As Miles reached the locked door of the Food Mart, a drunken mob of adolescents plowed their way through the snow towards him. They were singing a loud crude song that attracted the attention of onlookers from side shops and windows. Miles turned in repugnance to open his door, but at that very moment, a snow ball whizzed by his ear, hit the locked front door, and exploded in his face sending a shower of ice and snow down the inside of his coat. Slowly, Miles raised a hand out of his woollen coat pocket and wiped away the frozen slush. He turned his face reddening, but the mob of boys had already rounded the corner at Lu's Car Garage at a sprint, as though they were being chased by a rampaging rhinoceros. Annoyed, Miles turned back to the door, and ascended the short dilapidated stair case to his apartment. Stomping the ice and snow from his heavy boots at the door, he hung his woollen coat on a wooden peg, and filled the dented tea pot to boil.
Ted was sitting quietly on the window sill looking directly at Miles. Miles cracked open the window and ted hopped in onto the table. His scaly feet were coated with frost, and his feathers were so puffed up against the cold he looked like a miniature hedgehog. He cooed once in a satisfied way as Miles broke apart a slice a bread and tossed it on the table.
Miles sat with his feet propped up on a stool and a cup of whiskey spiked tea in his thick hand. He was watching Ted perched precariously on the kitchen cabinets, his head under his wing, sitting quiet still despite the howling wind lashing against the window panes. Miles was lost in thought, though not particularly thinking of a specific moment, but more his life's journey that led him to the wretched Food Mart.
Mile's past provoked this forced isolation Miles endured. The war, which was long over, had an effected each of its veterans, but Miles felt it much more than his bunker mates. Death, which war feeds upon, is a phenomenon that can turn even the happiest man into a sullen lifeless shell. The blood, shrieks, and screams only experienced in combat had plunged Miles innocence and happiness into a downward spiral similar, to that of a shot down air craft. War had molded Miles into that empty shell.
Angry with himself for once again dwelling on those horrible moments, Miles raised himself from his rocker and turned his head instead to stare out the frosty panes of glass down into the still streets. Snow had begun to fall thick and fast, obscuring the countless foot prints and tire tracks in the roads and side walks. Miles took another swing of tea, sloshing the amber liquid back and forth between his cheeks making up his mind. Tomorrow, Miles would take a day off, resolute to rid himself of this looming shroud of gloom that encased him in a relentless icy grip. Even if Miles was forced to make contact with Madame Maureen and her foul shop, Miles was determined to speak with someone and lift this vail of misery.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Tuesdays and Fridays
On Tuesdays and Friday evenings Miles visited the small bar across town. It was a family owned business and Miles liked supporting the small restaurant. The tall ceilings, barrels of distilling barley beer, diamond shaped window panes, and rough wooden tables reminded him of his home in Great Britain. The pretty curved land lady, Ms. Hopper, served him his favorite dish, the green onion soup, scald potatoes, thick square soda bread, and a pint of Irish Stout, a strong beer that was distinctly loved by all respectable Englishman. Although not in any hurry to find himself a bonny lass to join him in his small red leather booth, Miles always made a point to take a shower, comb his remaining hair, and pull out one of his many pressed collared shirts. Perhaps it was his own attempts at impressing others or the military neatness that was imprinted upon his very genes, but Miles always found himself looking sharp whenever he crossed town.
Miles locked the front of the Food Mart and walked down the snowy sidewalk. As he passed the fortune teller's grubby shop that sat adjacent to his own Food Mart, Miles threw a dirty look through the front window at the puffy arm chairs and the many colored beads and bangles hanging from the ceiling. The shop's chipped red-brick chimney blocked his view of the morning sunrise from his kitchen window. The front door opened and an old man staggered out, looking pale and weak kneed, as though he had just been told that he had less than forty-eight hours to live. A cloud of incense cascaded out of the opened wooden door, smacking his senses and making his eyes dilate and his wrinkled nose flare in disgust. He hated incense. It made him sick to his stomach and think of dry, barren, Middle Eastern deserts.
Miles rounded the street corner and turned onto the icy lane that lead to the Pub. As he grew closer, he squinted through the darkness and saw that its lights were off and the front door was bolted shut.
