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The Hall of Fame - February 1999 |
Antiquary of Souls
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| Destiny Lane crowned the
top third of Kettle Creek Mountain before
plunging down the west face like a slick tongue unfurling
out of a
rattlesnake's mouth. The road scissored through the dense
forest, sheering away the edges of grazing pastures and
weaseling around slabs of rock deposited by the great Ice
Age. Just before it hit the south end of route 611, the road
turned evil. It poured down the last quarter mile of
mountain like a black river, skimmed the east side of
Piddler's Antique Shop, and washed out at the base of
a crooked stop sign. At the corner where the traffic on route 611 played chicken with the cars skating down Destiny Lane, Piddler's Antique Shop welcomed potential buyers with a tantalizing glimpse into the pleasures of collecting. Customers visiting the shop had to turn right from the west bound lane of Destiny Lane, or left off 611 into an asphalt parking lot. A sprint across ten feet of pavement and a nimble bound up two cement steps led to a solid oak door. For an avid collector, paradise became accessible with a simple twist of a brass knob. The proprietor must have worked in, or lived near, a shoe factory at sometime during her sixty-five years. Shoe racks of all sizes crowded around the inner walls of her store. Some perched on saucer-shaped feet and displayed rectangular cigar boxes, cast-iron pots, or Amish storage boxes. Propped against the east wall of the shop, hybrid shelves, crafted from leftover pieces of furniture, overflowed with wooden factory spools, milk glass, and weird culinary utensils from the Thirties up to the not-so-long-ago Eighties. Regardless of the vast number of antiques in her shop, Miss Hob collected with an outer eye for the uniqueness of an item and an inner eye for its soul. Every antique in her shop came with an intimate history and, more importantly, a clean bill of sale. After fifty years of wading through trash and treasure, she understood some things weren't destined for the racks at Piddler's Antiques. Old things, she claimed, carry the smell of the previous owner's soul. Usually it's only fermenting memories, but sometimes there's a sticky feel to a thing and a God-awful stench that puts to mind how bad feelings hang on, too. Maybe it's hate, maybe guilt. It's best to let those things pass by. You never know what kind of a collector might be following that scent. That's why Miss Hob purchased a twenty foot counter salvaged out of a bankrupt candy store in downtown Stroudsburg. Twenty-five cubby holes on each side of the piece gave her the space to stock beeswax ornaments, tapered candles, and thirty-two varieties of floral sachets. She set out wooden bowls on top of the counter and filled them with old fashion hog soap or lard-based hand creams. The fragrances stifled the odors haunting her collection. On a chilly Tuesday in February, two weeks after old Punsxutawney Phil failed to see his squat little shadow, a stranger parked his 1979 Bronco against the east side of Piddler's shop. Miss Hob was standing beside the candy counter auditing her cash box when she spied the turtle green paint through one of the two windows that peeked out at Destiny Lane. She wondered why anyone would risk blocking the road instead of using the parking lot in front of the store. Seconds after that thought, the front door flew open and a gangly boy-man leaped into her shop. With his jacket swelling out around his lean torso and his greasy hair stuck to his swarthy face, the stranger charged across the floor. The boy-man slammed his fist down on the counter. His grimy fingers popped open, revealing a small figurine no bigger than the palm of his hand. "How much?" he said. His watery eyes flipped from her face to the open cash box. Miss Hob looked at the faceless statue. A mumble of distant thunder made the glass in the windows shiver. The candles in the bins rattled like hollow bones. Along the back wall, the spools clattered and the kitchen utensils trembled. As she stepped back, one of the tin ladles that hung from a fishing line suspended above the counter fell and struck her left pinkie. "I don't want it in my shop," she whispered. Boy-man sneered. He swiped a fist full of twenties out of the cash box. "Take your statue," she said. He scooped up the tainted sculpture, darted past the quivering soaps, and plunged into the russet light outside her shop. Miss Hob's eyes snapped to the window. The dented flank of the Bronco bounced up and down like a see-saw. The innards of her shop quaked. Several vases dropped off the trembling shoe racks. Something big slammed into the east side of her store--right between the two windows. It struck with the density of flesh and bone hitting granite. Whatever it was, it popped out the glass in both windows, cracked the wall studs, and left a bulge in the paneling the size of a Volkswagon Beetle. The racks collapsed. Precious memories spiraled across the floor. Miss Hob heard the frantic squeal of spinning tires. The bulge lurched, then rolled horizontally across the wall towards the front of her store--directly at the window where the green truck bucked and twisted like a crazy nag at a rodeo. She watched the paneling buckle section by section. A mottled coat, still gooey with sulfurous grit, passed the window and wiped the Bronco out of existence. Miss Hob cupped her hands over her nose and mouth as a torrid mist, speckled with bits of tar and ash, flowed into her store. She shut her eyes against the burning heat. Outside the window, Boy-man screeched like a bird caught between the teeth of a feral cat. His terror saturated the mist until she tasted his dying sweat on her lips. Miss Hob crouched against the candy counter. She tucked her head between her bony knees and spat fervent child prayers while the Devil took his due. Hours later, when she had gathered the courage to go out and peer at the empty road, she smelled Boy-man's blood in the ribbons of steam that trickled off the surface of Destiny Lane. Copyright ©1999 Laurel Wilczek. All Rights Reserved |
Irreparable Damage
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| You and I Damaged irreparably And it only took A few moments Swords of emotion Verbal knives In anger In time, the wounds will heal But you and I together Copyright ©1999 Sherry French. All Rights Reserved |
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