fwriction

“Before he could repeat his warning his mother had seized him by the arm from behind, yanking him to the back of the house with warnings not to speak to the strangers.”

—from Josef K. Strosche’s “The Tourists”

“He observed that there were new people in the car this time. Last fall there were two men, one middle-aged and one elderly. This time, the boy noticed as he crouched in his vantage point, obscured by the shrubs and the side of the house, a teenaged boy wearing shorts and a T-shirt got out of the passenger seat and helped the old man out of the backseat. Then a woman got out from the other side of the backseat, and finally the middle-aged man from the driver seat. They moved slowly to accommodate the old man. He bent over as he walked, hooking his arm inside the teenager’s. Last fall, the boy noted, the two men just stood in front of the house, exchanging only a few, unintelligible words. The old man pointed now and again, and the man who was likely his son nodded his head, perhaps signaling that he was listening, perhaps signaling that he understood even.

That was on a Sunday too, the boy remembered. His mom had wanted to go for a walk—something they seldom did, which she claimed was regrettable. So when she’d finally convinced her husband that his mother, who had a room upstairs, was feeling well enough to come along, they fetched their jackets and changed their shoes. That’s when they first noticed the presence that the Mercedes carrying the two foreign men, parked in the exact spot where it was parked now.”

—from Josef K. Strosche’s “The Tourists”

“I decide on java alone, taking my mug
into my study, turning on the computer
and waiting for my chance to check
the messages that I sense contain something
about the National Book Award, along
with the President’s plea to help him shore up
the country and his promise to offer me 
for my wise counsel an Ambassadorship to Sweden,
if I want it—naturally, like every other day.”

—from Tim Suermondt’s “The Meaning”

“…The man will sit in his
tattered but faithful chair,
readying himself 

for another passable night
and try to ignore
the city’s parade of sirens…”

—from Tim Suermondt’s “Ahoy in the Neighborhood”

In Oregon, some years later, the truth about the hair came out. My mother told us, over dinner one night, that our father had been in a rock band, that he had played guitar and keyboards, and that he was the lead singer. 

We didn’t believe it. 

“But it’s true,” she said. “It’s why he still always has to dress in black. And do you know what his name was? Eric Axe.” Then she giggled.

“Eric Axe?!” we asked in disbelief.

“Yes, he would even carry a medieval axe on stage with him, and there was his long flowing hair, this crazy man. Who did I marry?”

My father was embarrassed and smiled and looked down. “That’s not who I am anymore,” he said, but the shadow of it was growing all around him, and we could see it coming alive.

—from Matthew Müller’s “Samson”

“My mother came home one night while we were still living in Germany and sat next to my father at the table and touched his hair, lifting a section, thinking, lifting another black swoop, examining. He kept eating, trying to ignore her, smiling at us and raising his eyebrows to signify that he did not know what it meant and wasn’t trying to think about it. But we all knew something was coming, and we grinned, waiting for what it would be.”

—from Matthew Müller’s “Samson”