Fiction: Meanwhile

“Ugh,” grumbled the gatekeeper.

“What?”

“Kids. Damn kids.”

“Yeah?”

“And Money. Damn money.” He shifted in his seat. Two crows passed.

“How many?”

“How many? Two crows.”

“Kids. How many.”

“Three.” Pause. There was a creaking at the door, but no one turned his head to look. Silence. Silence. Creaking. Silence. A third crow flew by; the three convened on top of the bar across the street. Gay bar. Straight crows, though. No one bought drinks.

The air was brisk. November brisk. The air was crisp, too. Brisk November crisp. Like, if you took a step on a-not-too-city sidewalk then all you would hear is the brisk, crisp, brisk whi-crack of crisp crumpled leafs squish under boot. Floral bouquet death rattle rattle.

“You got any kids?” The gatekeeper didn’t really care; he had time to kill, and no shank.

“No.”

“You got any money?”

“A little.” It was black out. The older the years get, the less they like light. By November, two thousand five was so crotchety it locked the sun out on the porch and swallowed the key, along with some stale tapioca and cold hot tea. Ugh.

I had nothing left to say to the gatekeeper, and he had nothing left to say to me, so we kept talking. What was said was not important. There was silence. Another crow passed. Landed on the bar. Fat crow. Fat enough to be on a diet, because this crow didn’t buy a drink either. Now there were four crows on the bar, but the bar probably thought there were five, because one of the crows was so fat.

It started snowing.

“God is a bird, I think,” the gatekeeper muttered, “I think.”

“Yeah?”

“Because his shit is white.”

It stopped snowing.

Benjamin Korman