A Short Story

                             1.
Forget the store. If you want to do
it right, you have to feel the prick
of the thorn. Sounds masochistic. 
No, it's more about the ambience,
the heat of the sun bearing down
on you as sweat leaks into the 
hundreds of tiny cuts in your skin.
Why not grapes? Grapes don't work
for baking, it's about the toil, the
labor, it can't be faked. What are
you looking for? Later when the
cobbler is in the oven, the counter
has been wiped clean, I'll handle
washing the dishes, no really it's
fine, I know you like to be useful
but it's my mess, I'll handle it.

                             2.
What are you looking for? You missed
the fork, the turn back to town, 10
miles back in the direction you came.
A man in a helicopter descends like
God's cherubim and says, "You won't
find anything out here but unforgiving
wilderness where the elements will
take you like communion. You keep
going, let Jesus take the wheel because
God is good.

                               3.
What are you looking for? Art, beauty,
substance. A sonnet, a sestina, a
villanelle. I woke up that morning
and tucked a ray of sunlight behind
your ear and for the first time you
stayed for breakfast. I made crêpes
and then the howling. The blistering
wind blew the kitchen down around
us. God can't stand impatient line-
cutting.

                              4.
What are you looking for? Oh, you
know, same as anybody, I suppose.
That's a cop-out, what are you,
specifically, looking for? Oh, you
know me, I'm not too picky —
I chased that bastard whale to the
edge of the world. The salt clung
to my hair, I lived in sun-
chapped leather. A glass heart on
concrete, the rocks shattered the bow
of my ship. After I washed up on the
shore of the island, I just lay there
staring at the sky when I saw it. A
damn cloud, an improbably shaped
cloud had been all it was. It all went
up in a puff of smoke. Now we're
getting somewhere. So you're saying we
chase illusion? Well no, not exactly.
That's just it, that's the kicker. As I
lay there on the beach staring at my
smoke, the damned beast washed up
right next to me. Taunting. An
unspoken request. A dream and
nightmare just laying there. He
opened his maw and spoke, "I am
tired. I am ready. Tell me a short story
and I will stay with you." I coughed.
Bewildered, I spluttered. And when I
finally spit it out, the story hid and all
that left me was a mouthful of
seawater. And then the tide carried
him back out. So you want what you
can't have? Well now you're just putting
words in my mouth. What I wanted,
what I want is a short story.