// creative //
Spring 2016
On the Stones
Eleanor Stern
A man once lay in the street, near enough to the river to taste its green taste when he breathed, and as he lay there, he heard the march of sunburned, sweat-wrapped travelers. Now on this day, the moody sky had shaken down rain every few minutes, and it clutched sticky at the air. That disgusted the travelers, and so did the orange flowers near where the man lay, and so did the man. But they would not say so. Now the man rose and said, “Who allowed you on my street, which smelled like coffee and fried dough before you dripped your sizzling sweat on the stones? I’ll bite you each on your smooth knees, until one by one you fall down.”
The travelers rippled in disdain at the man’s scolding; their laughs splattered the man, and they stroked his gums with their fingernails to show him that he had no teeth with which to bite. But the man was scared of nobody while on this street of his. He knew where each hole and crack was on the ragged stones and had no fear of falling. His eyes were crossed, skin papery, body bitten by the sun over so many uncounted decades. He said, “You will not have this street, you will not feel the soft dirt blow into your cheeks when a dog walks by. I will pull out each of your sleek black hairs and scatter them over the stones.” The travelers felt, then, little frightened. They were boys with only the first itch of a beard stabbing their skin. They had heard that this street was the only place with any color left, just like one of the blood-glowing spots on the old man’s gray hands. Yet the man had not welcomed them. One boy let his fear fall, a sphere of sour inky breath thumping the stones.
“We want to live on these coffee-stained stones, we want you to teach us to live, to paint our tongues with colors and hear the music of the rain!” The boy said. They were sure that this street, where the man lived crusted with warm river-mud, was the place to shed their shiny and luxurious shells and let life really scrape its teeth against their necks. “Show us how you have become so true, so coated with life,” they begged. When wind stirred the garbage on the sidewalk, they inhaled, thinking: this is the smell of life! The man felt flattered. He let these travelers lie down beside him on the stones. When the puddles of rain dripped between the stones and softened the ends of his hair, the travelers hooted to one another, pointed at him, and then leaned over, their shirts crinkling, to wet the ends of their own hair. When the moon rose, the man said, “the moon is out,” and the travelers oohed, their awe settling in the space where the old man’s teeth used to be.
Soon they were taken by sleep, their snores quivering in the night. By this time the man’s belly was full of their flattery, but still he was hungry for more. If these travelers stuffed flattery into him like bread crusts, imagine the admiration he would be fed in the place these travelers came from: a sleek uncolored place where the crowds would marvel at the man, would try to cross their eyes in mimicry of him, would run to their kitchens and rub their skin with curdled milk and mold scraped off of vegetables so as to mimic his scent. While the travelers tried to lick the stones in their sleep and taste the dirt, the man rose. He went his way. He went in the direction from which the travelers had walked to him.
The highway in the nighttime was smooth as the tongues of the bony cats who had lived on the man’s street. Rolling, kicked along by night, the moon stayed just ahead of the man. He came to the city, the uncolored place. Night was lifting the moon up under her arm and beginning to retreat. The sleek buildings cut into the new day. They cut into the man’s eyes. For a long while the man was afraid to move, and could not even breathe the dustless, crisp-apple air of that place. At length an early riser came out from behind a sharp-cornered door. In a voice as sharp-cornered and glassy as his home, the early riser, whose first daughter was just born, said, “My child cannot sleep with your scent pooling under our door, like curdled milk and mold.” His sleek hair was tousled with disgust.
A shopkeeper then came out into the street. She was just feeling her bones creak under the press of old age, and in that city, creaking was not allowed. In her distress she scolded, “I am trying to open my shop, and here you are, like a poor dead animal and your hair like an animal’s wet belly. You are heavy on my eyes. I cannot work.” Now the man was angry. The travelers, he thought, would have kicked him, would have turned him out of their own city. They would take his street from beneath his feet, but he could not step on theirs. And then a man with crossed eyes, his skin papery with age, turned the corner. He leaned on a shining cane, and his coat was soft and luxurious as a king’s mustache.
He looked for a moment at our old man, the one who used to lie on the stones. And our old man said, “My belly is as empty as ever and it is your fault.” For they had not wanted him in their city, they had not thought him an epiphany, had not stuffed him with admiration. Then he fled back down the highway. When he came back to his street, the sun was dripping heat onto the travelers. They greeted him wailing and lamenting. One of them pulled the man aside, onto the curb, and tickled his ear whispering that “all of these travelers have made this place as sleek and white as every other.”
