Thomas Genevieve
Thomas Genevieve’s work appears or is forthcoming in the Baltimore Review, Hobart, decomP, the Broadkill Review, and the Sierra Nevada Review, among others.
The Blue Sky
She let her bucket fall into the darkness of the well. And although she didn’t believe in the magic of prayer—its unrequited response always heightened her disappointment—she slackened the rope as if the bucket would soon take on weight. Ignoring what she already knew, she pulled the bucket up, listening to it scrape along the well’s walls, accepting resignation only after she grabbed the empty bucket by the handle. She lifted her head to the cruel, blue sky. A cruel, blue sky that she feared would never abate.
The Ink
His fingers trace over the words written along the soft rise of her foot. It’s Bishop, she says. Out of all of her works, it’s my favorite line. His hand travels up the ankle, to the calf, and back down. His finger returns to the inked words, which he now whispers to fill the silence. “Write it!” She nods at hearing the words that can never be erased, waiting for his hand to return to the ankle, the calf, and wherever he intends it to go.
Judas’ Guy
I’m looking for Judas’ guy. The one who’s got the silver. I’m ready to go, ready to pucker up, ready to kiss it all goodbye, but I can’t find him. I try calling this person and that person, but I have sad excuses for connections. It’s not fruitful. So I start shaking hands with this person and that person. Everyone says they’ve seen him, Judas’ guy, that is, and it must be true because they describe him to a T. They just leave out the stench, or they’ve gotten good at ignoring it.
Down the alleys and stairwells, highways and hallways, I keep looking for the son of a bitch. Then I finally find someone I’m pretty sure knows him. This guy examines me rather suspiciously. He looks me up and down. I think to myself, he has to be kidding me. He says he doesn’t know where he is. He says he can’t help me. But I know he’s full of shit.
On to the next person and then the next person. Same story, same advice. A lot of them claim to know him, but they’re not willing to give him up. One guy has this smart-ass look on his face, and says, well, he ain’t looking for you. I’ve got no time for humor, humor will leave me broke. And I’ve got no time for pleasantries, which will also leave me broke. So I say, fuck you, and walk away.
My window is closing. The window is a metaphor, I tell someone I know, someone I wouldn’t call a friend, so I’ll call him an acquaintance. I tell him because I’m hoping the metaphor will spark some urgency. It works. He sends me to this person and that person. Eventually, I’m in this room with a whole bunch of people. I think to myself, this is going to be good. This will be my in.
First impressions are everything, which makes me think it’s in my best interest to make them laugh. To win them over. I’m wearing this necktie now, so I say to this room of people, check out this necktie! If I don’t find him, I’ll be swinging from it! They’re all laughing. But at me, not with me. They’re all laughing because I’m wearing a necktie. They find it funny that it’s me who’s looking for Judas’ guy.
In and Out of the Box
I.
He took all the shit, all that shit, and put it in the box. He didn’t want to look at it, at least for now. So he sealed the top and placed it in a safe spot, because one day he would want to look at all the shit, all that shit, again.
II.
He could peel back the flaps, peer in and take everything out, but he didn’t. He still wasn’t ready. At least not now. Maybe later, maybe tomorrow. Whether he liked it or not, the decision was all his. And although he’d wait, he’d eventually open it. Until then, its contents would remain unknown.
III.
The box had been empty for just a few minutes before it was decided that its purpose had been served. So a blade slid across the brown underbelly and split the seam. Left without its form, it collapsed, flat, and was placed with the others, alongside the trash, which had always been its fate.