My Hands are Trains

I.

     It is nine-sixteen and my hands are made of trains. Or rather, my fingers–emanating from the central hub of my hand. We might as well call this the train station or if we are feeling bodily–the torso. My train station is as stiff as my back, strained from the resolution of proper posture. Individual trains lurch according to their schedules in different directions. They move up and down along the foothills. They creak and make popping sounds. The accommodations are sub-par and the view is splendid. It is nine-twenty-four and my hands continue to be trains.

II.

     I am riding in a train. I am sitting before a table which folds out along its length. I am riding in a car labeled “2.” A woman six rows away smiles at me. I contemplate gasoline while waiting for new thoughts to arise. I will make eye-contact once more from the vantage point of these “new thoughts,” but I shall make no discovery except to notice her absence. She has left me for what is either another train or a car or both. It is nine-forty-six and my hands are counting numbers.

 
I occupy one of four seats. I occupy one of two seats which face two more seats. My backpack occupies one of two or four seats and collectively we occupy two of two or four. My coffee is taken without room for cream and sits upon the table which folds out along its length. The table currently occupies one of four intended configurations. The table cannot occupy more than one position regardless of whether it is in a train or car or both. It is ten-twenty-four and my hands rest upon the table.

 
The woman returns and my thoughts also return, but to the subject of gasoline and potential energy. These are new thoughts and also old thoughts and I refuse to consider the woman either new or old. I consider the woman to be the same woman even though she has changed her hair. I do not make the mistake of thinking she has new hair, but I refuse to consider her hair the same–it was not before in a ponytail. It is ten-fifty-two and my hands continue to be attached to my torso via my arms and their constituent components.

 
To my right is a graveyard for battleships. I estimate between one and two dozen. Each ship is crowded with communication and detection towers of various sizes. I am once more reminded of gasoline and potential energy. In a graveyard we might say there is no more relevant potential energy. We consider the work exerted prior to internment and the potential work achieved if not for that internment, but I will not call it the potential energy of the object. It is eleven-oh-five and my hands are opening and closing.

 
There is an advertisement near a staircase (the staircase descends to the first level of car “2”. I am on the second level where the accommodations are sub-par and the view is splendid) that reminds me to “Get Connected / To More Than Your Destination.” I look for the woman in order to make eye-contact and smile, but she is looking at the factory passing on her right. The factory has many pipes and smoke stacks which remind me of the battleships, except for the smoke and the steam. The woman grows more attractive the further I move from my point of departure. I do not think of gasoline and potential energy, but of potential energy and crude oil. I also contemplate refinement. It is eleven-eleven and my hands rest on my lap.

 
The train slows perceptively but our next stop is as far as our previous stop. I am informed by the intercom and the man on the other end that we are now directly behind our “sister-train,” which has been delayed. We are to expect delays as well. It is eleven-thirty-two and my hands cast the shadow of a turtle.

 
The train is moving faster now, though not yet as fast as it has previously. As we pick up speed it looks there is a great difference between the plants nearby and the trees in the distance. The flora appear in a sequence that I group into a single set. I imagine the greenery cycles in the fashion of a treadmill. This leads me to the absurdity of a train on a treadmill and I look up once more for the woman who is smiling at me. I smile and display my white teeth. I lower my head a few degrees but I do not lower my eyes. It is twelve-sixteen and my hands are pale and freckled.

 
I remember my destination and three trees in the courtyard. There is a plaque beneath each tree dedicated to the memory of a recently deceased individual. They are not buried there. I begin to suspect these individuals spent much of their time on trains. Up and down the coast. Each inscription ends in a period like a caboose. The trees are not my destination, but they are nonetheless at my destination. I refuse to consider my own mortality. It is twelve-forty and my hands are folding and unfolding a sheet of paper.

 
At a slower speed and in the opposite direction a canal makes its movement. I see no one moving with it. There is a small fire burning in the distance with a yellow kind of smoke like leaves falling in the opposite direction. It looks to be dwindling. Before long the fire will go out, but the smoke will linger. It is behind us now. It is one-oh-six and my hands are drawing conclusions.
 

The train is arriving at its, or rather, my destination. The intercom announces the name of my stop, unintelligibly, but I know where I am. My backpack is in on back and I pretend to look for the woman. I move down the steps and pretend not to see the courtyard. I step off the train and pretend it has nowhere else to go. I look at my feet and pretend I have another destination. It is one-twenty-three and my hands continue to be trains.

 

Ben Conley

Twelve Stories

I.

This machine you see before you generates stripes with extreme precision. It is a very powerful piece of machinery. It is also as expensive as it is powerful. Precision and power are an excellent combination, especially in a situation such as our’s (machine and stripe, as it is).

You should be the first one to hold the product, if you would like to. In many cultures and often in tribal regions this is considered an honor and a good idea as well. It is a full moon out and you know that means savings, even more than is custom. As I have said, this is indeed a powerful machine.
Excuse me for but a moment, I must adjust one dial and rotate the display for access.
Right, thank you for waiting. As you can see the performance is top notch and every system is at its full design energy. If you will step forward and hold the product…here. Thank you. And, here. Yes, great! You are a quick learner and will likely achieve many things. You will go far, as they say.
Now place the product in that tray over there, near the lamp with the bronze base. As has become obvious, there are no products inferior to this and no products superior, either. You see, this is a genuine one-hundred percent.
Thank you very much for coming and I wish you an excellent morning.

