
One layer deeper and darker than the giant ribs, something heaved unevenly. He took up his umbrella like a rifle, butt leaning on his chin, and aimed. His finger pressured the imaginary trigger, but his dark determination was suddenly stayed. The sun, a fierce fire in the sky, shot out from behind a large and billowing cloud, brightened and blinded his eyes. He lowered the black umbrella, and walked home heavily, apace with the morning commuters.
Read Full Post »