It began to end for her with an empty glass. Just taking it out of the dish washing machine, all warm and sparkling and clean and sleek feeling—so sleek it slipped. As though her fingers had momentarily forgotten the concept of to hold. As though the sleekness was too overwhelming. As though something she couldn’t quite put her finger, or fingers, on occurred.
The glass did not float or acrobatically tumble. It rocketed straight down and exploded on the tiles of the kitchen floor scattering glass particles every which way. Fragments shot passed her feet, rolled toward the dishwasher, under the refrigerator, bits bounced up against the nearest wall, a major glittering mess from such a insignificant mishap.
Next her bottle of pills slipped. Medicine spilled everywhere. She would find hidden oval-shaped pills for days to come in the most unexpected places, usually where dust gathered. She tried to put her arm in one sleeve of a favorite blouse but missed and let go, thinking her arm was in there, and the blouse ballooned and floated, as the glass had not, to the ground, a brief odd-shaped parachute. She leaned over with a grunt to pick up the blouse and she dropped the two earrings she had been holding in her other hand. She watched both land, each one beside her feet, one left, one right.
Recently her husband had fallen out of love with her and dropped her for someone he himself had fallen for, her daughter had dropped out of university and was dropping out generally, and by the end of the week the family cat had dropped dead. Her eye-drops had gone missing. The bottom had fallen out of the stock market. There was a drop-off in the outside temperature. Flies were dropping … like flies.
At the one local bookstore that still existed she went to pick up a book on dropping things. She had been told such books were located in the Self-Help section, which she didn’t like the sound of. Yet there she found several books addressing the subject, however the prose of the first pages of each one came off as too cheery, too supportive and encouraging and so positive sounding she resisted. The book told lots of stories from all sorts of different people who dropped things and how they cured, or coped, with this minor adversity. The book was targeted at a general readership of those people who were loosing their grip.
While reading a further five books on dropping things she dropped a scissors that pegged her thigh briefly. Her glasses broke into two pieces and she’d taped them back together, and the neighbor’s tiny dog fell from the nest of her usually secure arms and the doggie never quite trusted her again. Five ink pens at five different times of the day dropped from her fingers, the last three of which she just left lying there on the ground, and she also dropped her guard and bought something over the Internet and she dropped her latest suiter, or would have, if she had had one, but that was just part of her general feeling of ineptitude going a bit too far.
It was when her little finger on her left hand dropped off that she thought that maybe, really, there was something not right to all this. She reached down to pick up her little finger — unlike the cap to the bottle of ketchup, her knitting needles, an electricity bill, a banana peel and some objects she couldn’t quite quantify and finally had just left laying about — yet just as she gripped her fallen little finger, the two fingers gripping the fallen little finger fell, and now she was, at last, deeply alarmed. She got down on her knees to study the situation closer and her right kneecap flopped off. Using her lips, she tried to scoop up one of the three fingers laying on the floor — no longer trusting her fingers to stay put where they belonged — but just as she retrieved one finger in her mouth, her lower lip dropped off.
When her head suddenly wobbled, then went points south and just plain bounced and rolled to a spot near the bedroom door, she let it stay there. Right next to one of those pens. The way her life was going, she figured she wasn’t going to need her head.
Five weeks later lazy neighbors thought something slightly sinister might have occurred inside the eerily quiet house on the street. One called emergency services. Someone from social services dropped by on their way home and knocked on the door, rang the bell, put his face next to a front window, clapping his hands around his face to see in but couldn’t see anyone. He called a real emergency number the following day.
People who dealt with emergencies arrived and forced open the front door. Subsequent television news reports called the discovery inside “The Woman Who Fell Apart”.
“Bits and pieces of a longtime city resident, a female, were found in different areas of the house. Sources close to the investigation stated that fallen objects ranged from loose eyeballs to whole toe nails. Foul play has not been ruled out. There are currently no leads,” reported the television news reader. Within twenty-four hours, this local news event failed to pick up national coverage, so the news item on the woman who dropped things was dropped.
Posts Tagged ‘Vincent Eaton’
I mentioned recently my next book to see the light of life is Intimate Dialogues. Here’s the blurb I’m using to explain what readers can expect (a unavoidable commercial necessity).
Stories of people in confidential conversations. Dialogues between couples, whether two males, two females, male/female, old/young, couples, strangers, people and TVs or two dogs. On love, loss, hope, impropriety, friendship, death, anger, joy. Some are humorous, some fierce, most emotionally resonant. The talks occur in bars, in living rooms, in hospital waiting rooms, on building ledges, dentist chairs, therapists’ rooms, rest homes, usually face to face, rarely on phones. Always intimate.
My short video of greetings for the year 2013.
