by William C. Blome
When everyone moved away from North Dakota towns like Temple, the buildings left behind faced eternity with a hardness or softness of demeanor that more or less matched what they were made of. No surprise, then, that to the furious winter wind, a granite mansion was entirely stoic, while to a far gentler spring zephyr, a clapboard bungalow moaned and groaned, and it’s that aching out loud that first drew the attention of Morris Fourbears to a once-white wooden house. Morris and his relatives soon came to stand at different compass points and different distances (up to something like a tenth of a mile) from the house. They typically held vigil for several hours at a clip, at all times of the day and in all kinds of weather. Then days came when they no longer appeared near the house, when it might have seemed to someone who knew of their recent visits that they either no longer wished or needed to bear witness to this deserted dwelling. It’s the latter conclusion—that they no longer felt it necessary to form a surrounding presence—that was correct. For the Fourbears clan—and very much Morris in particular—believed they now had what they wanted from the house.
Well, almost. They had certainly learned beyond any reasonable misinterpretation that if Morris could get a particular woman to torch the house and then consume a fistful of the ashes, the woman would remain Morris’ loyal and lifelong lover, provided each gave the other oral sex at least once every other day. What remained undiscovered, however, was even a single clue as to the identity of the woman. (Older members of the Mandan tribe wondered additional things, such as whether Morris and/or the woman might live forever; how many children they might have; and how pain- and/or hunger-free they might be for however long they lived.) But Morris for his part stayed focused on trying to find out exactly who the woman was and when the orbit of her days would cross his own. More precisely, when would he start getting regularly greased, and how soon in advance should he set up (probably with his childhood buddy, Claudia Whitehawk) a practice schedule to perfect his muff diving skills?
Morris decided to be proactive, and he encountered no problem getting Claudia to help him. As Morris related to her his family’s recent involvement with the deserted wooden home that often sounded alive and in agony; as he related the moaning-and-groaning prophecy about a woman who would set the house afire, consume a measure of its ashes, and then share oral sex with Morris for life; and as he confessed his need in all fairness to be able to give as good as he expected to get, Claudia signaled her understanding and willingness to render assistance. In days that followed, she was repeatedly on her bedroom carpet after slithering out of her cocktail dress and undergarments, bidding Morris to follow her lead and come on down on top of her. With little more than a month of practice, Morris Fourbears pronounced his fellatio technique sufficiently honed, and he told Claudia he was ready to find his fated woman.
Perhaps too quickly—perhaps much too quickly—Claudia Whitehawk immediately made an exaggerated show of getting up off the floor and going to retrieve her outsized purse, of reaching in and groping about and then eventually and triumphantly coming up with a box of blue-tip wooden matches. She further made a point of constantly balling and unballing her right hand into a fist in front of Morris’ nose. Then she proudly struck one of the matches across Morris Fourbears’ now-zippered fly, and as the flame came to full-fledged life, she almost over-yelled, “Let’s go forth and prepare my meal, Mo, and then we can chow down on one another forever!” But Fourbears (to either his wisdom or his folly) refused to believe in Claudia Whitehawk. He thought nothing she had done or promised to do would convince him otherwise, and he simply told her, “I just don’t think you’re the one.” He paused in the palpable silence that followed and patted his own crotch several times as if to console it; then he stood up and walked away, not all that long after the match Claudia had struck and continued to hold was completely consumed by its fire.
When everyone moved away from North Dakota towns like Temple, the buildings left behind faced eternity with a hardness or softness of demeanor that more or less matched what they were made of. No surprise, then, that to the furious winter wind, a granite mansion was entirely stoic, while to a far gentler spring zephyr, a clapboard bungalow moaned and groaned, and it’s that aching out loud that first drew the attention of Morris Fourbears to a once-white wooden house. Morris and his relatives soon came to stand at different compass points and different distances (up to something like a tenth of a mile) from the house. They typically held vigil for several hours at a clip, at all times of the day and in all kinds of weather. Then days came when they no longer appeared near the house, when it might have seemed to someone who knew of their recent visits that they either no longer wished or needed to bear witness to this deserted dwelling. It’s the latter conclusion—that they no longer felt it necessary to form a surrounding presence—that was correct. For the Fourbears clan—and very much Morris in particular—believed they now had what they wanted from the house.
Well, almost. They had certainly learned beyond any reasonable misinterpretation that if Morris could get a particular woman to torch the house and then consume a fistful of the ashes, the woman would remain Morris’ loyal and lifelong lover, provided each gave the other oral sex at least once every other day. What remained undiscovered, however, was even a single clue as to the identity of the woman. (Older members of the Mandan tribe wondered additional things, such as whether Morris and/or the woman might live forever; how many children they might have; and how pain- and/or hunger-free they might be for however long they lived.) But Morris for his part stayed focused on trying to find out exactly who the woman was and when the orbit of her days would cross his own. More precisely, when would he start getting regularly greased, and how soon in advance should he set up (probably with his childhood buddy, Claudia Whitehawk) a practice schedule to perfect his muff diving skills?
Morris decided to be proactive, and he encountered no problem getting Claudia to help him. As Morris related to her his family’s recent involvement with the deserted wooden home that often sounded alive and in agony; as he related the moaning-and-groaning prophecy about a woman who would set the house afire, consume a measure of its ashes, and then share oral sex with Morris for life; and as he confessed his need in all fairness to be able to give as good as he expected to get, Claudia signaled her understanding and willingness to render assistance. In days that followed, she was repeatedly on her bedroom carpet after slithering out of her cocktail dress and undergarments, bidding Morris to follow her lead and come on down on top of her. With little more than a month of practice, Morris Fourbears pronounced his fellatio technique sufficiently honed, and he told Claudia he was ready to find his fated woman.
Perhaps too quickly—perhaps much too quickly—Claudia Whitehawk immediately made an exaggerated show of getting up off the floor and going to retrieve her outsized purse, of reaching in and groping about and then eventually and triumphantly coming up with a box of blue-tip wooden matches. She further made a point of constantly balling and unballing her right hand into a fist in front of Morris’ nose. Then she proudly struck one of the matches across Morris Fourbears’ now-zippered fly, and as the flame came to full-fledged life, she almost over-yelled, “Let’s go forth and prepare my meal, Mo, and then we can chow down on one another forever!” But Fourbears (to either his wisdom or his folly) refused to believe in Claudia Whitehawk. He thought nothing she had done or promised to do would convince him otherwise, and he simply told her, “I just don’t think you’re the one.” He paused in the palpable silence that followed and patted his own crotch several times as if to console it; then he stood up and walked away, not all that long after the match Claudia had struck and continued to hold was completely consumed by its fire.
William C. Blome believes microfiction must avoid being fodder for macrofiction.
