A journal of narrative writing.
Last Effects

Listen to “Last Effects”
read by Lawrence Wray

He might have been standing By the fireplace, listening to us When we entered. But as soon As his attention was felt, The space by a wall or latch Of a cabinet door was thinned To a desolation of ordinary Dimension. That, like his shirts And shoes for a matter of months, Was all any of us could keep. We were unspeeched As we floated past the bare, Given floor where he was found In a small front room. The door Opens on it. Not wanting to stare, I let my sight tumble over it. And not wanting to leave, Turned back for anything else— A drape that blouses in a window, The only available consolation. But windows had been stripped. Mere signs of people reached us In the otherwise vacated world. At that time, a highway streamed With cars no one drove. Houses on his street, yellowed Grass by a walk, gravel front yards, Were just as abandoned as his. He may have waited by the kitchen, But irreparably, like our grief, He quit room after room, a fleck Of eye-caught light, a fleck of teeth Then nothing, a blot of shoulder, His body all we wanted to touch, To see clothed and here again.