New Short Stories - 2

the history of imagining about blue horses

sean brijbasi

the blue horse

Sebastian San Miguel sat on the bench in the small park across the road from Santa Maria and watched its large wooden doors through the branches of the flowering trees. He hoped the cathedral noticed he was dressed in his nicest suit and best hat and that he sat patiently and gently on the bench without so much as a gesture that might be mistaken for insistence. He thought let it be known from the tipping of my hat and the crossing of my legs that I shall sit and enjoy this day and expect nothing; that I shall treat my time upon this bench frivolously and read my book and be distracted by passing clouds. He thought this sincerely although he hoped the large wooden doors of Santa Maria would open and the sound of the organ would move down the concrete steps leading to the road and without pausing for traffic, cross over and sit down beside him like someone he didn’t know. Like someone who might say hello and smile then open a book to start reading only to close it again and sit quietly for a few moments before turning to him to address the strange blueness of the sky. He opened his own book The Alice Mystery and began reading as the sound of a car horn somewhere behind him nudged at morning.

i paused and the world swallowed me

Martin closed his book and drank his coffee. Alice was still sleeping so he made up his mind to take a walk through the city. He looked through the open window from the small kitchen and saw the cathedral above the trees. He inhaled the newness of another day and all the possibility that it brought. He wanted to tell Alice what he thought about the blue horse in the book he was reading but he was afraid that the telling of the thought would ruin the thought itself. He believed one must step delicately upon such matters. He could tell Alice because she usually gave a brief but thoughtful reply and that was all he wanted. He wasn’t interested in the indifferent chit-chat of someone who didn’t care or the lengthy conversation of the well-read on such matters. For these were matters, he believed, that were of such importance that they should be treated with reverence, understanding, and most of all, brevity.

He rinsed his cup and placed it in the sink. He picked up his book and grabbed his jacket from the hook by the front door. The caption above his head as he paused in the open doorway read 'filled with possibility'.

the alice mystery

Alice puts on the robe resting on the chair by the vanity. She pulls her hair back into a ponytail and clasps it with a hair band. She walks into the living room and picks up a magazine about the architecture of Barcelona. Alice feels she has something important to do today. She’s not sure what it is but she knows she will do it.

In the kitchen she sees a cup in the sink and rinses it before pouring some coffee that Martin has already made. She stands by the window and sees the cathedral above the trees. She wonders if Martin will return before she must go out and do the thing. The thing. She puts the cup down and returns to the bedroom. She lies down, looks out into the living room, and twirls the edges of her pillow.

the letter n is an alphabet

The blue horse was unmistakable but what to make of the old man on the bench Martin thought? He had ideas. Ideas that turned in his head while he walked until they coalesced into one single thought. But should he utter the thought? Would it survive? It was not a reflection on the strength or beauty of the thought if once it passed his lips, it lost its wonder and shriveled up and died. It was simply a difference of atmosphere. Perhaps he would hide the thought by wrapping many words around it. Yes, hide it from those who would damage it. And those who were predestined for it would see it there in the middle, protected by letters and words and pauses that were of little consequence to the thought itself. He had done this sort of thing with Alice. Not about books or ideas but about her. Thoughts about Alice had often come to him that were so beautiful, so magical, so fragile, that death was a certainty for them if they were spoken. So he brought them into this world hidden in long sentences that often had Alice shaking her head.

"What are you saying?" she would say. "Why can’t you just say what you are saying?"

"It’s like with the books," Martin would say. "You know."

And then the phone would ring or a song would play and a few minutes later the thought was forgotten.

the architecture of barcelona

There is more to Barcelona than Gaudi. There are the huts of the hill people made out of human hair and the skeleton of animals. There are the rhubarb shaped houses made out of sea-salt and wood flown in from Zaire that pock the city’s perimeter. There are several apartment buildings, the foundations of which are constructed of a rare fungus that can only be found in northern Spain. There is the train station, a creation of oversized children’s blocks with reinforced glass holding them all together. There is the Museum of Literature, the only one of its kind anywhere in the world except Dusseldorf, an amalgam of telephone metal and camel glue. And then there is Carmen and so on and so forth...etc., etc…

the bounty of my wry divisions

What was Alice up to Sebastian San Miguel wondered? He had an inclination to turn to the pages at the end of the book to find out. There was always that danger with him for he had grown impatient as he grew older.

He glanced over to the cathedral doors but they were still closed. The organ must play today he thought. Today of all days. Of all days, today. Perhaps Santa Maria had noticed. Perhaps he had revealed his desire in the hasty way he turned the pages of his book. Or perhaps he had shaken his leg without realizing it. If he could manage to distract himself for a few minutes--to think about everything but the organ--there might still be a chance that the doors would open…

what alice didn’t do

Alice didn’t go to the market today or stop for chocolate and pastries at her favorite café. She didn’t paint the bathroom wall orange or model nude. She didn’t exchange her pesos for crowns or feed pigeons outside the apartment. She didn’t walk by the river and wish it were warmer. She didn’t wash the dishes. She didn’t have this conversation.

"Tendrils fire uncertain three times from my boon", she didn’t say.

"Insolent let me spench, then free", he didn’t respond.

"If only it were so", she didn’t say.

"Are we speaking of more than what is here?" he didn’t ask.

"Don’t be stupid", she didn’t say.

Then she didn’t turn away.

the boy

I didn’t remember the plane ride or the unpacking of my clothes. A friend who I hadn’t seen in years stood in front of me. I asked him what he was doing here and he said his father had moved to Barcelona because he learned how to draw. He said he was there to take me to my boy. I would like that very much I said. Very much. Nine long months have I been pregnant for him. Nine long months. So we drove to the street near Santa Maria and parked.

I can only tell you what I saw that day as I waited in the car. Two men were sitting on a bench in the park. They were reading. An old man and a young man. The young man closed his book and turned to the old man. Then the large, wooden doors of the cathedral opened and a blue horse with a woman riding upon it walked slowly out and made its way down the steps. It stood there, this blue horse with the woman sitting on its back, watching them.

It was something I wanted my boy to see.

Sean Brijbasi is the author of the books One Note Symphonies and Still Life in Motion.