Twofer

Small Stone for 07/05/2011

I took the book and opened it to chapter 1.  I'll only read a chapter, maybe two.  I can't recall the instant when the light switch of the world flicked off .  I don't remember turning pages, the book's weight resting in my hands. I don't recall the  mantle clock donging out the hours, the settling of the cats beside me, or darkness falling. I don't remember when the black print on the white page began projecting brilliant technicolor images on the silver screen of my mind. But there were people, in places, doing things, saying things, sights, sounds, sensations, vivid as a dream. THE END.  No! Not yet!

Small Stone for 07/04/2011

A large, grape-green box fan, already old when ransomed by a fiver at a tag sale 15 years ago.  Inexplicably, the dial turns first to "HIGH." The motor rev's the fan blade until it's rattling the safety grills as it slowly hums across the floor.  (I am strapped inside its belly as the C130 Herk  goes rumbling, jiggling,  juggernauting down the runway like a fat kid grim with determination to reach the plate before the baseball.)Turn the dial to "MED,"  The fan blade throttles back, the growl becomes a bass kazoo above a steady clattering. (The aircraft sits back on its haunches, points its clown nose skyward.  The rattle-tattle squeaking falls away with the ground as the lumbering metal bumble bee slowly winches itself skyward.)  Now turn the dial to "LOW." I set the fan upon the rug to dampen the vibration, cock it, lock it into place with two heavy bricks set along its top. Then into bed, adjust the sheet, turn out the light. (The heavy metal albatross has leveled off to cruise at altitude and I am curled into the darkness of its craw as it goes droning onward through the star-pocked night.)  I would not take $100 for that fan.