Author: Sophi Nielsen

Mechanical engineer, writer, filmmaker, writer of the weird and lover of the strange.

pipe bomb dream 6

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She’s in the shop. They show two young men on the grainy TV. The shop mechanic’s eyes are lost to the TV. Not sorting drill bits anymore. She starts to deburr her pieces at his table. Deburring, removing of inconvenient edges.

“You know,” he says, “I swear I’ve seen him before. In the shop, probably. That’s why you gotta ask what they’re working on. Because you never know, do you?” Her piece is becoming smooth. No edges. A girl sits down to deburr next to her. The girl’s eyes are lost to the TV.

“Incomprehensible, isn’t it?” the girl says.

“Yeah, incomprehensible,” Cal says. The floor is covered in corkscrewing metal chips.

pipe bomb dream 5

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Next afternoon. There are things on the news about a bombing at the marathon. He is in a class. The class has stopped. 2:49 PM. They all talk about the tragedy. He doesn’t waste his words. Silent.

“Did you know anyone at the race?” someone next to him asks.

“Someone’s brother,” he says.

“Someone you know’s brother?”

“No, just someone’s brother,” Silas says. The carpet is purple, or something like that.

pipe bomb dream 4

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That night. She’s punching their shared wall. He hears her. Dull thuds. Walls are difficult to punch. 

“Cal,” Silas says. “Cal.”

“Stupid. So stupid,” she says. She uses punches as punctuation marks.

“What,” he says.

“Felt so. Helpless.” Punch, punch. Punch.

“Well…” he says. Resigned. That’s the way it is. She stops.

“He couldn’t even say it.” Her eyes are green. “He couldn’t say it was over.” She punches the wall. Guard up. Jab. She punches in pattern: 1-1-2, pause, 1-1-2. 

He holds her wrists. To stop her.

“Stupid,” she says.

“Stupid,” he agrees.

pipe bomb dream 3

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That evening. She walks past the couch. He’s on the phone.

“What I-?” Silas says. Stuttering. He’s caught off guard.

The phone buzzes.

“It was two dates,” he says. Defensive. Cal sits down next to him. Watches.

The phone buzzes. “Where were you last night?” the girl on the phone says. Silence. Silence. “At least you could have told me that you didn’t love me!”

“I-” His voice is pitched. About to break. Cal holds his wrist, takes away the phone, hangs up for him. To stop him. His head fills his hands. Silence. “How do you even know if you love someone?” he asks. “Or if you don’t.”

“Don’t know,” Cal says.

“How can you tell someone then?”

“You can’t, I guess.”

pipe bomb dream 2

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The morning. The room has one window. He gets up. The carpet is green. Used to be. There is a door.

Another room. A kitchen. Smells. Someone making eggs.

“Good morning,” she says. There is a smile in her voice. She likes him. She’s not mad.

“Good morning,” Silas says. There is blood in his head. Throwing itself back and forth.

“I made us breakfast,” she says. Us, she says. He mimics her. Smiling. Happy about breakfast.

“You shouldn’t have.” He returns the pleasantry. He accepts the eggs. Doesn’t eat much. Doesn’t know what he’s done.

“Not hungry?” she asks. There are tiny twists of etiquette. Expectations, ways to be rude. He can’t focus. The blood won’t stop throbbing. He pauses too long.

“Uh…getting over a stomach bug.” Wrong. Now she’ll worry about getting it. Don’t look at her face.

“Can I use your phone?” She nods and points. The phone is green. He dials.

“Hello?” she picks up. There are machines in the background. Loud.

“I..uh..I’m going to be late for.” Pause. “Lunch.” Pause. “To work on the project?” Silence.

“Do you know where you are?” she asks. He looks down. Looks around. Looks out the window. The kitchen floor is linoleum. “Ask her address so you can call a cab,” she says.

“I don’t have any cash.”

“You better not be in Somerville again.”

“Thanks,” he says. The phone is green. Has a handprint where the dust was. The kitchen walls are cracked. Stripped some places of white paint. “What’s your address? I need to call a cab,” he says. Pause. “After breakfast.”

“I thought you weren’t hungry.” Accusation.

“Changed my mind?” Weak. A question.

“It’ll get cold.” Like she is. He sits down. Blood pushes forward. Pushes back. Stiff smile. She smiles back, hesitantly. Make conversation. Something. Anything.

“What are your plans for the day?” he asks. Attempting charm. She looks at him. Looks down. Her eyes are brown.

