hans vollman
Mr. Vollman’s face contorted with the memory.
Then something changed, and he looked strong and vital, like the man he must have been in his shop, a man who would not have slunk away from much of anything at all.
And sped through his various future-forms:
A beaming fellow in a disordered bed, the morning after he and Anna would have consummated their marriage (she gleefully threw her head upon his chest, and reached between his legs, eager to begin again); A father of twin girls, who looked like paler, smaller Annas; A retired printer with bad knees, helped along a boardwalk by that same Anna, older now herself but still beautiful, and as they went along, they spoke confidentially back and forth, somewhat habitually, not always agreeing, in a code that seemed to have developed between them, about the twins, now mothers themselves.
Mr. Vollman turned to me, smiling in a pained but kindly way.
None of that ever was, he said. And it never will be.
Then he drew a deep breath.
And stepped into the burning train.
roger bevins iii
I could see Miss Traynor there, in what had been the dining car, her face clearly visible within the striped lavender wallpaper.
hans vollman
Younge Mr Bristol desired me, younge Mr Fellowes and Mr Delway desired me, of an evening they would sit on the grass around me and in their eyes burned the fiercest kindest Desire.
It was all very
Then Mother would send Annie to come and
I want ed so much to hold a dear Babe.
You might sir
You might sire do me a service A great service I know very wel I do not look as prety as I onseh.
You might try
Might at least try
Do it here. Do it now Wont you
Blow this fuk cok ass ravage train up. Sir.
With yr going
If you pls It mite free me Dont know Cant say for sure But have been so unhappy here so long.
elise traynor
I will try, I said.
hans vollman
From within the train came the familiar yet always bone-chilling firesound of the matterlightblooming phenomenon.
The train began to vibrate, the hogs to squeal.
I threw myself down on the good and blessed earth, soon to be mine no more.
The train exploded. Seats rained down, hog-parts rained down, menus rained down, luggage, newspapers, umbrellas, ladies’ hats, men’s shoes, cheap novels rained down.
Rising to my knees I saw that, where the train had been, was now only the dreaded iron fence.
And there was nothing left for me to do, but go.
Though the things of the world were strong with me still.
Such as, for example: a gaggle of children trudging through a side-blown December flurry; a friendly match-share beneath some collision-tilted streetlight; a frozen clock, bird-visited within its high tower; cold water from a tin jug; toweling off one’s clinging shirt post–June rain.
Pearls, rags, buttons, rug-tuft, beer-froth.
Someone’s kind wishes for you; someone remembering to write; someone noticing that you are not at all at ease.
A bloody roast death-red on a platter; a hedgetop under-hand as you flee late to some chalk-and-woodfire-smelling schoolhouse.
Geese above, clover below, the sound of one’s own breath when winded.
The way a moistness in the eye will blur a field of stars; the sore place on the shoulder a resting toboggan makes; writing one’s beloved’s name upon a frosted window with a gloved finger.
Tying a shoe; tying a knot on a package; a mouth on yours; a hand on yours; the ending of the day; the beginning of the day; the feeling that there will always be a day ahead.
Goodbye, I must now say goodbye to all of it.
Loon-call in the dark; calf-cramp in the spring; neck-rub in the parlor; milk-sip at end of day.
Some bandy-legged dog proudly back-ploughs the grass to cover its modest shit; a cloud-mass down-valley breaks apart over the course of a brandy-deepened hour; louvered blinds yield dusty beneath your dragging finger, and it is nearly noon and you must decide; you have seen what you have seen, and it has wounded you, and it seems you have only one choice left.
Blood-stained porcelain bowl wobbles face down on woodfloor; orange peel not at all stirred by disbelieving last breath there among that fine summer dust-layer, fatal knife set down in passing-panic on familiar wobbly bannister, later dropped (thrown) by Mother (dear Mother) (heartsick) into the slow-flowing, chocolate-brown Potomac.
None of it was real; nothing was real.
Everything was real; inconceivably real, infinitely dear.
These and all things started as nothing, latent within a vast energy-broth, but then we named them, and loved them, and, in this way, brought them forth.
And now must lose them.
I send this out to you, dear friends, before I go, in this instantaneous thought-burst, from a place where time slows and then stops and we may live forever in a single instant.
Goodbye goodbye good—
roger bevins iii