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Blowing Kisses in the Wind

by Jack Fisher

      "Can the fish see the snow falling?" Clara asks, looking into the half-frozen pond, crouched on her knees; I'm standing next to her, compacting a snowball in the palms of my gloves, preparing to snowball Ms. Kennedy's cats. Sleek and long with matted whiskers, spitting and hissing, they slink through Ms. Kennedy's garden and Clara and I, the hunters with our stove-pipe hats bobbing behind us, sometimes run after those felines and bombard them with snowballs until their tan fur is soon caked white. I often go for the greens of their eyes.
      Clara sometimes participates, but shows little or no excitement as I did.
      "I'm not sure," I reply, eyeing one of those cats tip-toeing by through the snow-capped bushes. "What do you think?"
      "I'm not exactly sure, either," Clara says, standing up and brushing the snow from her knees.
      "Shh! There's one!" I tell her. I bend down behind a bush, Clara sighs and bends down beside me. The cat hears the movement our snow suits make rubbing together and stops dead in its tracks, staring in our direction. We are very quiet. I hold my hand up in warning. There is a crystalline silence now and the bitter December winds slice and gnaw at my ears. Clara pokes me in my side. "Stop." I whisper.
      The snowball is beginning to break and melt in my hand so I throw its remains, but miss the cat. It takes off, sluicing on its bottom. Now we stand like lost travelers at the edge of the pond as a silent, one-clouded piece of Heaven drifts by us and unzips, releasing its innards: Snow. I turn to Clara and ask: "Do you wanna post a snowball through Mrs. Clemintines' mailbox?"
      "Nah…Let's make snow angels!"
      She falls to the ground and begins to bat and flail her arms and legs up and down, trying to make what would look like the perfect snow angel in the snow. I do the same. Soon, we stop. We lie there looking at the pencil-gray sky and let the snowflakes fall onto our faces and bespeckle our dark clothing and we speak to each other, which is when I become convinced that Clara is somewhat strange.
      She has been my friend for a while now—ever since the fourth grade—but I never knew how peculiar she was until I began to socialize with her more often now that school is delayed a few days because of this inclement weather. I mean 'peculiar' very loosely, though. Her questions are very well thought-out and very unique. She is always a quiet girl—inside of school and out.
      "We should be getting back home now, Clara," I suggest.
      "Don't you love the snow, Jim?" She asks me, still looking up.
      "Of course I do. It's just getting a little bit too cold now, don't you think?"
      "No. That's not what I mean. I mean the snow, it's so beautiful. So clean. Ever wonder why all the flakes are shaped like that?"
      "Nope."
      "I do, but I can never seem to figure it out."
      "Ok, I'm ready. I'm so cold I can hardly feel by butt," I say, preparing to stand up and leave.

      "Wait, Jim. Ever think—"
      "No, Clara, I don't think of all these things all the time like you do. I don't care, really."
      Clara turns and looks at me quizzically. "What's the matter with you?"
      "Nothing. It's just that you ask me all these weird questions and I never know what to say. Yeah, you're clever for thinking of them and you're pretty observant, but I just don't know the answers and don't know why you ask ME anyway? I don't know!"
      "I was just asking, Jim. I thought you DID know. There's no need to get all mad. Could I ask you one other question, though?"
      I roll my eyes. "Go ahead. It's probably going to be something off the wall, but what the hell. I can guarantee ya I won't know the answer, though. And when you're done, we're leaving!"
      Ghosts whoo like owls through the trees and I swear I can see monster eyes harbored from within the woods across the street. Clara smiles and asks: "What would you do if a whole herd of elephants were running after you?"
      "That's just stupid," I reply.
      "Yeah, it is, kinda, but what would you do?" She asks, still watching the sky. Her face is becoming red from the falling flakes. They pile on and outline her face. She never looks at me.
      "Well, I'd do what any normal person would do and run. There. Happy?" I ask throwing my hands up and then letting them hit my sides. Another hefty gust of wind blows through the trees and the snow blows to one side. The sounds it makes are hellish: like a wheezing, web-footed old man in a stagnant cave.
      The hackles on my arms and on the back of my neck rise, either from the wind and its noises or from the look on Clara's face now: probably both. Her eyes…. Why does she let the snow fall on her face like that and not wipe it off? Doesn't it burn?
      "Hear that wind?" Clara asks as if she has just heard it.
      "Yes…now, please, can we please go now?" I get up and so does she.
      We walk back down the worn trail we had taken to get to the pond, I leading the way and Clara lagging in the rear. Our walk back to the main street of houses is quiet. Neither of us say anything to each other. The whole walk I think of Clara, her weird questions, her eyes and why I haven't noticed her like this before.
      I wonder what she is thinking. Perhaps she is thinking of me or how many hairs there are on the human body….
      The visibility is harsh and I can barely make out the houses on the street. No one or nothing is on the roads, but I can make out something in the distance breaking the dense sheets of snow. When I realize what it is, I step to the side and let them pass, my mouth open in awe; Clara stands next to me smiling as if she is proud. As if she knows something.
      The elephants, iron-flanked and screaming, clank and tromp through the scudding snow right past us. I close my eyes and say some words to the close, holy darkness, then open them again. And when I do, the elephants are gone…and so is Clara.
Blowing Kisses in the Wind © 1998, Jack Fisher. All rights reserved.

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© 1998, Publishing Co. All rights reserved.


