Read Online Stories About Things by Aelius Blythe - Free Book Online Page B

spun, and the panic grew wilder. His
hair grew faster, and his joints grew slower. His breaths grew
weaker.
    Thunk.
    The cement floor ground against his bent
back. Failing fingers clutched a stack of papers. Pupils, quickly
clouding with cataracts, strained to see.
    "How...how..."
    Then time stopped. At least, it did for
him.
     
     

THREE
The Name
     
    Goddamnit.
    Everyone else was tried not to let their
sobs drown out the eulogy.
    Not me.
    It wasn't that I wasn't sobbing (but I
wasn't.) It wasn't that I wasn't listening to the eulogy (but I
wasn't.) It wasn't that I wasn't totally remembering what a great
guy the dearly departed was (Of he was. Who needed reminding?)
    Goddamnit!
    It wasn't any of those things.
    It was the name.
    What was it?
    He was a great guy. Totally. Fun,
energetic, handsome; the kind everybody liked. That was the reason
they all attended his funeral. That's why I was there, anyway. I
remembered the laughing, good-natured, slightly drunk face very
well.
    But not the name that went with it.
    Mother always used to scoff at the people
with funny names. But I remembered every single Dallas or Anferny
I'd ever met. My mental landscape was full of Toms and Justins, and
Jessicas and Katies. They were as common as paving stones and
slipped by without notice.
    Could have been Justin. Could have been
Tom.
    Tom... Tom?
    The name started to insert itself into the
memories. Tom. That could have been it.
    No stop that.
    It would have been awkward if it slipped out
of my mouth. Or it would be awkward if it turned out that it
wasn't actually his name. For all I knew, it could have been. But
if not, would "Oops, wrong funeral," get me out of that one?
    There must have been some mention of his
name in the "Dearly Departed" clause. Too bad I was trying so hard
to remember it to pay attention then.
    Then,
    Oh.
    JACK, it said on the temporary grave
marker.
    Oh. Jack. Right.
     
     
    Got back to the apartment.
    "How was whasisnames funeral?" said the
roommate. "What was his name anyway?"
    "I don't know, but the ceremony was
great."
     
     

FOUR
Maple Syrup
     
    Syrup dripped slowly, not like blood. Syrup
was sweet, too, but Chi didn't know what blood tasted like. Rusty,
maybe, from the iron, iron like in magnets. He used to think that
was why people stuck to the earth: they had metal in them, and so
did the planet. He didn't think that anymore. If it were true, then
why did dead people stick just as hard as living people, even when
all the blood was drained out? Why didn't they go floating up away?
He used to think that was why they nailed coffins shut.
    Sip. Click .
    The flask snapped back in its seat on his hip
where a magnet stuck it in place. Mother thought it was rum, and he
let her think that. Rum didn't work, though. Rum erased what maple
syrup remembered. Other people drank, remembered things that didn't
happen and forgot things that did. Chi wanted to remember what
happened and forget what didn't.
    Sip. Click.
     
     
    The store itself was not the temptation. Not
that Chi could ignore the rows upon rows of maple sugar cookies,
gallons of syrup, lollipops in the shape of maple leafs, and tawny
fudge squares. He couldn't. He was a good boy, though, and he
wasn't tempted by the things that he shouldn't have.
    The temptation wasn't the cookies and syrup
and lollipops and fudge; it was the key. The key hung on the wall
by the door after dark when his parents had gone to bed. He looked
at it every evening at six, when his mother and father locked up
the store and brought in the key. Sometimes, he would get up in the
night, come downstairs quietly, and stare at the little piece of
silver hanging on the peg by the door.
     
     
    Sip. Click.
    It was funny that the taste hadn't gone away
all these years. Chi had thought that eventually he would get used
to the sticky sweetness of the syrup and wouldn't be able to taste
it. But he still did. Maybe it was a symbiotic relationship--the
syrup and the memories--one kept the other