Xine Writes

I hesitated before I took another bite out of the misshapen form I struggled to hold together between grease-stained fingers. For the second time, they ask how my burger tastes. I shrug and said it tastes good. They ask if it's just as good as before. I said I don't remember. It's been months years - I don't know - since I last ate at this joint. They said their burger still tastes as good as before, even though I hadn't asked. They say they're surprised the place still exists. A pause. How many calories was I swallowing for the sake of nostalgia? A light punch on the arm. Followed by another anecdote. I don't remember that one either. Every time either of us narrates a story from some indeterminable point in time, it changes a little. I shrug. These things must have happened to us. They must have, or else why are we even here? Why am I here. "Yeah. That was kinda fun," I said after an indeterminable amount of time had passed. I asked how their novel was coming along. They asked what novel. I hesitated. I reminded them of the story they were working on back in senior year. They look confused and said they didn't know what I was talking about. Aww. I miss their writing. I don't think they write fiction anymore. A pause. For the first time, they ask how my fries taste. We're getting boring.

I complete the stroke of the fifth and final petal just as the train predictably lurches to a stop. I squint down at my wristwatch. I barely read 7:52. Or is it 7:53? I should get a new one, I tell myself every morning. In the background, a mechanical voice faintly echoes to frustrated commuters insincere-sounding words of reassurance of a quick solution to the delay. Azure. Orchid. Cerulean. Mauve. Iris. Lavender. I rustle through my pencil case and sort through the pile of crayons. I glance back down to the collection of inked forms against the ivory page. Vinca minor. Their petals still look lifeless. As usual, I can’t decide which colour perfectly describes it. A shaft of sunlight streams through the window. The train has begun to move again. I immediately look up and scan a piece of the outside world. There. Past the dented fence I squint at the slender figure seated cross-legged on a faded red bench. As usual, the red of her lipstick is brighter in comparison. Today her dress looks neither blue nor purple. But before I could decide on two crayons, in an instant, the periwinkle girl was gone once more.

My brother has this habit he hasn't outgrown. Earlier I found another quarter empty jar he had scavenged and filled with folded stars, each one the same shade and inked with cut-off words of sensationalist stories that the neighbors love to gobble up in the early morning and then discard at night. Last summer I snuck over to his side of the room and unfolded one of them and tried to read an illegible wish and, before I could've figured out how to re-fold it, he walked in with an ice pop in his hand. He started to cry; never before had I seen him so upset that I was at a loss for the words of a socially acceptable apology. I remember that ice pop was the blue of a mid-August sky and the red reminded me of mom's fake hair. I remember it because it was the first and last time I saw him savour such a treat. I didn't feel too bad for what I'd done; it wasn't fair that he got one and I didn't. I remember him throwing away the bottle along with its contents, and then spending the rest of the day collecting and ripping more newspapers. I always give him the one pillow we have; tonight I'm still feeling generous. Instead I lie on torn books in bed with these cyclical thoughts occasionally punctuated by the noise of happily distracted humans or broken objects. And then, on the other side of the invisible wall, a useless boy stays up long enough to fold another paper star.

What kind of supermarket doesn't sell bananas? I scanned the list of available products in case fatigued eyes had glossed over the fruit. “Apples, oranges, strawberries, almonds aaaand. Milk. Huh.” I scowled at the Merchant’s expressionless face. I would've asked why his crates with its abundance of common kitchen items didn't hold room for a banana, but he wouldn't have responded. I turned away from the wooden stall situated among other similarly designed shops. The market stretched down congested cobblestone streets along this north-east part of town, but as far as I could travel, this was the only merchant that, somehow, was able to nourish the population. I glanced at the primly dressed woman a couple feet away. Her clasped hands were still against her pristine apron and she continued to smile in my direction, marble eyes unblinking. I sighed and opened up the logbook and silently re-read the Maid’s request. I had rode in from another city to deliver a “Secret Parcel” to the brother of a Troubled Pianist, but the unnamed Maid refused me access to her Master’s home unless I brought her a banana. I snapped the book shut and began to weave my way towards the closest town gate. I grit my teeth. I would have to spend nights hacking and slashing through a muggy forest full of those creatures with their...Tails, hoping to pick up the elusive fruit from their remains. “What kind of supermarket doesn't sell bananas?!” I typed furiously.

246 words

I don't know the date of today and I don't remember the date I first stepped into your shop, but many, many years have passed. And, I still don't know what kind of wood you carved this from, but I think it's as old as I, and doesn't look any better.  And I don't remember how many times these fingertips have traced this interconnected web of jagged grooves, each line a different depth, and occasionally made a detour across faded trails of cobalt blue. Once more will I bury it all under crinkled sheets with their yellowed corners, but new layers are continuously added while laughter echoes from different parts of the world. Still, I pick up the pen and re-adjust these spectacles. It's another Friday - or is it Saturday? - night in solitude and I'm at peace. I gave you a tour once with explanations only I understood. And you listened. And, on the same day, I made you promise that when I die, you would help somebody to please acknowledge me and appreciate my work, but you would keep this desk with your signature, the one thing here I don't own. 

196 words