The Knifemaker (english homework, D1)

The Knife Maker

                The first thing you learned in Del Mureto, was not to mess with "Knives" Greer...

At least, that's what you heard from the barflies, who never learned to shut up.

Del Mureto was your average roadside town, all lined up against the road in two straight columns. Not much had changed after a hundred years; there was still a three man sheriff's office, the doctor's and the general goods store. A motel had moved in, next to the truck stop. A diner went up in the empty lot where children used to play. The auto shop went up at the undertaker's.

But the Saloon stood were it was, a hundred years proud.

That's where you'd find the talk of the town: the talk on tough young Knives Greer.

It was the same old talk:

Man was as big as a bull, all 5'7 of him, stronger than two,

Trained himself in all things mechanical

                                                                                 but that's not all he do

                                                           Some girl-friend of his died some weeks ago,

Night after night since then, you'd hear the muffled noise of metal greeting metal,

drifting from the auto shop, not enough for anyone to raise a holler,

but there none the less

He was a quiet man, never said much,

If you asked what he was doing in there,

He'd just say "Making knives",

And every third night, he'd get in his pick-up, knife packaged and all

Drive to God knows where

And come back empty handed,

You ask where it went, he'd just shrug

                Now, folk got all sorts of crazy stories about what he do. Most say he be some hit man. Ask why the Marshalls got cold toes, they'd say: "Boy, knives would get you between the eyes before you could touch the trigger".

Now, anyone with two cents worth of wit shut right up when Knives walked in. But there was always some drunk idiot shooting his mouth. Now most folk watch in horror, while placing two bucks worth that "knives was gonna get him this time.

But He'd walk straight on past

Paul Greer, mechanic, the knife maker, knew all the whispers on him.

He heard the nicknames, and smelled the fear.

But he'd just shake his head, thinking

Only if they knew, only if they knew...

***

His name was Paul; and he was all alone for the most part,

he felt even emptier when Roxy died.

She Was a Childhood friend, his only friend growing up.

Most kids feared the strength of his fist,

Those all consuming eyes that could strip you bare.

Not Roxy:

She stared into his very soul

                She was a frail child, and had these big, clear blue eyes that could match his dirt brown ones anytime. She was the only one who saw through his tough facade, who saw all the pain and loneliness spun from a dead Ma and a drunk Pa. She saw the hunger in his eyes. So she showed him the meaning of kindness; she gave him his first decent meal. They became fast friends, and in late adolescence grew to become everything to each other. He was her strength and protector; she, his provider and nurturer. He taught himself metal shop; she taught herself how to cook. They never had much; just each other. On her twenty first birthday, he gave her a set of decent kitchen knives, her very own; the sharpest,  finest he'd made. Day in and day out, he'd  come to her kitchen and sit on the table after work, hands unwashed just to tease her. She'd nag him to wash for a bit, then served the master piece she had come up with that day, on her mother's silverware. Conversation was loud, but the neighbor's didn't mind; she had none, lived alone. After the meal, he'd thank her, and she'd reply before he left, "you're always welcome in my kitchen".

                As time flew by, he moved to Del Mureto, but still dropped by every weekend. Same story; her thin frame always welcomed him with a warm hug and hot food. He'd always thank her, and she'd reply "you're always welcome in my kitchen".

                Months went by, and one weekend, she wasn't there to greet him. The door was left ajar (she never locked it). Everything she had was gone; the kitchen, picked clean. He found her in the bed room; too weak to move; the only thing untouched, her cookbook. As he picked her up, effortlessly, he stared into her clear, fading blue eyes as she whispered her dying, delusional words, "you're always welcome... in.. my.. kitchen..."

                Those words tore through his soul and into his existence, and resounded in his mind like a gunshot in a canyon, as he drove to her place again and again. He had cremated her, and buried her in her favorite place. Every third day, he finished a knife and went back to her place to place it on the rack, and use his strength to fix what he could before work started (the place was his now). But before he left he'd fix him up a meal from her cookbook, those words still echoing: "you're always welcome in my kitchen".

Four walls, and a cup of memories

Slowly, I woke to the sound of thunder echoing in the distance, flashes of pale white lightning lit my face through the skylight,  telling me of another salvo. A quick glance out the window (roof?) told me nothing; the rain had misted the rooftops. Where I could be was anyone's guess; Paris, Milan, Copenhagen; I couldn't remember anymore.

