literature

The Filly

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April 27


I wish Margaret had taken all the photographs when she left (her half, anyway). Too many fond memories turned bitter by her discontent with me. The reason she gave for departing was that I wasn't attracted to her anymore; at least not in the way she preferred. I am more self-aware than I once was, and the truth is I really never was attracted to her (or anyone else, for that matter) in that way. She was a loving companion to whom I could open my innermost feelings and neurotic tendencies, but that's all she was- a companion. Not a lover in the traditional sense; not to me, anyway. Curse the insinuations of this tiny gold collar around my finger.


Still, that was months ago, and I've grown accustomed to the idea of living out my days alone; I almost prefer it, in fact. I also hear that one of my old students just got a book published and is enjoying fruitful success. Every time I see my former colleagues, they congratulate me, telling friends around them things like, "Xander (or, mistakenly and un-mistakenly, Alex) really did a bang-up job with that boy". I always remind them it wasn't my victory. He had solved the puzzle of prose; all I did was provide a few small pieces. Sometimes retirement is a bore, but at least now I have a limitless amount of time to lose myself in books. And of course I've taken up journaling again. Friends have skimmed my writing and gaze upon the less-than-eloquent entries with amusement. I explain that those were the times I was particularly upset, needing to simply vomit out words with no regard to how they meet the eye or slip off the tongue. The days following Margaret's exodus were filled with such literary excrement.


My hobbies manage to keep loneliness at bay. For one thing, I collect paintings and sculptures of horses- rearing, bucking, galloping through water in the light of a misty sunrise. Marvelous creatures. Their bodies are a perfect source of aesthetic pleasure to me. The muscles of their necks and legs bulge as if they were struggling to contain the power within. Nothing is superfluous in their design. I long to feel the hot fuel that must course through the veins of such a spirited, vital creature. Margaret once painted a pony on a small canvas, but the colors were too garish for my taste, and the animal's body looked like a half-stuffed potato sack. I humored her at the time and said it looked fantastic. That one ended up in the attic.



May 12


I now feel a sort of lightness, as if someone removed my organs and implanted a large balloon in their place. A few days ago, a new family moved in next door. They rung my bell to introduce themselves to me. Hi, we're the Masons, they say. Just moved up here from Covington. The parents seem clean and respectable enough, but the girl… The girl is a thing of radiance. Her hair cascades in waves of honey from the fount of her skull, surrounding umber skin flecked with freckles, like a dappled filly's flank. Her slender limbs seem to vibrate with contained energy, and her breasts resemble gently sloping, snow-covered hills in that white tank top. How I ache to drape my arms around that full, womanly torso, and rest my fingers on the curve of her hip. Her eyes are dark holes that emanate an inner warmth. How I wish I could burrow into them for comfort in the face of life's weariness. Her name is Chloe, a name I occasionally whisper to myself in the dark simply to feel it nudge through my teeth and sculpt my lips. I long to feel the touch of anything remotely related to her.



June 2


Had to get out today; clear my head. No vehicles, just my own pent-up, ravenous energy driving every step. These sudden ambulatory urges are hardly uncommon. They have become increasingly frequent since the Masons' arrival.


I follow the same route every time: First, I stroll down the side of the road and into town, past the city hall rotunda and humble storefronts of dozens of local businesses, from the bakery to the florist to the antique shop. I always find sunburned neighbors from the south waddling past, drawling on about friends and cousins who once lived here, towing leash-bound cherubs behind them. I love walking through the town square in the spring, wishing I could keep the sweet musk of cherry blossoms forever swirling in my nostrils. Pity I have no one to share it with.


I skirt the treacherous roundabout, glancing at our town's vigilant founder, perched on a peaceful phallic column in the midst of madness. Then, I move back along the pale sidewalks towards a familiar picket fence. I meet the white, triangular muzzle propped up by two long fangs guarding a rough, ruddy maw and a luminous uvula. My house, looking prim and chipper, exactly like all the others in the cul-de-sac. It's all so pleasant.



June 11


Every day she puts on music after she returns from school. It thumps through her closed window and over the fence to me, accompanied by a muffled female alto belting out the chorus. She never tries to mold her voice to the singer's. Possessing her own unique timbre is enough. Not exactly the mellifluous strains of Chopin, mind you, but I leave my window open all the same.



