THE BLANKET, by Timothy Vincent (Smith)
Originally published in The WriteRoom Literary Magazine, 2011
When he was two, his mother started the blanket. She used the heavy needles her mother handed down to her when she was a young girl, the same needles her grandmother and her grandmother’s mother had used for their children’s blankets. She gathered the yarn from various places and markets, but always in the colors of rust and mustard-yellow. She followed no pattern or design except for what her mother had taught her and what her own heart felt to be right.
When he was four she put him in the blanket; just for a short time, to let him grow used to its weight and feel. The blanket was heavy and scratchy, pulling his young body down and making angry rashes on his skin. He tried to push it away at first, but his mother only smiled and wrapped it tighter.
Later, he grew accustomed to the weight, and the irritation became an odd comfort. He took to wearing his blanket everywhere.
When he was older, he sought his first job. The manager of the town’s largest industry took an immediate liking to him. “That is a wonderful blanket,” he said, admiring the stitches and the weight of the hem as he held it in his hands. The manager told his assistant, “I think he will do just fine; perhaps a place in Human Resources.” The assistant wrote a note and the young man had a job.
Later, when he was older, he looked for a wife. The girl next door took an immediate liking to him. Her parents had always approved of him, particularly in light of his blanket. “If he should continue to wear that blanket, you should marry him,” they told their daughter. He did, so they were.
The years went by; the man and his wife had a child. His wife inherited the needles from the man’s mother and she began to make a blanket for their little girl.
Later, when he was an old man, he looked for understanding. The blanket was now old and frayed, its red and yellow colors faded to a dull gray. He would sometimes take the blanket off and look at it, hold its weight in his hands, brush his hoary hands along its worn remains. He was often heard to sigh at such times and look to his daughter, her blanket tucked neatly under her chin, irritating and pulling her young body down with its weight.
“Don’t bury me in this,” he told his wife near the end. But this was foolish, he thought a moment later. What matter if he were buried in the blanket or not?
And then the cold wind rendered his core…and he pulled his blanket close without thinking.
Originally published in The WriteRoom Literary Magazine, 2011
When he was two, his mother started the blanket. She used the heavy needles her mother handed down to her when she was a young girl, the same needles her grandmother and her grandmother’s mother had used for their children’s blankets. She gathered the yarn from various places and markets, but always in the colors of rust and mustard-yellow. She followed no pattern or design except for what her mother had taught her and what her own heart felt to be right.
When he was four she put him in the blanket; just for a short time, to let him grow used to its weight and feel. The blanket was heavy and scratchy, pulling his young body down and making angry rashes on his skin. He tried to push it away at first, but his mother only smiled and wrapped it tighter.
Later, he grew accustomed to the weight, and the irritation became an odd comfort. He took to wearing his blanket everywhere.
When he was older, he sought his first job. The manager of the town’s largest industry took an immediate liking to him. “That is a wonderful blanket,” he said, admiring the stitches and the weight of the hem as he held it in his hands. The manager told his assistant, “I think he will do just fine; perhaps a place in Human Resources.” The assistant wrote a note and the young man had a job.
Later, when he was older, he looked for a wife. The girl next door took an immediate liking to him. Her parents had always approved of him, particularly in light of his blanket. “If he should continue to wear that blanket, you should marry him,” they told their daughter. He did, so they were.
The years went by; the man and his wife had a child. His wife inherited the needles from the man’s mother and she began to make a blanket for their little girl.
Later, when he was an old man, he looked for understanding. The blanket was now old and frayed, its red and yellow colors faded to a dull gray. He would sometimes take the blanket off and look at it, hold its weight in his hands, brush his hoary hands along its worn remains. He was often heard to sigh at such times and look to his daughter, her blanket tucked neatly under her chin, irritating and pulling her young body down with its weight.
“Don’t bury me in this,” he told his wife near the end. But this was foolish, he thought a moment later. What matter if he were buried in the blanket or not?
And then the cold wind rendered his core…and he pulled his blanket close without thinking.
STANDING ON THE DOORSTEPS WITH BORGES, by Timothy Vincent (Smith)
Originally published on The WriteRoom Literary Magazine, 2010
My sense of urgency mounting, I asked Simone if she knew where I could find some relief. She waived a hand casually in the right direction.