"Damn," he muttered, slapping his leg in frustration and turning to return his small kitchen. Walking past the many shops and boutiques his gnarled hands buried in his woolen coat pockets, Miles peered through the shop windows at the items of display. Not at all interested in the sale of vacuum cleaners he instead watched his own reflection in the glossy windows flickering past.
Miles knew he was aging, but the sight of the slightly hunched, gray haired, solitary man trudging through the snow was no comfort to his conscious. This was the first time Miles had seen his entire profile in four months. With just a small bathroom mirror in his apartment, Miles had forgotten just how bad his limp had become, and how old he looked. He walked alone back to the Food Mart his hands in his pockets.
Miles locked the front of the Food Mart and walked down the snowy sidewalk. As he passed the fortune teller's grubby shop that sat adjacent to his own Food Mart, Miles threw a dirty look through the front window at the puffy arm chairs and the many colored beads and bangles hanging from the ceiling. The shop's chipped red-brick chimney blocked his view of the morning sunrise from his kitchen window. The front door opened and an old man staggered out, looking pale and weak kneed, as though he had just been told that he had less than forty-eight hours to live. A cloud of incense cascaded out of the opened wooden door, smacking his senses and making his eyes dilate and his wrinkled nose flare in disgust. He hated incense. It made him sick to his stomach and think of dry, barren, Middle Eastern deserts.
Miles rounded the street corner and turned onto the icy lane that lead to the Pub. As he grew closer, he squinted through the darkness and saw that its lights were off and the front door was bolted shut.
"Damn," he muttered, slapping his leg in frustration and turning to return his small kitchen. Walking past the many shops and boutiques his gnarled hands buried in his woolen coat pockets, Miles peered through the shop windows at the items of display. Not at all interested in the sale of vacuum cleaners he instead watched his own reflection in the glossy windows flickering past.
Miles knew he was aging, but the sight of the slightly hunched, gray haired, solitary man trudging through the snow was no comfort to his conscious. This was the first time Miles had seen his entire profile in four months. With just a small bathroom mirror in his apartment, Miles had forgotten just how bad his limp had become, and how old he looked. He walked alone back to the Food Mart his hands in his pockets.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Scotch and Shortbread
Miles looked up at the small clock next to the ancient cash register. With a long slow sigh, like the air being let out of balloon, he lowered his balding head into his hands. Thirty more long minutes before he could go and relax in his armchair before a warm fire brandishing a large scotch and a small plate of shortbread. Miles raised his head looking up and the moldy ceiling. His eyes wandered to the cracked windows above the line of old refrigerators and to the warped paint chipped floor boards. For the last eleven years Miles had meant to have them fixed but figured the cost would not be worth the return.
The bell above the door tinkled as two teenage kids shuffled into the food mart stomping snow and ice from their boots on the weathered door mat and raising their hands in a casual salute to Miles. Miles returned their daily greeting with his hand in lazy acknowledgment.
"The usual?" he smirked, as the two teenagers ambled up to the register clutching two blue slushies and two bags of potato chips.
The kids smiled in an embarrassed sort of way. No one really understood Miles Walker and his attempts at humor. The lined aged face that peered down over the cash register was unreadable. Miles often seemed to absorbed in his painful past rather than in opportunity of the future.
After he handed the taller teenager the change the two kids hurried out onto the snowy streets, the grimy shop door closing with a tinkle of the aged bell and a whoosh of cold winter wind and snow. The warmth and elation that had filled Miles at the memories of his own childhood at the sight of the two young friends, left him as quickly as the wind outside rushing through the snow packed streets. He stared at their footprints left in the snow just outside his shop window. Miles imagined himself as a footprint left in the snow. An imprint of a person that will soon be wiped away, never to be remembered.
The bell above the door tinkled as two teenage kids shuffled into the food mart stomping snow and ice from their boots on the weathered door mat and raising their hands in a casual salute to Miles. Miles returned their daily greeting with his hand in lazy acknowledgment.
"The usual?" he smirked, as the two teenagers ambled up to the register clutching two blue slushies and two bags of potato chips.
The kids smiled in an embarrassed sort of way. No one really understood Miles Walker and his attempts at humor. The lined aged face that peered down over the cash register was unreadable. Miles often seemed to absorbed in his painful past rather than in opportunity of the future.
