COACHELLA VALLEY INDEPENDENT // 19
AUGUST 2021
the threshold and into Mr. Sturdivant’s house. They scuttled through a maze of boxes. Her grandmother peered around the corner into what had clearly been designated the game room. Teryl stared, transfixed, at a deer head on the wall. “He prob’ly killed it, too, right, Ber?” “And what we’re standing on.” Teryl realized it was a bearskin rug and jumped off. Ber was standing at the aquariums, bubbling and active. Ber unscrewed the cap from the bleach. Mesmerized by a group that looked like Skittles skimming languidly on the bottom among plastic coral, Teryl suggested, “These down here are a family. I think they’re babies. Maybe we don’t need to hurt his fishies.”
Ber placed a single drop of lighter fluid, no bigger than a thumbtack, on piled wood scraps. The young fire, a pale orange, was impregnated by piles of sawdust and birthed by a sudden breeze that tucked under the door. “Please, Ber, not the fishies,” Teryl asked. Ber heard the fire sirens and quickly recalibrated today’s lesson. She flung the bleach on the deer head. A section of its neck dissolved onto the floor. They worked quickly, until their eyes teared. The green pool table felt turned pink, then white. Ber sloshed bleach into the pockets, onto the rich mahogany finish.
2022 Civic Sponsors as of July 15, 2021. Photo by Monica Orozco.
“He has to pay, Teryl Lyn.”
Fall Preview
October 14-17, 2021 TICKETS ON SALE NOW
modernismweek.com Civic Presenting
Civic Partners
Teryl popped up the flaps of an opened box. “What’s this?” She withdrew a cardigan bearing the letter of scholastic sports. Beneath were ribbons, blue green and red, touchstones of sports superiority. “We’ll soak his glory days, too!” Quickly, they were all the color of band-aids. Parachute silk with military patches was draped over a small round table. Ber hit that. The color of Mr. Turd’s proud memorabilia was now a runny orange/pink. Ber pushed the back of Teryl’s head. “Out we go!” They patted their way along converging angles of the house. Neighbors emerged from the smoke to watch the firemen redirect hoses toward an untamed thicket. Briefly separated, Teryl and her grandmother reunited at the red gazing ball to watch Mr. Sturdivant go into his house then, eyes bulging out, race back out. “Who did it?! You set a fire then break into my house??!!! Is this your fucking idea of hospitality?!” he raged. “Let’s wash up real good,” Ber suggested. “Don’t look back. Hearing Mr. Turd’s screams are enough.” DewDad appeared to be napping in his chair. “Merrill Atwater can sleep through anything. Sirens … yelling … his own life,” Ber said. The pink jelly of tomatoes and seeds lay in his chest hair. A strand of spittle stretched from his mouth to his sternum, catching the twilight, bouncing with his intake of breath. “He’s probably dreaming up his own movie. Roy Orbison Versus The Martians.” Teryl reminded her grandmother, “We still have Mr. Sturdivant’s mail.” “We’ll pop over tomorrow and say howdy-do,” Ber answered, “and tell him how clean his house smells.” Excerpted from Diversionary Fires by Rodney Ross, copyright 2021 Rodney Ross, used with permission of the author.
CVIndependent.com