All I knew was that I was home.

                 I flipped the light switch, and the space of my small, brick walled apartment flooded with warmth.

                It's more of an converted attic, really, a small one at that, on top of an eight story building. It was quite homely; just a small bed, bathroom, and kitchenette (I had to send the laundry downstairs). The only other furniture I kept was a small cafe table for two, (which I would move out to the small balcony on nice days) and two tasteful folding chairs; not that I had anyone over, really; the second chair was really nice to have as an ad-hoc nightstand/ coffee table for my coat, hat, or whatever I brought home.

                I got up, still dressed in the clothes from the night before, and started coffee.

It was fun-sized I'd like to think;

If you could ever call a jail-cell fun

                I mixed myself my Saturday favorite; Eastern twilight. It was good for picking me up, keeping me up, and the occasional broken heart.

                A dash of this, two drops of that in the maker, a quarter shot of this, and a whiff of that on top: I grabbed each bottle by instinct, hardly bothering to read the labels. Sure, one wrong ingredient, or an overdose of something is near lethal; I'm used to it.

Maybe this time...a fleeting thought tells me

                Five long minutes passed, and the strong scent of Vietnamese roast filled the room, with subtle hints of something else. Setting down the plunger,  the grinds danced around in the dark, swirling Ichor, before settling at the bottom of the glass and brass press. A thick, tan layer of crema shows itself, as a testament of quality. As it flows into my mug, already prepared with spice and flavoring, the light shows me my creation's true color; a deep earthy red.

Perfect

                I stir it all in and take a long, drawn out sip; sweet, savory melted gold in my mouth, running across my tongue, smooth like a silk sheet, unraveling each flavor as it falls gently down my throat. I immediately reached for a glass of water, to taste my coffee as the Viennese do.

Vienna, perhaps that's where I am

                Such curiosities aside, I put about orienting thoughts; my little home-cell. It's becoming more and more like that really. I never really "left" the house; I keep to a routine day-in, day-out, at the same place, around the same time, doing similar things for so long. I would even visit someone every now and then.

                Some people hate that sort of thing; a so-called lack of spontaneity that fails to excite.

But I loved it

                (My heart's pounding twice as fast as usual, a surge of blood rushes to my head; I take another long sip, washed down with water.

The coffee's finally kicking in...maybe this time)

I loved my routine

                It was the security I guess, knowing vaguely what was going to happen tomorrow. It was about the people too; I got to know them day to day. For the longest time, I would know what bugged them, what they needed; their very nature when we had time to talk. And I cherished them for being who they were.  Most of them hardly did anything for me, others I hardly knew (like the artists who created my favorite works, seeing them at work afterhours every now and then; or the misguided young woman who I bought a rose for on St. Valentine's day); If you cannot be with those you love, love those you are with. The few who I did know, I loved the most. Those who cared for me, I loved even more still.

It was such people that made my confinement bearable, loveable almost.

But when fate ripped them from my arms, I was truly imprisoned

                (Beads of sweat drip from my brow as a heat wave comes over me, as my heart hammers away; yet another long sip, washed down with water

So far, so good...maybe this time)

                Slowly, steadily, as blood seeps from an open wound, familiar faces started to disappear. Some  moved away, for one reason or another, some got too busy, but most followed the natural progression of modern society, and I would be left to my routine, too timid, too gentle to take a risk. Often I would see  familiar faces in strangers;  catch a glimpse of long gone figures still at their old routines. To smell familiar perfume, turing to see one I loved most, but seeing only thin air and empty faces.

                (my heart pounds faster and faster again, as my vision becomes almost unbearably sharp, thoughts race across my head in a sea whispers, but one shouts...maybe this time. I finish my mug)

                Those I loved the most were closest to my heart; to keep their memory from being washed away by the tides of time, I tied them to little strings, memoranda and memorabilia, that keep me to routine. Old notes passed in class, a song, a paper or poem; each tied close to a memory, a trigger to nostalgia sharper than any blade, but a warmth worth any pain. Routine is littered with them.

