Summer Heat Stories

Sunrise

Waking was the hardest part of his day. He hated mornings, especially this time of year when the summer heat made his bed feel swampy and his sheets clung to him like grasping stringy arms. He faced the starkness of the lonely city and trudged through the traffic of pedestrians and tourists until he arrived at her door hoping for a possible “hello.” He had been there last night waiting as she returned from the sweat-stained streets to tell her he loved her, but had retreated in emptiness to endure another morning alone and the empty shrill of his alarm clock.

Thunder

Violence blazed beneath the surface of perspiration that clung like slime to his skin. Wiping his forehead provided only a temporary relief as moisture instantly blossomed there again. He wanted to strike her so hard that she instantly felt all of his love, hate, anger, desire and agitation in one furious shattering blow. The floorboards screamed beneath him, telegraphing his movements through the tiny summer heat scorched apartment. She did not, could not move; simmering white-hot fear paralyzed her. Her slip was sweat-soaked transparent so that every aspect of her form was visible. They eyed each other with comingled desperation. Boom.

Outcast

An old cat saunters lazily across the hot summer pavement. Its paws scarred and numbed from homeless wandering, have become immune to the heat. Spying a mouse scurrying to a nearby garbage can, it focuses before striking, tasting delicious throbbing meat. Dragging its still-breathing prey to a darkened corner, it feeds—its first meal today—before taking time to clean itself obeying ancient instincts forged on Egyptian soil. Another cat nears smelling a fresh kill. Hissing and yowls reverberate off alley bricks as they claw bloody lines onto each other. One cat scurries away wounded, the other licks old wounds purring.

Remains

“I loved you more than words can ever say.” Her poem came to her so quickly that she could barely write it down before another line came tumbling out seeking its place upon the page. “You stomped upon my heart indifferently.”

She paused to adjust the fan to dissipate the heat of the summer sun, which streamed into her room like jagged fingers exploring a lover’s needy form.

“You tried to conquer me with love’s expression.” She blinked away tears as she continued to dredge up the bones of what loving him had been and how letting go had saved her.

Indifference

The rain temporarily cooled the summer heat, making everything feel almost tolerable. It didn’t last. The sign on the health clinic was dirty and only some of the neon letters glowed. She walked inside, her nostrils suddenly filled with the smell of antiseptic love gone wrong. She sat down after signing her name and tried to focus on an issue of a magazine that was five years old. “Five years ago,” she whispered through rubber gloves, stirrups and warm red painful moaning ooze. Tears trickled down into her ears making odd echoes of already muffled voices. “Get up ma’am, it’s done.”

Elegy

Sometimes, when she wasn’t aware, she allowed herself the humanity of a smile or the hint of one. Usually, however, she remained firmly fixed, a sullen creature behind a desk sternly cataloging obituaries while sipping weak tea. She liked the old deaths best. They were her jewels and she contentedly searched for who was the oldest among them each day. The only sound besides the tick-tock-ticking of the clock chiming the hours she spent reading and rereading the death notices of people she had never known, was of a hissing teapot blazing away through oblivion’s door in the furious summer heat.

Sundown

Her hands were dishwater worn and caked with flour, which she wiped across her tattered housecoat. She put her hands on her hips as if doing so exhausted her and sighed. The children would be home soon and she’d wanted to surprise them, but the summer heat had slowed her down and the bread had taken longer than usual to rise. She had wanted to give them warm bread and honey when they’d returned home from a day of mischief and fishing. Instead, she would simply hug them and playfully push them away, before cleaning the still-breathing fish with sharpened knives.

Sundown

Her hands were dishwater worn and caked with flour, which she wiped across her tattered housecoat. She put her hands on her hips as if doing so exhausted her and sighed. The children would be home soon and she’d wanted to surprise them, but the summer heat had slowed her down and the bread had taken longer than usual to rise. She had wanted to give them warm bread and honey when they’d returned home from a day of mischief and fishing. Instead, she would simply hug them and playfully push them away, before cleaning the still-breathing fish with sharpened knives.

Elegy

Sometimes, when she wasn’t aware, she allowed herself the humanity of a smile or the hint of one. Usually, however, she remained firmly fixed, a sullen creature behind a desk sternly cataloging obituaries while sipping weak tea. She liked the old deaths best. They were her jewels and she contentedly searched for who was the oldest among them each day. The only sound besides the tick-tock-ticking of the clock chiming the hours she spent reading and rereading the death notices of people she had never known, was of a hissing teapot blazing away through oblivion’s door in the furious summer heat.

Indifference

The rain temporarily cooled the summer heat, making everything feel almost tolerable. It didn’t last. The sign on the health clinic was dirty and only some of the neon letters glowed. She walked inside, her nostrils suddenly filled with the smell of antiseptic love gone wrong. She sat down after signing her name and tried to focus on an issue of a magazine that was five years old. “Five years ago,” she whispered through rubber gloves, stirrups and warm red painful moaning ooze. Tears trickled down into her ears making odd echoes of already muffled voices. “Get up ma’am, it’s done.”

