FOUR VERY SHORT STORIES
by Lynn Kozlowski
AFTER THE STROKE
When the first argument rose up, put forward by the man on his left who
was leaning into this discussion and pointing his finger in John's face,
John was clear enough about the sense of it. But then the man on John's
right, a long-time colleague, said that he couldn't accept the view being
laid out and explained why, and John's understanding couldn't make the
connections to what had been said before or to why he thought he was party
to any of this and he felt dread. He looked impassive and nodded and smiled
but the dread fell on him so squarely that he could barely stand in place.
MY NIECE
At the convention in the city where she is in college, I invite my niece
to dinner at the hotel. The restaurant is full of conventioneers, many of my
acquaintance. My niece and I are seated at a table for two not far from the
entrance. She is dressed up for this, her frosted hair like a mane. My tie
is in my pocket. I look to be winding down. My close colleagues pass by, and
I introduce my niece. I say this is my niece. My niece. Really. She is. My
niece.
WHEN THE WOMAN WAS SHOT OUTSIDE HIS BUILDING
When the woman was shot outside his building, he was in a position of
authority, and he got his people away from the offices on that side. He
stood with his back to the hallway wall and kept other people from going
into the rooms that had windows.
After word came that it was over, he and his colleagues were not
themselves. Some of them were crying. He gave a hug to one of the women
who was most afraid. He paced in the hallway for a few turns and by mistake
walked into the Ladies' Room, not knowing where he was until he saw the
nurse's couch and the absence of urinals.
TRIANGLE
My father placed his two rifles on the table after supper. He wiped them
with a torn, clean undershirt to thin the layer of oil that he had left on
them. He put out two cartons of shells for each gun. He felt the edge on the
curved, sharpened-down blade of his hunting knife. He tied a new leather
lanyard to his compass. He tightly rolled his two surplus down sleeping
bags--a mummy-sack and an outer bag--and tied them with clothesline. He
folded a pair of thick woolen pants over the back of a chair.
Mother brought in his packbasket from the unheated shed. The cold
leather harness and the raw wood weave of the basket creaked when set on
the floor. The army wool blanket was put in the bottom. She put wool socks,
longjohns, briefs, and three rolls of premium toilet paper in the
packbasket. He pinned his hunting license on the back of his new orange hunting
coat, checked his wallet, and put that on the table.
An older, artsy friend of mine showed up, and he and his dog came into
the kitchen. My friend looked at the arrangement and said, "Isn't this
something!" He whistled. He said, "The firepower!" He said, "An original,
Adirondack, pot-bellied packbasket." He picked up the knife and unsheathed
it and put it back.
My father stood back from the table, and he saw the dog lift its leg and
take a quick squirt on the side of his packbasket. He swatted the dog away.
I got my friend and his damn dog into the living room. Then we got out
of there and over to his place, until after my father should be in bed, to
make his early day at camp.
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