Buried Treasure
Spank the Carp (April 2018)
Spank the Carp 2018 Anthology
by gayla mills
She took the videos in bits, a few clips here, a few there. There wasn’t much to them, and most times she just saved them to her hard drive and didn’t even take a look. Thirty seconds with her son racing in circles with the dog, the sound of sparrows chirping in the background. He was only five in that one, and still ran the way kids do, upper body leaning forward and the legs below struggling to catch up. Just another day, she thought.
Then there was the one with the bunny. Her husband had let him out to hop around on that sunny September day, and at first he just lay there in the grass, his nose twitching. Later she would notice his little chest thumping too. But when she filmed it on her phone, she couldn’t see it pounding on the little screen. She didn’t notice the sound of the kids yelling and laughing in the background. She was too focused on getting the image of the bunny in focus and making sure she could follow him once he started exploring the yard. Suddenly he hopped, ears back, his joy opening up. Zoom out quick and shift to the right, she thought. She didn’t have time to take in his pleasure.
One Sunday she’d taken another clip of her husband as he split wood in the back yard. The radio happened to be playing a celtic tune in the kitchen, a room away, though she didn’t notice it at the time. She captured him as he raised his arms and struck downward with the axe. Twack as the wood split neatly. Rhythmically he reached down to pick up the larger piece, placed it on the stump, lifted the axe, and swung again. Twack it went, and the last piece split. Another 60 second clip for her collection.
An eternity ago.
Now she sits in her dark room, the curtains closed. She can’t believe a world goes on outside these walls, a world filled with people moving about and smiling. She isn’t sure how she’s supposed to get out of the chair, how she’s supposed to find food in the kitchen and somehow lift her arms to bring it to her mouth, and then to chew and swallow. How do people manage to do that every day?
But dimly she recalls a video she took one day by the lake, when they brought sandwiches and sliced apples, juice boxes and wine. What kind of sandwiches had they eaten? She wanted to know.
She roused herself, turned on the computer, clicked on the video folder. What a mess. No titles, no folders, just the dates she’d transferred them. She opened the first, and there he was. Alive as could be, and she was laughing as she spoke to him from behind the camera. It was as if he’d never gone.
She spent that day watching each clip again and again. As if someone had given her a treasure chest of jewels that sparkled in the sun, and she could fondle each one, forever.
Next
Then there was the one with the bunny. Her husband had let him out to hop around on that sunny September day, and at first he just lay there in the grass, his nose twitching. Later she would notice his little chest thumping too. But when she filmed it on her phone, she couldn’t see it pounding on the little screen. She didn’t notice the sound of the kids yelling and laughing in the background. She was too focused on getting the image of the bunny in focus and making sure she could follow him once he started exploring the yard. Suddenly he hopped, ears back, his joy opening up. Zoom out quick and shift to the right, she thought. She didn’t have time to take in his pleasure.
One Sunday she’d taken another clip of her husband as he split wood in the back yard. The radio happened to be playing a celtic tune in the kitchen, a room away, though she didn’t notice it at the time. She captured him as he raised his arms and struck downward with the axe. Twack as the wood split neatly. Rhythmically he reached down to pick up the larger piece, placed it on the stump, lifted the axe, and swung again. Twack it went, and the last piece split. Another 60 second clip for her collection.
An eternity ago.
Now she sits in her dark room, the curtains closed. She can’t believe a world goes on outside these walls, a world filled with people moving about and smiling. She isn’t sure how she’s supposed to get out of the chair, how she’s supposed to find food in the kitchen and somehow lift her arms to bring it to her mouth, and then to chew and swallow. How do people manage to do that every day?
But dimly she recalls a video she took one day by the lake, when they brought sandwiches and sliced apples, juice boxes and wine. What kind of sandwiches had they eaten? She wanted to know.
She roused herself, turned on the computer, clicked on the video folder. What a mess. No titles, no folders, just the dates she’d transferred them. She opened the first, and there he was. Alive as could be, and she was laughing as she spoke to him from behind the camera. It was as if he’d never gone.
She spent that day watching each clip again and again. As if someone had given her a treasure chest of jewels that sparkled in the sun, and she could fondle each one, forever.
Next