After he handed the taller teenager the change the two kids hurried out onto the snowy streets, the grimy shop door closing with a tinkle of the aged bell and a whoosh of cold winter wind and snow. The warmth and elation that had filled Miles at the memories of his own childhood at the sight of the two young friends, left him as quickly as the wind outside rushing through the snow packed streets. He stared at their footprints left in the snow just outside his shop window. Miles imagined himself as a footprint left in the snow. An imprint of a person that will soon be wiped away, never to be remembered.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Apartment 180
Bright silver moon light cut the dark shabby room in half like a sword cutting its way though enemy lines. The gray moth eaten curtains lining the three square windows were closed to shut out the yellow glow from the street light on the side walk below. A thin sliver of moon light penetrated the loosely closed blinds and seemingly squeezed its way onto the floor, illuminating apartment 180 interior in a soft pearly white light
Apartment 180 was a single long narrow room, with peeling wall paper and uneven faded dark wooden floor boards. The three square windows were grimy and the white kitchen tile wall was gray from accumulated filth. A single rough, round, wooden card table sat in the very center of the room, a median dividing the kitchen from Miles' Walkers sleeping quarters. The kitchen consisted of a single cast iron frying pan, a dented pot, an ancient gas stove, and a small scratched wooden counter top. A tall glass cabinet sat adjacent to the sink full of mismatched silverware, assorted plates and bowls, and a single German glass beer mug. Miles Walker owned and lived above the Food Mart, rarely eating dinner in his own kitchen but instead behind the cash register down stairs which accounted for the lack of his culinary arsenal.
Opposite the kitchen was his bedroom. Miles slept on an bed built into the slopping ceiling so it was elevated enough to avoid the chilly drafts from the ancient floor. The mattress rested three feet from the floor which also was just out of reach of Miles' short legs. Every night, Miles was forced to haul over a three legged stool to give his bad foot a leg up. Tonight however, Miles was sleeping in the apartments sole rocking chair beneath the grimy windows, snoring softly, his head resting against his left shoulder and his knarled hands folded neatly across his Santa Cause belly.
Apartment 180 was a single long narrow room, with peeling wall paper and uneven faded dark wooden floor boards. The three square windows were grimy and the white kitchen tile wall was gray from accumulated filth. A single rough, round, wooden card table sat in the very center of the room, a median dividing the kitchen from Miles' Walkers sleeping quarters. The kitchen consisted of a single cast iron frying pan, a dented pot, an ancient gas stove, and a small scratched wooden counter top. A tall glass cabinet sat adjacent to the sink full of mismatched silverware, assorted plates and bowls, and a single German glass beer mug. Miles Walker owned and lived above the Food Mart, rarely eating dinner in his own kitchen but instead behind the cash register down stairs which accounted for the lack of his culinary arsenal.
Opposite the kitchen was his bedroom. Miles slept on an bed built into the slopping ceiling so it was elevated enough to avoid the chilly drafts from the ancient floor. The mattress rested three feet from the floor which also was just out of reach of Miles' short legs. Every night, Miles was forced to haul over a three legged stool to give his bad foot a leg up. Tonight however, Miles was sleeping in the apartments sole rocking chair beneath the grimy windows, snoring softly, his head resting against his left shoulder and his knarled hands folded neatly across his Santa Cause belly.
Miles Walker
Miles Walker stirred in his wooden rocking chair. Early morning sunlight streamed through the snow covered square windows directly into Miles' wrinkled face. He blinked several times, unfolded his gnarled hands from his belly, and sat up to squint at the ancient clock above the sink. It was 6:47 am.
Miles' face resembled that of a vulnerable aged lion. He had crinkled dark eyes, tufts of white hair for eyebrows, a small round patch of reseeding hair on top of his shinny balding head, and a scruffy chin gray with stubble. His chest looked as though it had once been thick and strong like a football players, but seemed to have deflated with age, replaced instead with a layer of fat. The gray night shirt that covered his muscular arms barley covered the tip of his belly when he stood up, and his callused feet looked like a hobbits.