A second traveler snatched the man away by the wrinkly skin of his neck and said, “all of these travelers have made this place as sleek and white as every other.” And then each of the travelers took him aside and whispered this, until the man had no choice but to cover himself in the river’s mud and lie down in the stones, pretending not to hear them.
The travelers rippled in disdain at the man’s scolding; their laughs splattered the man, and they stroked his gums with their fingernails to show him that he had no teeth with which to bite. But the man was scared of nobody while on this street of his. He knew where each hole and crack was on the ragged stones and had no fear of falling. His eyes were crossed, skin papery, body bitten by the sun over so many uncounted decades. He said, “You will not have this street, you will not feel the soft dirt blow into your cheeks when a dog walks by. I will pull out each of your sleek black hairs and scatter them over the stones.” The travelers felt, then, little frightened. They were boys with only the first itch of a beard stabbing their skin. They had heard that this street was the only place with any color left, just like one of the blood-glowing spots on the old man’s gray hands. Yet the man had not welcomed them. One boy let his fear fall, a sphere of sour inky breath thumping the stones.
“We want to live on these coffee-stained stones, we want you to teach us to live, to paint our tongues with colors and hear the music of the rain!” The boy said. They were sure that this street, where the man lived crusted with warm river-mud, was the place to shed their shiny and luxurious shells and let life really scrape its teeth against their necks. “Show us how you have become so true, so coated with life,” they begged. When wind stirred the garbage on the sidewalk, they inhaled, thinking: this is the smell of life! The man felt flattered. He let these travelers lie down beside him on the stones. When the puddles of rain dripped between the stones and softened the ends of his hair, the travelers hooted to one another, pointed at him, and then leaned over, their shirts crinkling, to wet the ends of their own hair. When the moon rose, the man said, “the moon is out,” and the travelers oohed, their awe settling in the space where the old man’s teeth used to be.
Soon they were taken by sleep, their snores quivering in the night. By this time the man’s belly was full of their flattery, but still he was hungry for more. If these travelers stuffed flattery into him like bread crusts, imagine the admiration he would be fed in the place these travelers came from: a sleek uncolored place where the crowds would marvel at the man, would try to cross their eyes in mimicry of him, would run to their kitchens and rub their skin with curdled milk and mold scraped off of vegetables so as to mimic his scent. While the travelers tried to lick the stones in their sleep and taste the dirt, the man rose. He went his way. He went in the direction from which the travelers had walked to him.
The highway in the nighttime was smooth as the tongues of the bony cats who had lived on the man’s street. Rolling, kicked along by night, the moon stayed just ahead of the man. He came to the city, the uncolored place. Night was lifting the moon up under her arm and beginning to retreat. The sleek buildings cut into the new day. They cut into the man’s eyes. For a long while the man was afraid to move, and could not even breathe the dustless, crisp-apple air of that place. At length an early riser came out from behind a sharp-cornered door. In a voice as sharp-cornered and glassy as his home, the early riser, whose first daughter was just born, said, “My child cannot sleep with your scent pooling under our door, like curdled milk and mold.” His sleek hair was tousled with disgust.
A shopkeeper then came out into the street. She was just feeling her bones creak under the press of old age, and in that city, creaking was not allowed. In her distress she scolded, “I am trying to open my shop, and here you are, like a poor dead animal and your hair like an animal’s wet belly. You are heavy on my eyes. I cannot work.” Now the man was angry. The travelers, he thought, would have kicked him, would have turned him out of their own city. They would take his street from beneath his feet, but he could not step on theirs. And then a man with crossed eyes, his skin papery with age, turned the corner. He leaned on a shining cane, and his coat was soft and luxurious as a king’s mustache.
He looked for a moment at our old man, the one who used to lie on the stones. And our old man said, “My belly is as empty as ever and it is your fault.” For they had not wanted him in their city, they had not thought him an epiphany, had not stuffed him with admiration. Then he fled back down the highway. When he came back to his street, the sun was dripping heat onto the travelers. They greeted him wailing and lamenting. One of them pulled the man aside, onto the curb, and tickled his ear whispering that “all of these travelers have made this place as sleek and white as every other.”
A second traveler snatched the man away by the wrinkly skin of his neck and said, “all of these travelers have made this place as sleek and white as every other.” And then each of the travelers took him aside and whispered this, until the man had no choice but to cover himself in the river’s mud and lie down in the stones, pretending not to hear them.
// ELEANOR STERN is a freshman in Barnard College. She can be reached at [email protected].