Thursday, December 02, 2004

James, Who Loved the Girl

Once there was a boy named James. He lived in the Land of Oranges and Sunshine. He had shiny auburn hair and cinnamon on his lip. He had beautiful wrists and wore silver stars on them.

But on his right shoulder was a little skeleton tattoo holding a cigarette and a martini. The little skeleton was very bad, though James was very good.

James loved a girl. He loved her so much that he built an Italian palazzo for her cat, and he cooked her pierogies when she'd drunk too much.

But the girl was a wild thing, and she roamed from the Land of Oranges, and he called her as she roamed. When she went to Italy, he called her Olive. When she went to Georgia, he called her Peach.

The girl knew there was no greater, sweeter love in the world than James, who fell asleep with the words "Special Girl," on his lips, who made her pretty necklaces, who was given to surprising her with elaborately sculpted garnishes to adorn the sandwiches he made for her.

Whose heart broke when she roamed, but who said he wanted her to roam so that she would be happy.

Who kept the bad little skeleton out of sight for a little while.

And some years went by. But the bad little skeleton was always there, a dark inky fact deep in James' skin, and he did not want to be ignored.

And then one night.
One night.
When James was sad.
And the girl wasn't with him.
The bad little skeleton led James by his beautiful wrists.
And took him away from the Land of Oranges and Sunshine.
To a place without fruit, without sunshine, without love, without the girl.

And so the girl locked herself in a tiny room and pounded the floor with her fists and screamed louder than an ambulance siren.

That same night a cement block came to rest on the girl's chest.

The cement block was so very heavy that she could not roam. Could not even walk down the sidewalk without crumpling over. She could only lie in her bed and breathe short little shallow breaths.

One day the girl held a lock of James' shiny auburn hair against the block that rest on her chest. And then the girl knew: James did not want her to be so sad. He wanted her to go roaming, because he always wanted her to be happy.

So the girl started to chip away at the cement block that rest on her chest. Small little bits. Itty bitty bits. Until she could walk down the sidewalk without crumpling over. Until she could roam.

Though some bit of the block she could never chip away. It would always rest on her chest. When she got very tired from carrying it, she would hold the lock of James' shiny auburn hair, she would smell its sweetness, remember the whole head of that auburn hair, and then the lip with cinnamon, the way she kissed it, and finally she would feel a little stronger.


At 1:35 PM, Blogger Indeterminacy said...

It's a lovely fairy tale. And I've heard it's impossible to write new fairy tales.

At 12:52 AM, Blogger Irma Vep said...

Thank you.


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