Miles Walker hobbled over towards the kitchen stove to bring a pot of water to boil. Miles had fought for England, and believed that every solider should start his day with a strong cup of tea. Unlike his deceased wife who always added copious amounts of sugar to the tea, Mile believed in a pinch of whiskey for "spunk." He called it only a pinch, but through the years, the "pinch" had steadily grown to empty a whiskey bottle a week. Out of his small ice box, Miles pulled three slices of thick wheat bread, a stick of butter, and a large glass jar of golden marmalade. Two of the slices he placed in his toaster and one he broke into pieces for Ted.
Ted was a pigeon. Maybe because he owned the Food Mart or maybe because their was a slight problem with cockroaches in his tiny attic, the pigeon populations used the church and his roof as transportation hubs. In addition to the spacious roosting spots, the dumpsters behind his shop served as a decent feeding ground between the cockroach colonies and left over garbage. Ted however, liked his slice of bread every morning fed to him out the center of the three square windows. Onlookers often joked with one another that Miles ran a "fly-through" for his pigeons.
After he said good morning to Ted and vigorously washed his hands and face in bathroom's tiled sink, Miles pulled a collared checkered shirt over his white undershirt and brown suspenders. His khaki pants were very worn and frayed in places, but his brown leather shoes were so regularly polished, thanks to six years of his drill Sargent's cacophony of early morning tirades, that it was hard to find a cleaner pair at the manufacturer.
The wooden door creaked shut as Miles eased his way out onto small square landing above the staircase leading down to the street. He reached a hand to the inside of his patched coat pocket and pulled out a heavy iron key which he inserted into the old fashion lock. The heavy bolt slide into place with a resounding click, cuing his descent down the rickety stair case. As he stepped out onto the concrete side walk, he breathed in the stench of the leaking sewer pipe across the street. Peeved that the City had failed to fix it for the ninth day in a row, he turned to unlock Food Mart and stepped over the threshold.
Miles' face resembled that of a vulnerable aged lion. He had crinkled dark eyes, tufts of white hair for eyebrows, a small round patch of reseeding hair on top of his shinny balding head, and a scruffy chin gray with stubble. His chest looked as though it had once been thick and strong like a football players, but seemed to have deflated with age, replaced instead with a layer of fat. The gray night shirt that covered his muscular arms barley covered the tip of his belly when he stood up, and his callused feet looked like a hobbits.
Miles Walker hobbled over towards the kitchen stove to bring a pot of water to boil. Miles had fought for England, and believed that every solider should start his day with a strong cup of tea. Unlike his deceased wife who always added copious amounts of sugar to the tea, Mile believed in a pinch of whiskey for "spunk." He called it only a pinch, but through the years, the "pinch" had steadily grown to empty a whiskey bottle a week. Out of his small ice box, Miles pulled three slices of thick wheat bread, a stick of butter, and a large glass jar of golden marmalade. Two of the slices he placed in his toaster and one he broke into pieces for Ted.
Ted was a pigeon. Maybe because he owned the Food Mart or maybe because their was a slight problem with cockroaches in his tiny attic, the pigeon populations used the church and his roof as transportation hubs. In addition to the spacious roosting spots, the dumpsters behind his shop served as a decent feeding ground between the cockroach colonies and left over garbage. Ted however, liked his slice of bread every morning fed to him out the center of the three square windows. Onlookers often joked with one another that Miles ran a "fly-through" for his pigeons.
After he said good morning to Ted and vigorously washed his hands and face in bathroom's tiled sink, Miles pulled a collared checkered shirt over his white undershirt and brown suspenders. His khaki pants were very worn and frayed in places, but his brown leather shoes were so regularly polished, thanks to six years of his drill Sargent's cacophony of early morning tirades, that it was hard to find a cleaner pair at the manufacturer.
The wooden door creaked shut as Miles eased his way out onto small square landing above the staircase leading down to the street. He reached a hand to the inside of his patched coat pocket and pulled out a heavy iron key which he inserted into the old fashion lock. The heavy bolt slide into place with a resounding click, cuing his descent down the rickety stair case. As he stepped out onto the concrete side walk, he breathed in the stench of the leaking sewer pipe across the street. Peeved that the City had failed to fix it for the ninth day in a row, he turned to unlock Food Mart and stepped over the threshold.
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