                Sometimes you get so attached to something, it hurts too much to rip it off. It's like a piece of steel healed inside you; removing it would only leave a gaping wound. Life becomes a prison when it encompasses and traps you with its limits. Home becomes a prison, if your heart is elsewhere. Even without chains, any limit, any four walls, really, can be a prison, so long as you keep to them.

                (Blood starts to roar in my ears as my heart reaches its limits; the four walls of my little cell grow higher and higher, as my whispering thoughts are replaced by silent screams that echo through my soul, as my vision fades to white...this time.)

                I awake to a room, a faint taste of coffee on my lips, with four painted walls; papers to my left and right. A clock reads two am. Notes passed in class four years passed in my right hand, trigger fond memories. The song playing on my Ipod, strong emotion. Flood then the memory, nostalgia, and tears.

                Tired, I closed my eyes again.

Those Three Words

               The sunset was beautiful that Friday night; thin, watery crimson, orange, and baby blue slowly fading to a deep velvet violet. Those last few rays of golden light seemed to caress the clouds, so white and creamy, almost looking painted, before finding themselves bouncing off the redbrick church tower, and into my small room above the club.

                I had always loved the place; a good sized little town, church tower still the tallest thing around.  A town where your neighbors 'round the block still knew your name, where nobody's business was nobody's secret.

                I'd always love the view from my little room over the club; from my French windows, and parchment colored curtains, I could see main street, lit with golden streetlights and shop windows at night. Gentle laughter and conversation would drift in from the Cafe Milan across the street, as a slow jazz music found its way through the floorboards almost every other night. The room itself was small, but homely. Left of the door (which faced the windows) was my brass bed, and a small, walnut dresser. Five steps across was my kitchenette,  proudly displaying it's stove and brass french-press. A small refrigerator, it's main highlight, hummed contently to itself in the corner. Against the window was my desk where I worked, and right of that was the premium; a small, tilled bathroom.

                On a Friday like this, I'd be typing away contentedly, taking an occasional sip of Viennese coffee, it's maker glinting in the lamplight, poured fresh; home-rolled cigar in hand (my pay didn't cover tobacco; I used dried coffee grinds instead).

                But tonight, the keys were silent; everything else, muted. The only glimmering in the sunset was a pretty, twin barreled derringer; the only thing smoking was the top barrel. Sprawled in the middle of my room was a body, finger still on the trigger.

                I lit my cigar, or at least, I tried to.

                I took a deep breath, the smell of death was heavy in the air, overpowering the years of coffee smoke that had crept into the wallpaper. I sat at my desk, trying to figure out what had happened.

                From what I remembered, the times were hard on me; I was out of work and as a freelancer, friends were few and far between; not a woman in sight save this one dame; Lavender-Dawn. From what I remember, the times were tough for her too, though she'd never tell me what.

                She and I were, well, I could never really tell. She was different though; never afraid to speak her mind, kind enough to set me straight. The other dame's talked, sure, but I didn't care, neither did any of the guys at the club. See, we met for coffee every now and then, and I always felt something; I didn't know, but it was something.

                Damn, how could I be so stupid

                It was there all along, that sad smile, and distant eyes, that strange willingness to care. Sure we frustrated each other, and sure, awkward as I was, I felt like a sideshow. Could never do a thing for that headstrong woman. Sure I figured it was never meant to be; she was moving up in life and was skipping town with a bunch of others, but we wanted the same thing; a family. For some reason, thinking of her always warmed my heart.

                I remember we met for lunch that afternoon, just me and her strangely enough. She told me she wanted to apologize, for what I told her I didn't know, but I felt inside exactly what she meant. We talked for a bit, and she told me to ask her anything. Frankly, I was enjoying the moment, and not wanting to pry, I asked her some forgettable somesuch. She seemed frustrated, then, that reminiscing, almost forlorn smile.  I asked her what was wrong, she told me, nothing. Said I looked too closely to see the whole picture, that I bothered myself with detail without paying much attention to the story. We talked for a bit more, then parted ways; there was a certain air of heaviness when we said goodbye. I felt alone for the longest time. Another thing on my heart, another nail in the coffin.

                Stupid Idiot

                It was only now, looking at a lifeless body, I realized I loved her. Not that cliche movie romance, mind you, but a stronger sort of love.

