Such Things

by Jason Nelson

This is a hollow space. And while each of the beds or cots don’t have nametags,

they do have hypoallergenic pillows made for those that need such things. Some

people hide here. Others simply stash their potentially valuable collectibles

beneath the stairs that lead to this hollow space. There are signs predicting

the step’s narrow and dangerous ways, but these signs don’t know such things

from experience. They are too frantic, too scared, too wooden to walk anywhere

beyond the bathroom or kitchen across the hall. The people hiding here realize

the logical quandry between space being hollow and having furniture and people

to use said furniture. They also fully understand the nature of fear, and that

such things are governed more by the need to ascend oaken planks than mere

avoidance.

Eufaula

In my next life, I’ve discovered, I want to be the head ranger at a muddy lake

in eastern Oklahoma. Then when the silt builds, and the heat cracks the red clay

banks, I can drive my truck into the water. I’ll drag a gill net through the

shallows, capturing cattails and dying fish. Taking the old highway, flooded by

the lakes engineers, I’ll accelerate into the middle’s deepest waters. And when

my truck is submerged and the engine stops, I’ll shine my brights to watch the

disturbed sediment float beneath what waves the speedboats make above me. Some

of the residue will collect, falling together, stumbling to the windshield, a

slow-motion hailstorm. Then with the truck in neutral, I might roll to the

lake’s center and adjust the seat so I can watch the headliner ripple in the

current. Or maybe I’ll turn on the hazards, open the door and swim back to the

net, releasing the smallest fish into the intermittent red light.