II.

The blues. The color of the blues comes in on the evening. The first color beyond the tired dance of some sunrise party. What? That noise. There comes a noise on the blue. A noise for gulls and cresting waves. It reminds me of my father and February  At the edge of the blue we cannot help but find some helpless, misplaced white. If we are to be honest with ourselves though, we ride on the edge of a misshapen gray. Even if we were to banish a large collection of shadows we would still find this gray which tosses itself before us. If my hair could be this gray I would not worry about death. If my hair could be this gray I would present to the world a most proud organization of facial hair. But alas (and what is a story without a love interest), must leave the gray of the gulls to others more fortunate. I will take the blue and press it to my eyes. I will round the blue and hold it to me so I might improve my sight. I see little else for me as I clutch this floating debris. Tomorrow will come regardless of my capacity to see it.

III.

The boy sat on the boulder and held before him a wooden sailboat of three colors: yellow, green and white. The boy wore clothing of a similar scheme, though mostly he was only wearing white. He had very few stains on his shirt as well as clean fingernails. Dropping the sailboat to the ground below the boy stood on his head and considered the vertical movement of the boat. The boy had no hair to obscure his vision, in fact he had excellent vision and observed every spin of the tumbling boat. While still on his head he wrote this down in his notepad which had fallen from his back pocket. He had no change in his pockets–front or back. The boy returned to the sitting position and congratulated the boat on its perilous journey. The boat did not respond having been damaged just enough in important locations. But the boat did not despair. The boy wrote this down and considered the day a good day. The name of the boy is Jonathan Jonathan. Write this down.

IV.

That’s power. when you can feel the object coming strait for you, and you turn it into powder. You do that, and I’ll leave you alone until you’re dead. Because I know how successful you’ll be. You’re my secret. I want to pet you, water you. Are you wet? I told you to wait. And when your cadaver belongs to me…You’ll be worth so much!

V.

Oh! exclaimed Howard, this is not how I expected it. I was led to believe by your literature that this would be a different situation entirely. Wouldn’t it function more accurately if we moved the power over there (to the left)? But of course he would not hear a response for several more minutes–he tapped his foot in familiar irritation. Fine! If it’s a bargain you’re after we’ll generate a new savings manual for you, we will have it ready for fast-excellence. Here, take this. (He hands over the product).

VI.

Baseballs are rolling off the awning and landing in the street. It is a pleasant view from these metal chairs and this metal table which are uncomfortable. The baseballs are provided free of charge from an unknown benefactor. The question: What does he get out of it? Fewer baseballs is the murmur about town. One two three less. The quantity of baseballs leads to speculation in both The Market and conversation concerning the identity of the benefactor. Fluctuations are expected.

VII.

The center coil has the capabilities our auxiliary functions lack. It is a progressive instrument of future liberation. We shall make it in our image. We shall become greater through our image. We shall enter into the central coil and realize the movement toward gravity. It is the central point through the signal breeches. Friend! Might we go together? It is dark near the location of misplaced fluorescent bulbs. If you see one, let me know.

VIII.

“Click click” said the boy, but his computer didn’t do anything. He only wanted to play a video game.  The video game he wanted to play was about a dramatic racket sport. It was the last ball sport, and didn’t require a court. It could be played in any environment, especially viscous parts of outer space.
The boy said “Click Click” and his revolver fired a bullet extremely slowly.
Dammit! I said.
“I told you not to talk,” he said, observing the perfect spin of the honey bullet.

IX.

The first door was closed and yet the second door was open. It was opened for us upon arrival. Thank you we said. Thank you for opening the door. The opening of the second door allows for much convenience. For the rest of the night it was stated a great accomplishment. And all said: Amen.

X.

Charles Henry arranged twelve sticks according to size. Charles or Henry–he does not have a preference–was told to pick the sticks while playing a rhyming game with his sister. His sister preferred to be called Dana and was better at rhyming and rarely arranged things according to size. Next to the sticks is a large orange ball which, though full of air, does not bounce very well. The orange ball is not used in rhyming games. The yellow ball is used infrequently. They no longer have either of the green balls. The white ball was left in the old country along with their parents. The children are orphans.

XI.

On the street a wooden deer blocked traffic…
Finally, a man got out of his car and shot the deer with rubber he ki–
He rubbed the deer. The traffic was so angry.
He touched the–punched the deer.
He punctured the deer and it started to bleed.
He whispered something in the deer’s ear and the deer walked away.
He had whispered the secret code about how to survive on Mother Earth for 200 years and save money without down payments. So can–
He now owns a successful powdered dictionary.

XII.

There is a hallway with a staircase at either end and two bedrooms on either side of the middle of the hall. There is also a staircase leading into each of the bedrooms. A sheep-skin rug lies between the two bedroom doors and provides a soft surface for the wooden coffee table.
There are four mugs on the table, each with different levels of coffee in them such that you would say each level was representative of a distinct quadrant. The dish washer is upstairs and each mug will be carried up a separate staircase. They will all be placed in the same sink.
So it has been told.

—

From:
Ben Conley, Matt Norman