                Someone once said that love isn't formed at an instant, but something developed from day to day, as you grew closer and got to know somebody. Love was accepting a person as is, and pointing out, for their sake what was wrong, and holding them close regardless. It was this sort of love, I now realized, that pulsed through my veins and stirred my soul. Love isn't just between lovers; it can be shared by any two human beings, who cherish each other for who they are.

                Now I realize, staring at the corpse, she might have loved me back. Dumbass

                If only I had asked her... Screw that, If only I had said those three words, three overused and clichéd words; I love you, then maybe this would never had happened.

                Looks like some questions aren't men to be answered.

                It's strange how little, and how much power three words can hold.

                Don't worry, a voice tells me, it's fine; you just made a bad call.

                Easy for you to say, I told the voice, I'm the one who's dead            

                The owner of the voice, a woman, unusually pale in a black dress, with raven hair and dark, deep-set eyes, took one look at my dead body, and gave a sniff. Well, she stated, can't turn back now.

Damn right; they'll find the body soon, though, I told her

Why do you care, she asks, you're dead

                But my love isn't

                The coming darkness started to show death's true form; her scythe finally faded in from the shadows, where her flowing robe trailed off.

                What about her, I asked death

                Well, she replied with a cynical smile, there's always the second barrel

                The sound of footsteps echoed in from the staircase, a woman's heels from what I could tell; a strong whiff of perfume told me who it was.

                Should we find out? Death asks, Or should we leave? Souls like yours travel best in the dying light...

                I looked at my room one last time, searing in the view into my memory.

                I looked at my body, growing colder by the second, and at the derringer, one barrel still loaded.

We're going, I told her

I no longer find the respite I seek, when I try to lay my head down to sleep:

I shut my eyes, desperate for escape, my mind then wanders; prey easy for a wounded, wandering heart. My form immobile, my soul captive-audience to burdens of my heart. Quickly It acts; swiftly snatching me from the four walls of my safe sleeping-cell. My soul is seized from space and time, from the warm light of my cell-tower, to the cold darkness of the grand palace in old Leningrad; set down in the vast, crumbling foyer. Take a spin around: once grand, boarded windows gloomily gaze upon my ragged uniform, having seen better days. Once proud, yet still tall, Corinthian columns bask in disillusion, maintaining an air of its former grandeur, while weeping white peeling plaster, and crumbling gold leaf. The few chandeliers, pitted and broken in several segments, sway like bodies in the wind. Then I hear the cords of my childhood; a slow, rickety music box renders, "Once Upon a December", echoing through damp, decrepit halls. Mesmerized, I begin to explore, my mind imprisoned within my body, speaking only in tune:

Pangs of fear, strike within,

soul be slave to melody.

 Forward on, my heart pulls me

Despite the coming agony,

The open doors I come to see,

more Windows into my memory be

lost moments come again to see

To fade from my memory

nostalgia strikes, deep within

like broken shards of a mirror,

Walking, walking, walking, still,

To see, to pass, and remember,

The open doors I come to see,

merely Windows into memory be

lost moments come again to see

To fade from my memory

Onward, onward come to march

leaving moments to a sheltering dark

Butchered soon by time and space,

Never one to replace

Then I stop, by grand doors,

As the music fades within

My heart yearning, I throw open the double doors, to be greeted by a blinding flash:

and all of who I care about

The grand ballroom restored to its former glory: gold leaf and white plaster bathed in the colors of dying autumn; a singular moment out of time, grand St. Petersburg lives again. The marbled tiles ring with dance, each man in smart dress uniform. All the women dance gracefully, in their finest dresses be. Clean of makeup, but shining still; the life of this grand party; a gentle warmth to fill the room. And I too, in fine robes dressed, dance and drink in this one last dance. Then again, I'm frozen still, as couples dance and fade away. They make their exit with a bow,  their visage a friendly gaze and grin. Then they dance into eternity, leaving me breathless, grasping for the moment. Each friend I touch by the fingertips, before they fade into the mist. The ballroom flickers from riches, to ruin, as the piano goes off key. Till I am left with one fine miss, to kiss by the hand, as she too fades, into the mists of memory.

Then I again, in my rags be,

In the cold grasp of Leningrad