three micros

by Christopher Locke

Verified #2

In the dream, I see everything though I remain unseen—a ghost behind glass. A stairwell rises infinite as people stumble through smoke, a dark crush of firefighters splits the surge of jackets and ties; a barefoot woman appears in a green dress on fire. Then it starts, a slamming of endless weight from high above roaring down on us. That’s when I wake, clean starch of hotel pillow cradling my head. Harmless. Journalist with a deadline, I shower and take the elevator to the lobby, decide on the ATM for cab fare—card declined. I call my bank. You withdrew all your funds yesterday. But I’m in Boston, I say. I haven’t been in the bank in over a week. Oh, they say. Oh. Furious, I cancel interviews at MIT; my editor can wait. I drive all the way home to Western Massachusetts in silence, no radio, to spite my good side. I enter the bank. The manager is sweating, embarrassed: we don’t know how this could have happened. That’s when a teller comes from the break room. They’re kamikazeing the buildings. We go back and watch television with the rest of America as the first tower disappears. Nothing to be done but invite more gawking. I drive home. Hug my wife, my daughter. It’s her second birthday tomorrow and we haven’t bought all her presents yet. I go outside and into a great field. Everything is green and alive. I look up into the sky and hear nothing, no one. Not even a single plane.

Verified #17

My first artist retreat, southern Spain: a converted olive farm a thousand years old. Days became rhythmic: brisk mornings followed by damp siestas; courtyard dinners under a trellis of stars. Finishing another bottle of Rioja, we’d all laugh and talk shop. Ghost stories to send us to bed—the proprietor told us some of the buildings were haunted. When done writing for the day, I strolled the grounds and breathed, unfurled beneath a legislature of trees with their wide shade and good silence. I explored a barn rib-caged and hollow save for a stone wheel holding the center. I could imagine the centuries passing between families, owners and laborers alike. That night, I awoke to a man squatting inside my window. I didn’t move or speak and waited for him to kill me. He kept touching his throat and his shoulders buzzed. When something was about to happen, daylight filled my room and I was suddenly alone. I escaped my bed and climbed a hill littered with cacti, wove through the sugar cube town at the top and plunged deep into the Mediterranean waters below. I hoped for reassurance or familiarity but found only a deserted beach, an alphabet of charred sticks, and a used condom beating the shallows. I even lost my wedding band in the waves, me panicked and searching for hours along the shore, every wet stone glinting like fool’s gold.

Verified #11 

My wife Lisa grew up in a modest home. It was previously owned by a woman who married a gambler; he lost everything. One night, nearly Christmas, the woman stood across the street. Lisa’s father was shoveling the driveway. He raised his hand. Can I help you?  Her name was Janet. She explained the husband, the house, her love for the holidays; she wanted to see if the new family filled the picture window with balsam and glitter like she did. They became friends. She visited every December until she was told she had less than three months—bone cancer. The service was in the spring. The following Christmas, little things: lights flickering, objects appearing in one place after being left elsewhere. By January, quiet. Until next year. Things became increasingly violent: curtains smoldering over the sink, wires snapping and hissing from behind the walls. Lisa woke in the middle of the night and heard whispering from her bedside radio, power off. She flicked the dial back and forth, but the voices kept repeating the same demand. Finally, the church agreed and offered a priest, smoke a metronome before him as he moved from room to room, prayers touching the ceiling. Then, nothing. And nothing the following year. Until a final Christmas Eve. Celebration in the dining room, glasses raised. An explosion in the basement. Dad jumped downstairs. It’s the boiler, he said. Lisa was furious; she cursed and slammed the table. Everyone’s eyes. No, Lisa. Stop. Lisa put her hand to her lips, her wet nose; to the blood running freely down her chin.

Photo of Christopher Locke

BIO: Christopher Locke was recently shortlisted for the Lascaux Prize in nonfiction. Other essays have appeared in The North American Review, The Sun, Poets & Writers, JMWW, The Rumpus, Atticus Review, Autofocus, Largehearted Boy, and Monkeybicycle, among others. His memoir-in-essays, Without Saints, (Black Lawrence Press) was released in 2022. Locke received state grants in writing from the New York State Council on the Arts, Massachusetts Cultural Council and the New Hampshire State Council on the Arts. Chris lives in the Adirondacks where he teaches English at SUNY Plattsburgh.