Memoirs of a Don [ Fiction ] Millayna Klingback Of the Beholder [ Fiction ] Mark C. Rawls
[ Millayna Klingback wanted to share the epic saga of her life, but will content herself with the Cliffnotes version. She is a senior majoring in English and French. She was born and raised in Spokane, studied in France for a year and now lives with her husband, her cat named Honey and her dog named Dante. She plans on going to Whitworth next year to earn her masters in teaching. ] C'est bon aujourd'hui d'Atre en vie * Lyrics from the song 'C'est bon aujourd'hui-by Raphael (contemporary French singer). The lyrics roughly translate to read: 'Today is a good day to be alive, and the doctors tell me that that will only hold if I believe it. And, as you know, I don't believe in anything.'� Merde, overslept again. I hate the way I can never seem to fall asleep and yet never want to wake up. Stepping out of the shower I look at my face and see nothing. No hopes, no dreams, just blankness and wrinkles staring Twenty years I've been running this restaurant and still can't find a decent sous-chef. Damned pretentious brats all want to be the next best thing right out of culinary school and don't understand they have to put in time making someone else's recipes before they can make their own. My black jacket is just where I left it, hanging on the back of the tattered green chair. That coat is so formed to my body it can almost free-stand on the There she is on the corner, waiting as usual. The love of my life, my blue Honda ST1300. A person would have to be a sucker to drive a car in this city. But a motorcycle is smart and economic. I laugh, realizing I think this thought to myself every day while I weave through traffic and glide through red lights. Morning shift goes by fine. Interviewed four applicants; they weren't all bad either. Tomatoes were rotten at the market though. Reminded my of what the doctors say about my heart. Rotten. My mother too. She keeps saying I should be a better son and visit her more. Mon dieu, she's seventy-five and as far as I'm concerned she needs to worry about saving her own lost causes before she tackles mine. Lunch shift flows slowly, a few au pairs with little children and a handful of business regulars who come in and eat alone. Nice people they are too. I wouldn't want to be confined to an office all day. My friends all told me I was getting in over my head when I left Montpellier to buy this restaurant in Paris. Hell, I was thirty and knew exactly what I was doing. No one back home ever really thought that I would go. That's what I figure because no one, not even her, asked me to stay. All I got was a picture of our brat six months after I left. She would probably agree with my mother that I am rotten. In a way, I know I always have been; only just now my heart's deteriorating in order to catch up with my soul. Wound up running out of eggplant at lunch, so I pick some up with the fresh baguette from the boulangerie attached to the grocery store next door on avenue de Versailles. Eggplant is always popular in April, and every Always so shy; they wait outside until we are done, showing a consideration most Americans lack towards the 'service industry.-I catch my chef casting an approving eye their way and follow suit. Realizing too late that these girls could be my children I feel slightly shocked, but looking again I sigh, realizing that beauty is beauty at any age. I take the girls a carafe of chilled red table wine and laugh while convincing the blonde to order the plat du jour. It will surprise her when she finds out it is a rabbit thigh. The girls always laugh at my jokes and glance at each other to see if the other understands what I am saying. I have been told somewhere before that my elocution is terrible. I love the way they say thank you for everything. Admittedly, it is a new sensation to be cared about by such innocence. These two girls are so grateful, so beautiful. Although my medication could convince me to find the beauty of nature in a horse's ass these days. I follow the rising sun home and upon arriving, pick up a piece of paper. A napkin from a bar I go to over in Biarritz. Memory flooding in like high-tide, I remember a man, a friend of mine, telling me about a restaurant he wanted to sell. He was retiring and wanted to spend more time with his family, said he was moving to Bretagne. Seeing as I didn't have anyone, he thought I might like to take it. Emerging from my reverie, I stretch over the bed and fish out the glossy sheet from under my mattress. Looking at the worn picture of my son, I realize that I do have people, people who care about me and may be thinking about me right now. Damn my rotten soul that is rotting out my heart. I really don't give a damn about anybody. I pick up the phone and dial, surprised at how quickly my fingers find the numbers they haven't dialed in so long. I ask for Sabine. She answers; her voice is older, but it is her. I ask her to tell Philippe when he gets back from his annual to Bordeaux that I will take the restaurant and be there next week. [ back to top ] |
[ Mark C. Rawls is a sophomore from San Francisco, California. When not working on his English major and music minor, he enjoys playing guitar, skateboarding, and spending time with his girlfriend. ] I wish I could set people on fire with my mind, thought Duncan. He was dutifully ignoring his religion class, minding his own business, when this painfully ignorant girl started ranting. Ranting about why Christianity was the way to go, as far as religion was concerned, ranting about how people shouldn't draw a black Jesus, because it turned religion into a racial issue, just ranting. Duncan smiled at the mental cartoon of the girl engulfed in an enormous flame. Incendiary telekinesis. The un-Jedi mind trick. He pushed the fancifully violent image out of his mind. The girl, Gianna, had finished her spreading of the Good News. He raised his hand and spoke without waiting for the teacher to call on him. 'If God wants us to be Christians, why was Jesus a Jew?