Member of the Internet Link Exchange

Blowing Kisses in the Wind

by Jack Fisher

      "Can the fish see the snow falling?" Clara asks, looking into the half-frozen pond, crouched on her knees; I'm standing next to her, compacting a snowball in the palms of my gloves, preparing to snowball Ms. Kennedy's cats. Sleek and long with matted whiskers, spitting and hissing, they slink through Ms. Kennedy's garden and Clara and I, the hunters with our stove-pipe hats bobbing behind us, sometimes run after those felines and bombard them with snowballs until their tan fur is soon caked white. I often go for the greens of their eyes.
      Clara sometimes participates, but shows little or no excitement as I did.
      "I'm not sure," I reply, eyeing one of those cats tip-toeing by through the snow-capped bushes. "What do you think?"
      "I'm not exactly sure, either," Clara says, standing up and brushing the snow from her knees.
      "Shh! There's one!" I tell her. I bend down behind a bush, Clara sighs and bends down beside me. The cat hears the movement our snow suits make rubbing together and stops dead in its tracks, staring in our direction. We are very quiet. I hold my hand up in warning. There is a crystalline silence now and the bitter December winds slice and gnaw at my ears. Clara pokes me in my side. "Stop." I whisper.
      The snowball is beginning to break and melt in my hand so I throw its remains, but miss the cat. It takes off, sluicing on its bottom. Now we stand like lost travelers at the edge of the pond as a silent, one-clouded piece of Heaven drifts by us and unzips, releasing its innards: Snow. I turn to Clara and ask: "Do you wanna post a snowball through Mrs. Clemintines' mailbox?"
      "Nah…Let's make snow angels!"
      She falls to the ground and begins to bat and flail her arms and legs up and down, trying to make what would look like the perfect snow angel in the snow. I do the same. Soon, we stop. We lie there looking at the pencil-gray sky and let the snowflakes fall onto our faces and bespeckle our dark clothing and we speak to each other, which is when I become convinced that Clara is somewhat strange.
      She has been my friend for a while now—ever since the fourth grade—but I never knew how peculiar she was until I began to socialize with her more often now that school is delayed a few days because of this inclement weather. I mean 'peculiar' very loosely, though. Her questions are very well thought-out and very unique. She is always a quiet girl—inside of school and out.
      "We should be getting back home now, Clara," I suggest.
      "Don't you love the snow, Jim?" She asks me, still looking up.
      "Of course I do. It's just getting a little bit too cold now, don't you think?"
      "No. That's not what I mean. I mean the snow, it's so beautiful. So clean. Ever wonder why all the flakes are shaped like that?"
      "Nope."
      "I do, but I can never seem to figure it out."
      "Ok, I'm ready. I'm so cold I can hardly feel by butt," I say, preparing to stand up and leave.
      "Wait, Jim. Ever think—"
      "No, Clara, I don't think of all these things all the time like you do. I don't care, really."
      Clara turns and looks at me quizzically. "What's the matter with you?"
      "Nothing. It's just that you ask me all these weird questions and I never know what to say. Yeah, you're clever for thinking of them and you're pretty observant, but I just don't know the answers and don't know why you ask ME anyway? I don't know!"
      "I was just asking, Jim. I thought you DID know. There's no need to get all mad. Could I ask you one other question, though?"
      I roll my eyes. "Go ahead. It's probably going to be something off the wall, but what the hell. I can guarantee ya I won't know the answer, though. And when you're done, we're leaving!"
      Ghosts whoo like owls through the trees and I swear I can see monster eyes harbored from within the woods across the street. Clara smiles and asks: "What would you do if a whole herd of elephants were running after you?"
      "That's just stupid," I reply.
      "Yeah, it is, kinda, but what would you do?" She asks, still watching the sky. Her face is becoming red from the falling flakes. They pile on and outline her face. She never looks at me.
      "Well, I'd do what any normal person would do and run. There. Happy?" I ask throwing my hands up and then letting them hit my sides. Another hefty gust of wind blows through the trees and the snow blows to one side. The sounds it makes are hellish: like a wheezing, web-footed old man in a stagnant cave.
      The hackles on my arms and on the back of my neck rise, either from the wind and its noises or from the look on Clara's face now: probably both. Her eyes…. Why does she let the snow fall on her face like that and not wipe it off? Doesn't it burn?
      "Hear that wind?" Clara asks as if she has just heard it.
      "Yes…now, please, can we please go now?" I get up and so does she.
      We walk back down the worn trail we had taken to get to the pond, I leading the way and Clara lagging in the rear. Our walk back to the main street of houses is quiet. Neither of us say anything to each other. The whole walk I think of Clara, her weird questions, her eyes and why I haven't noticed her like this before.
      I wonder what she is thinking. Perhaps she is thinking of me or how many hairs there are on the human body….
      The visibility is harsh and I can barely make out the houses on the street. No one or nothing is on the roads, but I can make out something in the distance breaking the dense sheets of snow. When I realize what it is, I step to the side and let them pass, my mouth open in awe; Clara stands next to me smiling as if she is proud. As if she knows something.
      The elephants, iron-flanked and screaming, clank and tromp through the scudding snow right past us. I close my eyes and say some words to the close, holy darkness, then open them again. And when I do, the elephants are gone…and so is Clara.
Blowing Kisses in the Wind © 1998, Jack Fisher. All rights reserved.

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© 1998, Publishing Co. All rights reserved.