The Money Will Come

• You keep saying it’s a matter of time. But it’s not! It’s a matter of money.

• The money will come. Just be patient.

Again and again he said it.

• The money will come.

He rocked back and forth.

• The money will come.

By now he figured he would believe it. He looked at the ground, eyes drifting to a timepiece. The sundial’s measurement was dampened in the dusk. He looked up to his brother. Wild eyes stared back. He blinked. His brother softened for second, eyes pleading before storming up the steps and into the house. The wreath fell from the hook as the door slammed.

He gazed up, along the narrow driveway, stones and scattered leaves, yellow, red, orange pockmarking gray gravel surrounded by half empty trees. The setting sun echoing the leaves, yellow, red, orange above.

The chair creaked as he rose. He sighed as he bent down and flipped the wreath over. On the back, paint on wood, “Christmas ’82.” He eased it onto the hook, but thistles still fell. They always did.

• Soon you won’t be a wreath.

His brother opened the door, unseating the wreath, now airborne, now bouncing off the porch, now with fewer thistles. By the time he looked up, his brother was down the steps and at the car. They looked at each other one more time, his brother’s eyes red and nose running.

He had wondered about this moment. Every time he thought of a new thing to say, a new idiom, a new idea, a new goodbye, but in this moment there was nothing left. He smiled. It was the one thing he hadn’t thought of. His brother smiled back, grimaced, and shook his head.

The car came to life and rolled down the narrow driveway, faded maroon rolling over the yellow, red, orange, gray. Dust kicked up. It followed the car, rising above the half empty trees. It blanketed the sky and then frayed into a million threads.

In a breath a new dust rose in the distance.

He reset the wreath. Some thistles fell. The chair creaked as he sat. The dust approached.

• The money will come.

Dispatches From Hello

Sometimes when I lay in bed I'll wonder what life would be like if we didn't kill all those pigeons. Then I'll remember that, eventually, something else would have killed all those pigeons. And that makes me smile. Blame humans. We took one for the team. Well, a lot of ones. But for the team. Well, our team. But a team. Team.

———

After Eddie died someone told me that people die twice: first when they physically die and then again when we forget them or something. I don’t know. I wasn’t really paying attention. I was too busy trying to remember where we left Eddie’s corpse.

———

I heard that most stars are visible because they’re exploding. That was pretty comforting because when our sun explodes and kills us all, at least some being in another galaxy that will be able to look up and say, “Neat,” or use it to guide their ship to conquer some alien land. I think we all could appreciate that.

———

Marge never understood when I told her a stitch in time saves nine. Then again, Marge never had any arms so a lot of things were lost on her, like baseball and sign language.

Ditty Word Ditty

by Matt Brousseau

“I love you,” she says. “Let me count the ways..."

“Seven,” I laugh.

She gives me her dirtiest look, the one that poisoned the fish. Or maybe it just broke the filter. Either way, super dirty.

I ask, “Six?” She moves to high-five my face.

I duck and pick up our cat. He’s been coughing all day. Our eyes meet. He gives me a look that says, “Meow.”

Shuffling around the carpet I find my shoes. The cat’s hair stands on end. I open the bedroom door and rush out, both of us receiving a static shock from the doorknob. The cat meows and jumps to the floor, coughing four times, then following my electric wake.

I exit through a front door, forgetting to open the screen door. An important lesson about screens is learned. Blood rushes to fill the newly formed gaps in my skin.

Three seconds later she arrives with a two-handed shove. My body exits the house without opening the door. My mind, confused, stays inside to wait it out.

“Are we out of cereal?” It asks.

My feet answer by running to the car, the soft grass unnoticed until my toes hit the gravel driveway. Blood teams with rock dust to fill the newly formed cracks in my feet.

I open the driver-side door with my hand and open my head with the driver-side door frame. My mind returns as blood leaves my temple. “We’re out of cereal,” it says.

The cat jumps into the passenger side window. The soft thud reminds me to roll the windows down. They squeak as they fall. The cat meows as he lands, this time inside the car, this time with a look that says, “Meow?” I win our staring contest when he coughs.

My shopping list lays on my dash. I look at it as I turn the key in the ignition. “Buy Gas.” The engine starts. Then it purrs. Then it coughs and dies. I look at the cat. He smiles. Then he coughs.

I move to exit the car as she arrives. “And one more thing,” she says, her fist aimed at my head. I turn and my chin cushions the blow.

Abandoning the car, my face cushions the gravel driveway for my skull.

Somewhere a cat coughs.

My mind mumbles, "Blastoff," and exits.