Split-Level Stories (for Jeremy Miranda) [minutelovestory #111]

Posted by on May 28, 2013 in minutelovestories | No Comments

I asked him to stoke the woodstove in the freshwater pond. He said the creak of its iron door reminded him of something like a narwhal’s strident voice. It was 3 a.m. and the ink and glue, showing us how we live and die, dropped off into the sea, where unsteady rocks gang up and insistent spray kicks into the yellow colonial’s first and second story windows and the homesteaders inside are satisfied still. They love that house pitching forward, listening to the sea’s adventures, adore the marsh running through their living room. Isn’t that what living rooms are for. For living. For moving.

Don’t forget, there’s also a spindly ladder pushed into that ocean’s floor, its stanch and devoted feet deep in sand, bioluminescent animals with no need for sight crawling around it.

It’s a ladder weighted by memories, I told him.

He says that memories are not stable, prone to distortion. Some might claim that they’re newly born lies. I say they are not untruths, but fictions, pieces hooking into disparate stories. Each of them has the capacity to be potent and mighty, like the long-gone teratorns with a wingspan measuring the both of us and even more.