7 Stories With 7 Pictures

7 Stories with 7 Pictures
by K. Stein
Laundry The man who lived in 407 was widely known to have never, not once, hung out his laundry. Instead, each morning, he would clip up all manner of things onto his clothesline. A set of cheap steak knives, sunglasses in every shade but black, old and yellowed pages of sheet music. Once he even managed to hang three sets of dentures, a private joke laughing at the world. The last thing he hung up was a knit cap, in three shades of blue. It held fast through the end of spring, all of summer and until the wind began to bite in October. Then, when the new couple moved into 407 they took it down. And everyone acted relieved when the wife pinned up a set of yellow and orange sheets that only occasionally became twisted in the wind.

K. Stein kevchanwow@gmail.com
The Closing of the Ocean
During the first week of November, all the police officers leave their clean pressed uniforms on the front steps of the houses or the landings of their apartments. Anyone is free to pick them up, put them on, and see what it is, this work of being an officer of the law. My brother is a cop and lately his eyes get kind of wobbly when he talks about work, which isnt often. Hes in charge of keeping people off the beach at night. Too many accidents of late, so theyve decided to close down the ocean until summer. And my brother was the one chosen to make sure it stayed shut down, nice and tight. No one breathing in the briny air. No one gazing as the waves lapped the sand off the rocks jutting out like bones in the night. No old men showing off the fur on their chests as, steaming, they pawed their way out of the water into the early morning air. Gotta close down the ocean, my brother would say. As if it actually meant something. And maybe it did. And not only to him. Because this year the uniforms remained where they had been placed, untouched all week. But every night the beach was littered: littered with footprints, littered with the strained whispers of lovers groping for a few more moments, littered with kids laughing like they already had tomorrow rolled up tight and tucked safely away in their pockets. At least, until the end of the week.

Without Flames For years and years we debated building the fire without the flames. In the summer, ever year, a child, at least one, would dance too close to the pit and a spark, landing on a bare leg, or hand, or worst of all cheek, would leave an angry burn. And for a moment the soft murmuring that was a sign that summer was nearly over, that we must all get used to the close company of winter rooms and long evening stories again, would be broken as mothers poured cool water over red skin and someone ran for a cream to keep the scar away. But in the end, we decided that as many problems as the flames might cause, without their flickering, we wouldnt know how to say goodbye and let go of the summer without them.

Candles up tight When August slid into September and the heat finally broke and the sun started sinking earlier and earlier at night, people in one neighborhood, on just this side of the rail tracks, decided that they hadn't finished with summer yet. So they started the candle parties. a husband Women gathered the nubs of home from a first day of candles long forgotten. Candles used to welcome work. Cinnamon candles used to chase away the smell of nowhere to go. Star shaped candles grown dusty on a child's bookshelf, never lit, never planned to be lit. All these candles, flickers of what was, or had appeared to be, or really hadn't been. All these candles washing the porches in light. All through September and October the people kept on and on, laughing like having an itch scratched with a bark brush. Sighing like a puff of cloud framing the moon. Keeping on and on until the first snow fell. But the candles remained there, on the porches and in the yards. Small reminders of something. Almost buried, or perhaps just tucked up tight in all that white.

Story of Windows In my city, every room must have a window. It makes no difference if it only looks out on a slab of gray concrete, or a brown and weedy empty plot, or even an orchard of gnarled apple trees bursting with autumn reds and golds. All that matters is that there is a window and one can look out. And, as if this was not civil enough, every person in my city (every single one) who wishes to look out of anothers window has the right to do so. You just knock on the door and ask. Maybe to look out on the terrible sadness of a blue neon sign for just a breath or two. Maybe to watch three new tulips proud and yellow until the steam thins as the coffee cools in your mug. Maybe to stare hard for a whole night at a patch of inky yet clear sky waiting to see the blinking light of a satellite sending a message to those in the know. Two times I have thought about using this right of gazing. Once, when I wished to remember how my father must have looked, young and healthy, ordering a red-hot on the street corner near our old apartment. Once, when the shouts of the children on the playground carried over the school wall and reminded me that I had forgotten how to skip. Still, I havent done it yet. Havent knocked and made a polite request that I know would just as politely be accepted. I feel that there will be greater needs to come. Sometimes, the unknown size of them keeps me up. Keeps me looking out my own window at a public mailbox hardly anyone uses anymore and a vending machine, the lights which are kindly turned off at 10 PM so as not to disturb the sleepers. I try to think of what kind of person would find comfort in this scene. I wonder what it would take until they could finally bring themselves to come and knock on my door.

In Boxes I had heard about the man of boxes. So I went to meet him. He wasnt fickle. He lived on the other side of town and anyone was free to visit him. You simple walked across the park, up the big hill, and turned left where the large gray buildings started to grow smaller. At the end of this road was his blue roofed house with the red shutters. The door was rounded and narrower than one might be used to. I had heard that he had been collecting boxes, all the boxes he could find for years and years. I had heard that he would accept into keeping anything that people wished for a stranger to hold. So I gave him the broken key I had finally dug out of the lock in the back door the other morning. I had nothing else. key had grown rusty over the years and left red streaks on my fingers. man smiled and nodded when I told him it didnt have any particular meaning. He walked away down the dark hall. He came back with a small green velvet lined box that pulled open like a drawer. It was only after he slipped the broken key into the box that I noticed tears, just two or three, running down my cheeks. The The box

101 Buses In my town there are 101 busses that run over 101 bus routes. Some of the busses have deep blue seats that rock back and forth slowly, slowly. Lovers often fall asleep until the end of the end of the line and laughing nervously, wake up just in time to rush home before they are missed. In my town everyone takes the bus. You can see them through the green tinted windows. Curiously enough, almost no one will be looking back at you.


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