July 5


I sit in the darkened upper story of my house, allowing the afternoon sun to fall unfettered on my floor. I gaze out my window to see her frolicking in her pool. She contorts her form into the most fascinating shapes. She curls into a ball, stretching the skin of her back tight against the miniature mountains of her spine. Other times, she raises her elbows behind her head, reducing her navel to a tiny slit in the smooth expanse of her belly. Her powerful legs propel her forward with a minimum of effort. Twirling and twisting and gliding and writhing. The flattening filter of the water's surface cannot conceal this young nymph's lithe dance from me. Occasionally she emerges from the depths, shaking excess water from her hair, wiping her face with both hands. She grins to herself before playfully pinching her nose and descending once more. Oh, to be that young again, to know that kind of honesty in a smile, to have that kind of integrity… At last she pulls herself from the water's grip and pads toward her towel, wrapping herself in its prickly embrace. She turns so the sun hits her just right, making her flank glisten. The final drops from her suit form a trail on the concrete behind her, like someone weeping, bereaved at her departure. The pool's ripples and waves settle down and smooth out. He's alone now.



July 16


She cooks on occasion. It is a skill she has been honing with increasing frequency these days. I often hear the whirr of an eggbeater and detect the smell of chocolate and peanut butter wafting towards my house. She will usually knock on my door to provide me with samples of her work, asking for my humble opinion. The dishes are superb every time. Tonight she brought me a recipe of her own design: cooked broccoli topped with cheese and cinnamon, wrapped in white tortilla bread. I took the Tupperware container and thanked her cordially, as always. Though I can't be sure, she may have blushed as I said it, and as I absorbed this revelation, a small flicker of electricity flitted through my breast and startled my heart. I moved into my dimly-lit den, sank into my couch and laid the food before me on the coffee table. I gingerly ventured into the warm, moist, biting taste sensations she had prepared for me. She had touched every one of these with her bare hands, I realized. I turned every morsel over and over with my tongue, hoping I may taste her fingerprints. I take in every bite like that: slowly, savoring it.



July 21


Today she knocked on my door, meeting my gaze with a frightened look, wondering if I had seen her dog. He had run away while she was in the shower. Her hair was still damp, and as I sharply inhaled upon learning of the missing canine, I caught a whiff of her shampoo. I breathed it in more deeply. It was tart and fresh; apple and citrus extract, I'd wager. It caused large, warm bubbles to swell in my chest. I curtly expressed my intention to keep an eye open for the dog and wished her luck before gently shooing her away. Once inside, I fumbled around for my keys and marched into the garage with the briskest stride possible. I had to identify the proper scent while it still hung so potent in my nasal passage. I hastened to the supermarket (I'm surprised I wasn't ticketed) and immediately sampled all the shampoo, conditioner, body wash and women's perfume I could find. Some smelled even more enticing than the one I was after, but I shunned them. I wanted hers. An employee asked if I needed assistance; I croaked "No" in a voice that wasn't my own. After eons, I finally found it, proceeding to shell out a crinkled wad of cash for three bottles of the fragrance that had weakened my knees. Now I resolve to use the shampoo at least once per week, and every time I do, I spread copious amounts on every surface my fingers can reach. I want to smell what she smells.



August 13


I've been seeing a boy over there lately. His visits are growing more and more regular. Just arrives unannounced all the time. Makes me want to vomit. Do her parents know about this? More later.



August 17


Leaned against the fence this afternoon, whittling a stick with my pocket knife. Watching, waiting.


That kid's car pulled into view and came to rest on the side of the street, right on schedule. He slammed the driver's side door and began ambling across the Masons' lawn when I stopped him.


Say, boy- come here for a second.


I beckoned him over with the most affable grin I could muster. Glancing from me to her house and back again, he tentatively made his way into the realm of my forced friendliness.


You're C- (somehow, in that moment, I couldn't bear to utter her name) Chloe's friend, aren't you?


Yeah. ("Yeah", young fellow? How witty, how novel.)


You've been seeing…quite a lot of her lately, haven't you?


Um, yeah, we're going out. (Upon hearing this, I clenched the stick tighter in my spindly digits and shaved off a thick curl of wood. He shifted awkwardly.)


Yeah, so um, I'm Todd, by the way.


Todd. Well, Todd, here's a bit of advice for you: Don't fuck things up with that one. Otherwise it'll come scrape back scrape to haunt you.


At this point the stick resembled a prison shank, its discarded layers of skin lying helpless at the kid's feet. He shook the fresh shavings off his shoe and met my eyes, and I couldn't help but relish the fear I detected in his.


W-well, uh…I'll keep that in mind. Nice to meet you, Mr.-?


Hudson. Xander Hudson. (I extended my hand, choking back the bile.) A true pleasure. Todd.


He took my hand in his firm yet yielding grip. His palm was rough and sweaty. Is this the kind of man she allows to touch her? A second or two passed and I realized I was holding on too long. I released my half of the handshake and jovially nodded him on his way. I watched him saunter up to her doorstep and did not avert my gaze until the door had opened and closed behind him. I lowered my hands behind the fence and, with some effort, snapped the stick in two before stalking back into my lair.



