Ghosts Ride Bikes Too
June 14th, 2007 by Kris Skotheim; no comments
I am at a train station, I think I live there. Some ghosts appear around me – I know they’re ghosts because they are translucent. My family can’t see them so they accuse me of being crazy. To avoid the taunting remarks of my sister and brother, I retreat to the telephone booth, which is actually quite spacious.
The ghosts are young, between nine and twelve years old. I show them how my bike works and let them ride it around. They enjoy it so much I decide to build each of the three ghosts bicycles. This proves to be surprisingly easy; I happen to have three old steel frames from the 70’s-80’s lying around and just received three sets of old track wheels I bought on eBay. The ghosts’ mother is so happy when she sees the bikes I built them that she throws up her arms and chokes on a rush of emotion.
I am a man in a twleve gallon hat
June 8th, 2007 by Kris Skotheim; no comments
I am sitting on a couch covered in a blanket. I melt into a two-dimensional, black and white sheet and one half of me becomes a stairway from a courtyard to a door, the other half becomes a man on the stairway. He is running up and down the stairway, frantic about something. I ask him where I am. He tells me I do not exist.
At first, I believe this man. I can not see myself anywhere, so I must not exist. After a minute, a woman walks into the courtyard and attests to my existance. This only confuses me. The man becomes furious and starts walking up and down the stairs with more vigor. He is saying something, but I can not understand him. Somebody asks me where I am. After much deliberation, I open my eyes and try to say “The University of Washington”, but a sack of bricks, or something of comparable heft, is hanging from my upper lip. “At least I tried” I think, as I turn back into this man and the stairway he is walking on.
I notice the man is wearing a twelve gallon hat. He is dressed in a short black coat, which barely covers his protruding belly. He is Mexican, and so is the woman, but she is younger than he is. He has stopped pacing and instead is slowly tapping one foot against one of the stairs. I apologize to the man for interrupting him and implore him to continue his train of thought. The young woman leaves, furious, and the man remains indignant.