No Pancakes
by Elizabeth Blandon
Issue No. 192 ~ May, 2013
The daughter shook her head. “Pancakes fill you momentarily, but lack any real sustenance.”
The daughter shook her head. “Pancakes fill you momentarily, but lack any real sustenance.”
Just as he put his hand on the old copper drain pipe, the phone rang.
He was, he bragged, from solid campesino stock, from the cornfields of Jalisco (or Oaxaca or wherever the hell he said), yet didn’t he have these psychological contradictions worthy of a Dostoevskian Russian or a tormented Spanish royal from Verdi’s Don Carlo?
Pat twists his mouth all over while backing up the truck. The beep-beep echoes through the neighborhood. The cab rumbles and shudders. I hadn’t noticed how big the bucket truck was. It’s larger than our house.
Usually I was forgotten and unseen under a piece of furniture or knocked down the stairs. This time, I was forgotten and seen, but I didn’t focus on this. How could I when I had done the impossible?
Joey and Apache don’t know this, but they’re standing in a spot in the desert where once every three hundred and fifty years, a solar eclipse sends all the scorpions in the desert from their holes. Dark, for scorpions, is like morning light.
The two chubby white birds flapped up then rested back down again, a little closer to us.
A movie is a good place for a first date as long as both parties respect the boundaries marked by the cup holders. I've been wrapped in arms, had my knees squeezed, my neck massaged, my thigh stroked, even my hair playfully tugged and once a finger seductively pushed - accidentally, I'm pretty sure – up my nose.
Pap Pap’s glasses, the brown rectangles, catch every cent of the sun, its whole worth. They cast a pale mirror as if looking through a beer bottle. But on the inside? Pap Pap can’t see.
In theory, each Sigma 09’ has memorized a line from the St. Crispin Day speech in Henry V, supposedly Ryan’s favorite play, although this claim remains unsubstantiated and highly suspect as far as I’m concerned. Stephen Thayer, our class’s Grand Procurator, was “one hundred fuckin’ percent” that he’d heard Ryan mention it “at some point Freshman year.”