August 30


Chloe, Chloe. Your name rings in my ears like that bell on your bike handle. Pring-pring, pring-pring. Chloe, Chloe. Oh, if only I were a few years younger; then I'd take you for my own. I'd stretch you out and caress every bit of you, from your gently sloping contours to that skin like suede beneath my fingertips. But I'd always respect you, always act the gentleman, unlike that "Todd" you're so fond of. Todd. What a dull, uninspiring moniker. I can guess what he wants to do, and I simply will not stand for it. It isn't right. You are too splendid a treasure to be tainted by mere mortal carnality. You must remain pristine, unspoiled, as is fitting for every great work of art. If that punk ever touches you, I just might have to wring his neck.


(I write entries like these and throw them away, but they don't quell the nightmares.)



September 2


I wake in cold sweats these days. Every night I rouse myself to look upon the angular, black-and-white composition of my bedroom and wonder where I am. Just now I experienced the recurring dream again. The stallion is just as wild, the scaffolding as flimsy as ever. As always, I can't control him and he destroys everything. The screeching in my ears is typical, as is my falling to my doom at the end. Granted, I always wake up before hitting the ground, but this is getting ridiculous.



September 5


I must stay awake. Sleep holds no solace for me anymore. Even these words I write only dull the pain instead of curing it. I have two choices: fall asleep to horrors that will surely drive me mad or remain conscious for things that only may achieve that end. Still, my hands are shaking and I am running out of coffee. The world outside is gray and tense, with rain spattering the glass door in my kitchen and thunder rumbling not far off. It's times like these when I actually miss Margaret.



September 9


A miracle occurred this evening. I stood at my window, trapped in my own morose little hovel as usual, watching Chloe play with her dog in the day's waning, yellow light. She touched her forehead to his, scratching his ears, smiling. Just as she was called inside for dinner, I saw them. I saw them from my second-floor window. Perhaps the encroaching insanity heightened my senses. I told myself I was only seeing things, but I had to be sure. With the most efficient blend of stealth and casual attitude I could muster, I crept downstairs and out onto my lawn. The dog sniffed around on the other side of the fence, oblivious to my presence until I let out a low whistle and met his eyes with a scrap of old bacon pinched between my fingers. He took the bait beautifully, trotting over, tail a-swing, placing his front paws high on the fence. As he snatched the meat from my left hand, I removed the flaxen hairs from his collar with my right. Seconds later I realized it was too perfect to be true.


Mr. Hudson?


Chloe. (Here I slipped the hairs into my pocket as casually as possible.) I was just giving a treat to old Rover here…


His name is Max, and he's had his dinner, thanks.


Oh Max, of course, of course. (I let out an unnaturally loud chuckle. She did not reciprocate.)


Did you take something off his collar just now?


Just a bug, I lied.


Right. Well, we'd better head in. (She took her mongrel by the collar and began leading him toward the house. Suddenly, she rounded on me once more.)


My boyfriend said you threatened him.


I-I was just making conversation-


Bullshit. (Oh, why must this angel sour her lips with such a foul word? The sinking realization that I had brought her to such a state cut through my core and left me breathless.)


I was only-


No.


She turned away, shaking her head, raising her hand as if to shield herself from me. The dog reluctantly followed her and the glass door snapped shut with a bang behind them.


No. So the answer was no, then.


I plodded numbly back into my house, locking the door behind me. She wouldn't have me.


No matter.


I now have five of her hairs. I will always keep them safe, sealed in a small plastic bag, so that someday, when scientists begin cloning humans, I shall have a Chloe of my own- maybe two or three. Perhaps they will be more compliant.



October 10


Lost the hairs. Too angry to write anything more.



November 23


I have decided. I am going away for a long vacation, and do not expect to return. That house and that town were making me crazy. Too many memories. As I write this, I am on a bus heading west. Perhaps I'll find comfort on a ranch somewhere- a ranch with horses. Marvelous, dangerous creatures. Speaking of which, I sold all my equine art, save that small canvas Margaret painted. I can't help myself; I love it, clashing colors, anatomical fallacies and all. In the end, I did write a letter to Chloe expressing all my feelings for her (keeping things anonymous, of course), ending on a high note and wishing her the best of luck in all future endeavors. If there is any justice in this world, she will find someone who admires her the way I did. Yet something still lingers in me- a particle of grime stuck to the back of my brain. Perhaps it is the hope that, as I reach into my coat pocket, my fingertips will brush against the pliant edge of a small, plastic bag.  



  


      




  


The tale of a strange old man and his forbidden something (love? lust?) for his teenage neighbor. This, like Gifted, was also written for my creative writing class. And no, I've never read "Lolita" but would very much like to someday.
© 2012 - 2024 Liketheisland
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prettyflour's avatar
This has been featured in my journal!

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