Sunrise

Waking was the hardest part of his day. He hated mornings, especially this time of year when the summer heat made his bed feel swampy and his sheets clung to him like grasping stringy arms. He faced the starkness of the lonely city and trudged through the traffic of pedestrians and tourists until he arrived at her door hoping for a possible “hello.” He had been there last night waiting as she returned from the sweat-stained streets to tell her he loved her, but had retreated in emptiness to endure another morning alone and the empty shrill of his alarm clock.

Outcasts

An old cat saunters lazily across the hot summer pavement. Its paws scarred and numbed from homeless wandering, have become immune to the heat. Spying a mouse scurrying to a nearby garbage can, it focuses before striking, tasting delicious throbbing meat. Dragging its still-breathing prey to a darkened corner, it feeds—its first meal today—before taking time to clean itself obeying ancient instincts forged on Egyptian soil. Another cat nears smelling a fresh kill. Hissing and yowls reverberate off alley bricks as they claw bloody lines onto each other. One cat scurries away wounded, the other licks old wounds purring.

Remains

“I loved you more than words can ever say.” Her poem came to her so quickly that she could barely write it down before another line came tumbling out seeking its place upon the page. “You stomped upon my heart indifferently.”

She paused to adjust the fan to dissipate the heat of the summer sun, which streamed into her room like jagged fingers exploring a lover’s needy form.

“You tried to conquer me with love’s expression.” She blinked away tears as she continued to dredge up the bones of what loving him had been and how letting go had saved her.

Thunder

Violence blazed beneath the surface of perspiration that clung like slime to his skin. Wiping his forehead provided only a temporary relief as moisture instantly blossomed there again. He wanted to strike her so hard that she instantly felt all of his love, hate, anger, desire and agitation in one furious shattering blow. The floorboards screamed beneath him, telegraphing his movements through the tiny summer heat scorched apartment. She did not, could not move; simmering white-hot fear paralyzed her. Her slip was sweat-soaked transparent so that every aspect of her form was visible. They eyed each other with comingled desperation. Boom.

Thursday

She thought of her body as a bomb-shelter because she felt as if she’d housed many within her barricaded walls. Five children had come and exited in a whirl of joyous sorrow. She couldn’t keep them safe now that they were out and free and trouble was like a pot of coffee on the stove, constantly brewing and ready to boil over.

While making them French toast, she worried about the many possible accidents and atrocities that could take them away from her while they were outside of her protective grasp. Why only yesterday the remains of a woman had been found in a plastic bag. Her skull was bleached pearl-white and glimmering in the watery swirl of a forgotten dumpster, while the last remaining scraps of her dress were singed and torn. She’d read this in that morning's paper digested between chews of toast saturated in coffee.

Her children’s voices echoed through the room, bouncing off the walls and floorboards until they finally stopped and rested with her. Now would come the myriad questions that was her lot to respond to each morning.

“Your mittens are in the drawer beside the socks.”

“Yes, I remembered to sign the permission slip for your field trip.”

“No, you may not go to Ethan’s house afterschool.”

If anyone had asked her what her religion was, she would have answered, “Mother” as she sing-songed the same litany each day with the same blissful care.

Her husband was gone having fulfilled his duties and been devoured, headless and erect like a praying mantis. There was no need for him now; she had found other means of obtaining her brood.

Shuffling along the cold boards of the house, she remembered the many pleasant days she’d spent in the park watching the mothers playing with their children. It had given her a pleasant ache to be there with them, hearing their happy laughter, watching the mother’s push them on the swings or wipe away snot, dirt and tears. She’d tried for years to try to conceive and failed. Each doctor’s visit brought another heartbreak and another sense of failure, until she became so obsessed with the idea of becoming a mother that her husband had her hospitalized. Sometime after she’d been released from the drug-induced haze that had held her and her dreams captive, she was blessed with the first of many blessed events.

Rubbing crust from the corners of her sleepy eyes, she remembered how it had all come about. It occurred on one of those twilight nights when the air crackles with the first hints of autumn. The baby, her baby was cooing happily in its stroller. She remembered how she’d watched it, him that day and how much joy she’d felt. She had been born and reborn when she’d become a mother. It felt like something inside of her that had been clamped shut had suddenly opened; blossomed. Only one challenge blocked her joy and it was easily removed with some chloroform, a knife, some gasoline and a garbage bag.

She looked at the clock, remembering the time, and hurried herself about the house, making sure it was ready and waiting for her next arrival. She’d felt a tug a few weeks ago and felt it was time to add to her happy little family, but then looked at the headline in the morning paper and decided to wait until things gentled down. For now, she would bake some scones for afternoon tea, that would be savory and ready for when her children came home and the sweet little girl from across the way would join them with her mother’s permission of course.