-he asked as he stroked his chin and cocked a mocking intellectual eyebrow. He was hoping she wouldn't get the joke. Gianna started to speak, but then tilted her head back slightly, looking for the answer on the ceiling of the classroom. Duncan changed his eyebrow from mock-intellectual to insulting. He couldn't help chuckling noiselessly. The girl had probably been house trained in the ways of theology from birth. So it wasn't really her fault. Anyways. Even though Gianna couldn't stand him, Duncan actually liked the girl. She was a good person. But he knew how to piss her off, so he did. Frequently. The bell screamed, surprising all of the student-zombies that had slumped into a coma of banality during the fifteen minutes of Gianna's profession of faith. Duncan bent over to pick up his backpack, and noticed that the lace on his shin high workman's boot had broken. He removed the lace, now useless, and wrapped a spare black bandanna around his footwear. He examined it and smiled. It looked kinda nice. Proud of his fashion statement He hadn't noticed that she was standing in front of his desk for the duration if his footwear crisis, but he wished he had. Breast contact, sans permission, is never a good idea. And as far as Duncan was concerned, the only thing worse than breast contact, sans permission, is if the owner of said breasts is already pissed. She backed away, avoiding eye contact, as Duncan tried to form an appropriate apology in his mind. 'Jesus,-he said. 'I'm sorry, 'Why would you do that?-Gianna asked. 'Really, I'm sorry, I really, didn't, um, want to,-Duncan said. He noticed his apology was making less and less sense as it went on. Size D (Double? Triple?) breasts were not on his schedule for the day. 'That's not what I mean,-she said. Duncan stared at her, whispering incoherently, looking for the right expression for his now defunct confession of sorrow. 'Why are you so mean to me?-she asked. She was looking Duncan 'I'm not mean'¦?-Duncan said in a half-statement of half-belief. I'm not mean, I'm just teasing. Oh no, is she crying? God damnit, she's crying. And why the hell is she still so close to me? 'That's so not true. All the time, you're mean to me.-Gianna said. She started shaking, trying to repress those mini-convulsions that accompany crying. Duncan, desperate both to prove that he was not mean and to comfort 'Jesus, I'm sorry, I never meant to get you angry or anything, I was just trying to have fun, you know?-he said. He wondered how many apologies he had made in the last five minutes. And then he felt the curve of her shoulder in his hand, the comfortable fabric of her sweatshirt accentuating the softness of her skin that lay beneath. Gianna was by no means a small girl, but she made it seem OK. She's curvy. That's the right word. Curvy. And pretty. 'Hey, it's OK, Gianna. Hey,-he said, running his hand over the curve of her shoulder. Then Gianna reached out, and grabbed him by the edges of his open jacket, pulling herself to him. She cried into Duncan's shoulder, and all he could do was stand there, arms draped at his side. He tensed, taking a second to think about how crazy this all was. At this point, he would've felt comfier being slapped than hugged. Come on, come on... I like you, Gianna, please, stop crying. I want you to stop crying. I'm not worth this. Please, just look at me, stop crying, Gianna. Duncan was having trouble thinking. And he could feel better than he could think. And the surplus of her flesh felt nice against his torso. And her shoulders were now in his grasp. And Duncan smiled a weak smile, said, * * * Gianna loved her religion class. It was so cool to have a chance to talk about things that were important to her, a chance to be an expert on something. She got good grades in math, but because she worked hard, not because she was good at it. She didn't like math really at all. Math was hard, and you couldn't change it. But her religion grades were good for a different reason. It was her thing. In a way, religion was something that was under her 'So why is it important to go to church at all?-the teacher asked. Gianna shot her hand up. This was the great part about religion: she got a chance to talk about how important God was. She didn't want to offend anybody or say that people who didn't believe in Jesus were wrong. But she knew that Jesus loved everybody. It was like she had this great little secret that she wanted the world to know. Gianna seemed to know a lot about secrets, nowadays. The teacher called on Gianna after a second or two, and she started to answer. She tried to be well-spoken, respectful. She knew not everyone would agree with her. Especially him. She looked across the classroom at Jesus can't be a Christian. Funny. She pretended to be confused. Gianna knew that guys always liked girls that were dumb. Dumb and skinny. At least she could pretend to be dumb. Not that I want Duncan to like me. Or The bell rang, and everyone stood up to go. Gianna stood slowly and pulled the front of her sweater, making sure it didn't cling to her body too much. She took a quick breath and walked over to Duncan's desk. He was tying his shoe. As he stood up, he bumped his face into her stomach a little bit. Gianna tried to hold back the tears at her bad luck. Why did he have to touch my stomach. Why. No. I'm here. I need to talk to somebody '“ I need to 'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Jesus, I'm sorry.-Duncan said, backing away. Why? Is it because of my stomach. That's not fair. I didn't want you to touch it. It's not fair to leave me like this. Gianna could feel the tears start to come. 'You have always been mean to me, Duncan. You're always mean.-The crying got worse and worse. Her eyes started to blur a little, and she was having trouble breathing. She tried taking slower breaths so she wouldn't But she could feel better than she could hear. And Duncan put his hand on her shoulder, and it helped her stop shaking. She was surprised Duncan had touched her on purpose after touching her on accident. She felt comfortable with him, and she wanted to feel more of it. Gianna pulled close to him and gave him a hug, the biggest hug she could remember giving. She cried less and less, and noticed that Duncan was wrapping his arms around her. Gianna looked up at Duncan, her eyes hurting. 'I hate you so much,-Gianna said, without knowing why. She didn't care that Duncan teased her and she definitely didn't hate him. Gianna actually sorta liked the guy. Ask me why I hate you because I really don't I just needed someone I am unhappy is all angry and I don't hate you. She felt her stomach rumble. She was going to have to get used to that. Duncan's head was now lying on top of hers, so she tried super hard not to cry as much. She was done being unhappy for today. Now, she just wanted to talk to him. She would take him for ice cream. Duncan was kindof weird, but he would like ice cream, right? She could eat a little ice cream again, if Duncan would talk to her. Duncan smiled at her and said 'Don't hate yourself because I'm beautiful.-She was stunned. Duncan was so smart, smarter than she thought in the first place. He must know everything. He was trustworthy. She decided to let herself go. So, at the mention of beauty, Gianna started crying again. [ back to top ] |