Two Adaptations of Eliot's "Preludes"

A few months back I posted an open invitation on the blog to submit short fiction pieces that were inspired in some way by T.S. Eliot's poem, "Preludes." Here are the two pieces that emerged!


it’s fucking quiet out, the quiet like crisscrossing sirens and mangy dogs, and it’s like he’s not even there but she shudders and stares at the ground, the white stripe of the rebel bicycle rejecting its load of toxic plastic primer imprinted on salt-crusted suede, shuttered murals, abstract impressions on concrete of oxygen and the musty freshness of a coastal rainshadow and that tucked clock fitting experience and breathlessness into the delicious agony of time and the mural is green with lots of blue like magenta-dense filters and abandoned menthol cigarettes and that bicycle under the rattling tracks floating on air is escaping, a vandal bringing the streets inside, glowing white primer on ancient filthy concrete or at least microscopic infinity compressed into litter-strewn cracks and rehabilitated crackheads because thank god for mandated community service, two birds with scratched chrome, and it’s fucking quiet out in the rattling tracks and single-occupant vehicles, subwoofers and apple headphones, and don’t worry because even the stars are silent, they won’t get in the way of your glowing horizontal pipeline and there’s nothing as beautiful as the centre of the universe suspended in pools of refined bitumen, glowing with the crackled light of flammable antiquity o canada and it’s half-past two or quarter to seven, same difference, nineteen-ten or two thousand and eleven, fingers crossed, young lady, you’re almost at the deadbolt where the paint can dry and the pale green mural fade.

click.

- Naomi Smedbol

Some Infinitely Gentle, Infinitely Suffering Thing

Six o’clock and the night squatted lower and lower, forcing the tophats to scurry about and get in each others' way—rushed bursts of cigarette smoke and conversation. Soon the lamps limped to life, dripping newborn light onto shuffling umbrellas. Indoors, deluxe cow meat screamed and was seasoned. Bright red to flat grey.

Whew, went the wind. Wheeeeeew.

Windows let their teeth chatter freely, firmly shut but never silent. Creaky wooden structures weakened gradually, worrying as the night’s cold pressures exacerbated the struggle between roots and concrete. Blueprints, upper-class and oblivious, sat neatly filed in dark places dreaming of coming true.

A tap was twisted, suddenly, and a woman began to scream. A gush of warm water came forth. All through the house pipes creak to accommodate.

Clack. Clack, clack. Branches at the windowpane. It’s time. It’s time.

The night settled in and watched, clinically, as a lone horse and buggy strained through the aimless fog. In the distance the concussion of waves: a restless sea bashing its head against the rocks like a grief-stricken infant.

The first hint of a new day is the trudging.

Tromp tromp tromp, goes the street. The daily foray of muddy feet to coffeeshops begins before it ends. All across the city beans suffer under pompous baristas, are roasted alive, dried, and are hurried into cups of all shapes and sizes, energizing nightshift nurses squeezed out of necessity into dayshifting. Stained uniforms, soiled gloves.

In an unfamiliar, overly sterile bathroom, startled bits of stubble fall, fall, fall to watery deaths, offed like clockwork by smooth medicinal strokes. The shaking hands of a helpless husband calmed by habit.

The cue to begin again is stuck like a plugged trumpet. No sense in blowing up. Kick off the clingy sweat-drenched sheets. Listen for reinforcements, insight, meaning. Anything. Nothing calls out, but nothing scolds either. Home free to linger a little while longer. Silk is beginning to catch at and burn the skin. Rashes appear. One begins to long for hard edges, blunt objects. Cushions kink and clump-up funny. Clamp down on the bedding. Feel its clammy skin between your fingers and pull until it’s baggy and has stretch marks. Ugly stretch marks. Wait again, expectantly. Hold your breath.

Anything.

But no traffic outside the poorly shuttered windows. No wind. No babies wailing. Rattles. Thumps. Nothing.

The tiny bevels on the ceiling become overwhelming. So many! Precise, in place, part of the force, the family, holding up the roof. Working together. Draw your knees to your chest. Clasp the soles of your feet in salt-encrusted hands. Rock back and forth with eyes clamped shut.

Begin there.

The night returns, chuckling. Cues the wind, the crowds. Squats. Relieves himself. Lifts for a moment to watch. He never tires of it:

His discharge has been collected. They have used buckets, diligently carried back into flickering homes by energetic hands to wash and sing and feed away the hungers until the dance can begin again.

But somewhere an old young woman makes snow-angels in the dusk, flat on her back in the grime and ash, spreading and closing her limbs like a grounded fish:

Oh, oh.

- Ben Gehrels