I walked a dusty hall for a time, turned the corner, opened a door, and stepped outside. My urgency now mixed with a feeling of frustration, I found a man sitting in a chair outside an enormous hedge. His legs were crossed at the feet and a cigarette dangled in the last two fingers of his left hand. As I approached he watched me carefully without turning his head in my direction. When I stood before him, he took a long, slow draw from his cigarette and considered me some more, still not bothering to change his posture but moving only his eyes.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I’m looking for…”
He held up his free hand to stop me, took another draw and blew the smoke at my feet.
“Behind me is a door and what you seek,” he answered. “If you go through this door and take two immediate rights you will be hopelessly lost. If, however, you take two rights and then a left you will arrive at a small alcove. In this alcove is a box without a lid. If you open the box you will find a piece of paper. On the paper is a message written in a language that has never been spoken or read. The message says this: ‘You do not believe this sentence.’ If this statement is true then pick up the message, close the box with no lid, and bring it back to me. If it is false then leave it where it is.”
He took another quick drag and added, “When you leave you must walk just opposite of the way you came in; you must take two lefts, then a right.”
“But…” I started.
He shook his head. “This is all I have to say.”
I walked along the giant hedge wall to the door he had indicated.
“Wait,” he called over his shoulder. “You didn’t listen to everything.”
I turned around, puzzled. “Yes.”
When he didn’t speak I walked over in front of him again.
“Yes,” I repeated, beginning to lose my patience.
He looked at me curiously.
“You said you had something more to say,” I reminded him.
He raised his eyebrows in mild indignation, remaining mute.
I sighed and went back to the door. The door was merely a smooth piece of wood, with no edges or cracks to gain a purchase. I pushed on it but it refused to open.
“You have to pull that door,” said the man behind me.
I didn’t bother to turn around this time.
It took me more time than I care to admit, and it was close, but I finally found a way in and did as the man directed. In this way, I also found what I was looking for.
****
Later, when I found Simone, I pulled her aside.
“That was not very helpful,” I told her.
She blushed. “You know, just after you left I realized it was the other way.”
Originally published on The WriteRoom Literary Magazine, 2010
My sense of urgency mounting, I asked Simone if she knew where I could find some relief. She waived a hand casually in the right direction.
I walked a dusty hall for a time, turned the corner, opened a door, and stepped outside. My urgency now mixed with a feeling of frustration, I found a man sitting in a chair outside an enormous hedge. His legs were crossed at the feet and a cigarette dangled in the last two fingers of his left hand. As I approached he watched me carefully without turning his head in my direction. When I stood before him, he took a long, slow draw from his cigarette and considered me some more, still not bothering to change his posture but moving only his eyes.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I’m looking for…”
He held up his free hand to stop me, took another draw and blew the smoke at my feet.
“Behind me is a door and what you seek,” he answered. “If you go through this door and take two immediate rights you will be hopelessly lost. If, however, you take two rights and then a left you will arrive at a small alcove. In this alcove is a box without a lid. If you open the box you will find a piece of paper. On the paper is a message written in a language that has never been spoken or read. The message says this: ‘You do not believe this sentence.’ If this statement is true then pick up the message, close the box with no lid, and bring it back to me. If it is false then leave it where it is.”
He took another quick drag and added, “When you leave you must walk just opposite of the way you came in; you must take two lefts, then a right.”
“But…” I started.
He shook his head. “This is all I have to say.”
I walked along the giant hedge wall to the door he had indicated.
“Wait,” he called over his shoulder. “You didn’t listen to everything.”
I turned around, puzzled. “Yes.”
When he didn’t speak I walked over in front of him again.
“Yes,” I repeated, beginning to lose my patience.
He looked at me curiously.
“You said you had something more to say,” I reminded him.
He raised his eyebrows in mild indignation, remaining mute.
I sighed and went back to the door. The door was merely a smooth piece of wood, with no edges or cracks to gain a purchase. I pushed on it but it refused to open.
“You have to pull that door,” said the man behind me.
I didn’t bother to turn around this time.
It took me more time than I care to admit, and it was close, but I finally found a way in and did as the man directed. In this way, I also found what I was looking for.
****
Later, when I found Simone, I pulled her aside.
“That was not very helpful,” I told her.
She blushed. “You know, just after you left I realized it was the other way.”