The Black Box

The appearance is sudden –– a small rectangular form on the hillock at the back of the house. The box sits there, unbelonging, straight-edge. The wife blinks at the sight. Pinches herself. Stops altogether. Then, she puts on her husband’s coat and approaches. She thinks she knows its nature –– the last minutes of an aircraft –– scans the place for signatures of a crash. Plane shale, sheared wing. Far-off flare of a jet engine. But the outside is an empty cup. Reveals nothing. So she kneels down at the box. There is a button. When the wife plays the recording, she expects a rumble or a toddler’s shriek. Only: cowhide rug . . . head of an ibex . . . blue ginger jar. The audio is a ghost. She leans in closer to the ghost’s bosom. Tiger oak hope chest . . . rudimentary jug. Estate auction talk. She listens as if each lot is a test. As if the noise could hold milk or blood. And she might as well be in a wind tunnel. The wife might as well be carrying an open flame.

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Solid Carpentry

This gal makes big beds
over on Atoka Road.

She is very good.

The people who own her work
can sleep through thunder.

ξ

Evan Nicholls has work appearing or forthcoming in Sporklet, DIAGRAM, Hobart, Yalobusha Review, and now Guesthouse, among others. He is from the peach, fox, horse, and wine country of Fauquier County, Virginia. He tweets at @nicholls_evan. Find more of his work here: enicholls.com.