The Flower Monger
The local news informs me this morning that they found his lifeless body curled beneath a multi-colored blanket of flowers lying atop a steaming grate outside the Capitol Building after the coldest night of the year. Over the years on my walk to and from work along the murky Scioto River, I saw him give away whatever he had scrounged: many pairs of sunglasses to squinting passersby on too-bright days; a rhinestone pendant to a woman who couldn’t stop crying at the bus stop; scads of loose change to patrons standing in line at the mobile coffee bar in the park; and enough of his handmade origami roses to cover a parade float. He told me once that everything he owned added up to nothing, and that the only possession he claimed for himself he kept safely squirreled away in some dark place he didn’t share with the world. He never accepted any offer of money and made no excuses for his life except to say that he should have learned how to swim. He called the fat-lipped carp he coaxed up from the river’s silty shadows with stale breadcrusts memories from his lost childhood. Once, I heard someone tell him they had seen him dreaming on a park bench, his arms and legs flailing as if he were sinking. Another time I heard someone else tell him that he was a danger to the community. I wish that I could say I knew him better. I wish that I could say I offered him a place to stay when the weather was against him. I wish that I could say I kept all the flowers he gifted me rather than tossing them into the trash before I even got to my office. All I can say is that I wasn’t surprised by the circumstances of his passing. He told me once how he would seek out steaming ventilation grates when the temperature dropped too low. He told me that he did so not to keep his body warm, but to keep all the paper roses he lovingly ripped and folded out of colorful scraps of trash for all those who passed by safe from freezing.
~
The Depressed Little Tooth
When the little tooth was the first of many teeth to push through gums, it immediately became the center of everyone’s attention. Deep in its root, though, the little tooth already knew it had nothing to live for. Yes, the little tooth knew it would soon be joined by other little teeth, and that together they would enjoy chewing soft foods for a while. But the little tooth also knew it would never grow into something permanent. The little tooth knew it was only a matter of time before it had no choice but to give up and let go of the jaw it called home. And, worst of all, the little tooth knew it was destined to spend the rest of its life in a tiny trinket box where it would never be allowed to take a bite out of anything ever again.
~
Inclement Weather
My son tells me the stormclouds are full of crying ghosts.
“Not rain,” he says.
“What’s thunder?” I ask.
“That’s God telling the ghosts he’s in charge.”
“And lightning?”
“That’s Mama lighting her cigarettes just like she used to do after dinner before she went to live in the clouds.”
~
Kip Knott is a writer, photographer, and part-time art dealer living in Delaware, Ohio. His writing has appeared in Bending Genres, Best Microfiction Anthology, Ghost Parachute, Maudlin House, Milk Candy Review, New World Writing, The Sun, trampset, Vestal Review, Virginia Quarterly Review, and The Wigleaf Top 50. His most recent book of stories, Family Haunts, is available from Louisiana Literature Press. You can follow him on Instagram at @kip.knott.