Once, I Dreamed a Story That I Forgot to Write Down
It began somewhere in the middle. The characters were a couple, I think. There was confusion. And anger, I remember. A death, maybe? Or a difficult birth? Perhaps a stillbirth? The kind of tragedy that would cause any couple confusion. And anger. Like what happened to my godparents when they lost their only child the day he turned five. I was ten-years old at the time. I remember hearing that he died during open heart surgery to repair the hole he was born with. I remember my godparents’ confusion at the funeral. And anger later at the wake. I remember all the children were forced to stay in the family room where rows of food had been laid out on folding tables while the adults stayed in the kitchen. I remember how much I liked the hamburger casserole that their next-door neighbors, the Clancys, had brought. And I’ve never forgotten the Clancy’s pet racoon, Bandit (of course), that they also brought to keep the children occupied. Mrs. Clancy had trained Bandit to play peak-a-boo. Every time he lifted his tiny bony paws away from his eyes and made “jazz hands” in the air, all the children squealed and giggled. I remember hearing between the laughter some of the adults crying in the kitchen. Some of them whimpered; some of them wailed; some of them coughed. All of them sounded like animals of one kind or another. I remember that when my godmother threw her hi-ball glass at the wall, my mother and father grabbed my hands and led me to the car. On the ride home, the only sound other than the car’s engine and my father’s long drags on his cigarette was the static-song-static-song-static of the radio as my mother searched for something to fill the silence. I remember I wanted to ask why my godmother had thrown her glass at the wall. But I stopped myself before the words could pass my lips. I also remember thinking to myself that deciding not to ask meant something. I wasn’t sure exactly what, but I was pretty sure it had something to do with growing up. I remember thinking that the next time my father told me to be the man of the house while he was away on one of his many business trips, I would take it more seriously than I ever had before. I remember both of my parents tucked me in that night. And I remember the warmth of their lips when they kissed me on the forehead before turning out the light. I remember that it was less than a year later that my godparents divorced. That was more than forty years ago. Neither my parents nor I ever saw either of them again.
~
Shadow Orphanage
The gossamer shadows always find a home. Everybody wants to cast the faintest shadow on the world. That’s why sunrise and sunset shadows are the shadows most chosen by people. Those narrow, shallow shadows stretch away and away forever, like infinite guitar strings just waiting to be plucked into song. I never get adopted. Admittedly, I’m a deeper, more opaque shadow than all the other shadows around me. I wouldn’t go as far as saying I’m a dark shadow, but I’m not faint by any stretch of the imagination. Still, though, I never get picked. I want to yell out to all those people who pass me by, “The depth of a shadow has no bearing at all on anyone’s emotional state! I’ve been told on more than one occasion that I have the soul of a poet!” But I keep quiet. Nobody wants an opinionated shadow. I want to tell anyone who will listen that I can be just as gregarious as the next shadow. I want to reassure everyone that I smile all the time. And yes, I realize that no one can see a smile on a shadow. But it’s there. Or not, if the person listening to me prefers a more stoic shadow. The truth is, I’ll be whatever kind of shadow anyone needs me to be, albeit just a little deeper than most. Afterall, I don’t have a choice, really. On the off chance that anyone should ever claim me, I’m theirs to do with what they will for the rest of their life and mine.
~
Kip Knott is a writer, poet, photographer, and part-time art dealer living in Ohio. His writing has appeared in Beloit Fiction Journal, Bending Genres, Best Microfiction 2024, Flash Fiction Magazine, Ghost Parachute, HAD, New World Writing Quarterly, 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 Bluesky at @kiptain.bsky.social and read more of his work at www.kipknott.com.