Eli S. Evans
The Reality That Annihilates Me
To the side of the road that climbs to where the railroad track passes, and then descends again, someone has abandoned a small pillow – or, I should say, a small pillow has ended up abandoned, but who can say whether intentionally or otherwise. It is difficult to describe this pillow, which is small and encased in vinyl. It could almost be the headrest pillow from a car, but it seems too small for that. And it also could be the sort of travel pillow people bring on airplanes under the illusion they will be able to with their assistance find a comfortable position in which to sleep, yet it would be odd for such a pillow to be encased in vinyl, which does not seem very comfortable.
In any event, it is autumn when the pillow first appears, and then comes the change in weather and the snow, though not as much as most years. At some point, the vinyl case can be seen to have opened up, and a bit of the stuffing, a little puff of it, to have squeezed out of the opening. In subsequent weeks, the opening in the case increases in size, and more and more of the stuffing leaks or squeezes out of it, until one day there is, where the pillow had been, a pile of stuffing sitting in dirt and snow, and beside it a kind of vinyl husk.
On this day, I have paid a visit to a nearby antique store, in search of a pill-holder pendant, which is another story and not one worth telling here. What I mean is that there are reasons I have gone out in search of a pill-holder pendant, and more specifically an antique one, but ultimately these reasons boil down to the usual this and that. Getting back to this story, as I am walking toward the store from where I have parked my car in the lot, a couple, having just exited it, is walking toward their car, also parked in the lot. They are elderly, and corpulent, and as our paths cross, I hear the woman say to the man: “I’m getting hungry for rolls. Warm rolls.”
And it is only later on, having not found the antique pill-holder pendant for which I’d gone out searching, that I walk past the fluffy pile of stuffing beside the vinyl husk, as I have described it, and think to myself: If this is what has become of the pillow, then where is the pillow of which this is what has become?
What I mean by this is that the world is so impatient. And what I mean by that is that at this very moment, a man opens the trunk of his car, and a food processor tumbles out. Cursing, he picks it up and puts it back in, not realizing that the detachable blades are still sitting on the ground. Because of this, he turns the car on, puts it into a reverse, and backs right over the blades, puncturing one of his tires. “What were the chances?” the man asks. And yet, it is almost certain that, someplace else on earth, the exact same thing has just happened to someone else.
Well, I might as well explain the pill-holder pendant thing. Right now, there is a little plaque floating around in my left anterior descending artery, the one they call the widow-maker. Chances are, that plaque isn’t going to rupture; but if it does, I won’t have time to ask: “What were the chances?”
Eli S. Evans has published work in the last few months in Maudlin House, Cowboy Jamboree, Six Sentences, (mic)ro(mac), Drunk Monkeys, Queen Mob's Teahouse (RIP), and MacQueen's Quinterly, among others. A small book of small stories, Obscure & Irregular, can be purchased via Moon Rabbit Books & Ephemera or the usual online retail and distribution behemoths.
To the side of the road that climbs to where the railroad track passes, and then descends again, someone has abandoned a small pillow – or, I should say, a small pillow has ended up abandoned, but who can say whether intentionally or otherwise. It is difficult to describe this pillow, which is small and encased in vinyl. It could almost be the headrest pillow from a car, but it seems too small for that. And it also could be the sort of travel pillow people bring on airplanes under the illusion they will be able to with their assistance find a comfortable position in which to sleep, yet it would be odd for such a pillow to be encased in vinyl, which does not seem very comfortable.
In any event, it is autumn when the pillow first appears, and then comes the change in weather and the snow, though not as much as most years. At some point, the vinyl case can be seen to have opened up, and a bit of the stuffing, a little puff of it, to have squeezed out of the opening. In subsequent weeks, the opening in the case increases in size, and more and more of the stuffing leaks or squeezes out of it, until one day there is, where the pillow had been, a pile of stuffing sitting in dirt and snow, and beside it a kind of vinyl husk.
On this day, I have paid a visit to a nearby antique store, in search of a pill-holder pendant, which is another story and not one worth telling here. What I mean is that there are reasons I have gone out in search of a pill-holder pendant, and more specifically an antique one, but ultimately these reasons boil down to the usual this and that. Getting back to this story, as I am walking toward the store from where I have parked my car in the lot, a couple, having just exited it, is walking toward their car, also parked in the lot. They are elderly, and corpulent, and as our paths cross, I hear the woman say to the man: “I’m getting hungry for rolls. Warm rolls.”
And it is only later on, having not found the antique pill-holder pendant for which I’d gone out searching, that I walk past the fluffy pile of stuffing beside the vinyl husk, as I have described it, and think to myself: If this is what has become of the pillow, then where is the pillow of which this is what has become?
What I mean by this is that the world is so impatient. And what I mean by that is that at this very moment, a man opens the trunk of his car, and a food processor tumbles out. Cursing, he picks it up and puts it back in, not realizing that the detachable blades are still sitting on the ground. Because of this, he turns the car on, puts it into a reverse, and backs right over the blades, puncturing one of his tires. “What were the chances?” the man asks. And yet, it is almost certain that, someplace else on earth, the exact same thing has just happened to someone else.
Well, I might as well explain the pill-holder pendant thing. Right now, there is a little plaque floating around in my left anterior descending artery, the one they call the widow-maker. Chances are, that plaque isn’t going to rupture; but if it does, I won’t have time to ask: “What were the chances?”
Eli S. Evans has published work in the last few months in Maudlin House, Cowboy Jamboree, Six Sentences, (mic)ro(mac), Drunk Monkeys, Queen Mob's Teahouse (RIP), and MacQueen's Quinterly, among others. A small book of small stories, Obscure & Irregular, can be purchased via Moon Rabbit Books & Ephemera or the usual online retail and distribution behemoths.
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