CLICK HERE TO SEE IT.
Promises made, promises kept.
I worked with graphic artist/cartoonist Jean-Louis Lejeune, who took my ideas about nice babies (being ridiculously good) and created a series of illustrations of these various ideas that can fit on t-shirts and fabrics and accessories. hidden people calls them “Polite Babies”.
These are babies who are very polite – to one another, their parents, themselves. They are comic, fun.
I put together a short video telling what they are like, how to get them, how to make your very own t-shirts just as you want (or want to give to a young ‘un you know). That’s it. For yourself, a kid, a friend, relatives….
To order (and view) if you are in Europe (and Asia) you can go here:
If you live somewhere in the Americas (and Asia?) you can go here:
But to see the 90 seconds video first to get an idea, click here:
SEE THE VIDEO.
Happy Polite Baby Days.
To date, my books, when offered as ebooks, have been available mostly on Amazon. Some people don’t particularly like Amazon’s business practices or too imposing online market share and shy away from doing business there, and I understand the reasoning. So, while my books appear on a number of competitive sites, perhaps one of the best alternatives is the independent KOBO, where my ebooks are now on offer.
My books are now available on KOBO. Click here.
That’s mostly it. Prices remain the same as on other sites (I try to keep that steady across platforms.) Announcement done.
Thanks for dropping by and having a read. – Vincent
A couple of years ago I posted a short-short story called Red Ball, which became rather popular and got comments like “breathtaking” and “This is great. Really creepy!” and “YES! Creepy… for sure.” and “Creepy is the word! Especially the 4th corner.” You can read the original story here.
Now I have gone and made a short video of it. I narrate it. You can see it by clicking on this sentence.
That’s it. Thanks for coming by. V+
In my clumsy, icky way, I’m “announcing” something I have thought and developed over ten years. Working with graphic designers and my brain for something I was calling stories on stuff. T-shirts designs and…whatever designs…. Couldn’t ever quite get it right to my fussy satisfaction. Kept delaying getting it out there. Wanted it to be perfect. Shot myself in the foot, both of them, feet, bang and bang. With big plans and great hesitation.
Enough. I say, enough.
If you are in the USA, North America generally, even the Americas, click right here to have a look!.
If you are in Europe or (what they call in the USA) “the rest of the world”, click right here to have a look see.
See if you like something you see.
I’ll get fancy, and develope this, and make videos, and broaden the graphic artists I work with, and work with different materials and outlets and ideas and soon comes polite babies and impolite adults and more kiddie things and in your face as well as on your back…but the main thing is, it is finally out there, out before Christmas (waaaaaaaaaaaay too late, but this was my deadline and I’m hitting it even if it is hitting me back), and and and, that’s it, for now.
Thanks for whatever you are about to do….
Experimentally, gingerly, for the first and last time in his life, the artist known as Smithy lifted his right eyelid, placed his right forefinger near the top of his left eyeball and gently but firmly drove that sucker around the orb and smack into his brain.
Once there, he tickled the frontal cortex gently. Something somewhere in him giggled. It was painful but that was where the jokes were located.
He pushed on.
As his finger dug toward the middle of his brain, he began to loose control of his legs. He sat, suddenly, down. His finger, playing at being a brain elevator, rose to the top of his brain, his skull, pushing lightly at various stimulating gray matter as it went, replaying his many memories. His past, his present, not much of his future. Many of his past pleasures were tucked up in there and he briefly fingered their joys, disappointments and the why why whys that still echoed and generally fumed darkly in there.
He moved on, his finger making a left turn at the rear of his brain where he came into a dense layer of smut he had always kept hidden, tucked back in there, just for emergencies. It throbbed and mutated and performed a lascivious dance just for him, as it always reliably did.
But he had no time for these varied once happily anticipated stimulations, as the thrusting journey his finger was taking had made his groin unresponsive, as his dick, his anus, his flaccid sack of lazy balls lolled lackadaisical, finished for good.
He did manage, before passing out of this life and into esoteric choices he would be surprised he would have to make on the other side of this worldly existence, he bumped up against the back of his skull. His fingernail scraped here, against the skull, and, as a last treat, and as a last idea, he went in for some inner urban art.
With his fingernail he scratched letters. It was hard going as his body was now giving up major motor functions at an alarming rate. He was blind, could not speak, and the hearing was dimming—no, there, it too was now gone.
As he died, as he slumped, as his spirit floated, as required, above his body, looking down, his finger gave up its ghost and slipped out of the gray matter, falling out of his head, his eyes boggling, leaving behind, distantly, on the inner wall of his damaged, lights-out brain, the simple ego words on the inside of his skull,
“Smithy was here.”