“Lunch with my brother.” Her brother lives nearby. “He’s running the marathon.” Her brother is a runner.

“Nice. Tell him good luck.”

“I will.” The table is cheap wood. Looks like linoleum. Linoleum has too many syllables. “223 West Street, Somerville.” Silence. “My address.”

“Shit.”

“What?” Silence.

“Same house number as…my aunt.” Weak. She laughs, weakly, in response.

“What a coincidence?”

“Right? You mind if I…?” He points to the phone. Too quickly.

“Go for it.”

He dials. Looks back. Too fast. Her hair is brown. He holds his head. Did he like her last night?

“Shit.”

“What?” She already picked up.

“Sorry.”

“You’re hungover. What’s the address?”

“223 West Street.” Silence. “Somerville”

“Shit.”

“Sorry.”

“I’ll honk,” she says. He hangs up. Sits down. Her lips are colorless. She smiles. Forced. His throat is dry. Don’t ask for water. Ask her something. Small talk. Her brother. Ask about her brother.

“So…how long has your brother been running marathons?”

“He was a track star in high school. He ran his first marathon senior year, so…six years?”

“Nice.”

“Does any of your family…?”

“No, not us. We’re mostly sedentary. I dance. Contra, like in Pride and Prejudice.” He grins.

“I know,” she says.

“You told me.” Pause. “Last night.”

“Oh.” He goes silent. Doesn’t know what he’s said and what he hasn’t.

She gets up.

“Do you want coffee?”

“I…sure.” Pause. “Thanks.”

“Sure.” The coffee maker churns. Too loud. It starts to drip. Drips. Too slow. He holds the cup. Silent. Too silent. She holds hers. 30 minutes. Drinking silent coffee. He must have waited 30 minutes to get here.

A car honks from the street. His blood pounds on his skull.

“Must be my ride,” he says.

“Your cab?”

“Yeah, my cab.”

She doesn’t point out the plot holes. The stairs are rubber. Circles for traction. Not too fast. He reaches for the car door. It moves away. Moves away again. She lets him in. Grins.

“Never gets old,” Cal says.

“Nope, it does,” Silas says.

He gets in. Pause. His head is in one hand, his fingers are pressed into his eyes. To drive away the headache. The radio is too loud. More than 11. Loud enough to drown out thoughts. He turns it down.

“What happened?” he asks.

“Lucas. Found him with some girl. In bed with.”

“Oh. She cute?”

Pause.

“Sure. Why not?” Pause.

“Hadn’t heard from him in a week, now this.”

“Oh.”

She turns the music up. The skin on her knuckles is broken.

“What’s that?” She looks at her hand.

“Went to the gym. Felt like punching something.”

“Or someone.”

“Can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Illegal.”

“Really?”

“He thinks we’re friends.”

He laughs. “How?”

“It’s just a word, isn’t it? I have a convincing smile.” She grins.

“I’m convinced.”

“You should be.”

pipe bomb dream 1

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“What’ya working on?” is what the shop mechanic always says when someone new walks in the door. Because you never knew what people were working on. It always surprises you. And they always have stories. The machine shop is in its morning lull. Two boys at the mill grinding down a part for their electric car. It was a school team or something. Neither of them are electricians. That surprises him. One girl at the lathe but he hasn’t asked her what she’s working on. A stray strand of hair falls over one eye, but she hasn’t pushed it back.

“What’ya working on?” he asks.

“Part of a pen. For my father-my dad.” She doesn’t look up. Corrects her formality. “He always carries one in his shirt pocket. It ruins the shirt so my mom stopped buying him shirts with pockets.” He nods.

“If you need anything just give a shout.”

“Thanks.”

He is rearranging the drill bits. Always get messed up. People not looking where they put them.
The girl’s phone rings. She stops the lathe. “Hello?” Pause. “Do you know where you are?”

bottoms dream 12

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Raymond’s fingers trembled over the words of the tattered paperback. His voice did not rise above a whisper, melancholy settling deep into his bones.

“The emotions that go with these images of bottoming are reluctance, loathing, sadness, mourning, inhibition, enclosure, lethargy…”

Rose’s head had fallen against his shoulder as the bus bumped along to God knows where at God knows what time in the morning. Their only guide the roles assigned by lot. She could have leaned against the window, but the window did not offer the numbness that took away the burning of her blood through her veins. Her role the inward pressure on drowning lungs. Impossible apart.

“…or that sense of depth that presses on us as depression, oppression,
suppression.” Her touch was a strange sensation, like warm ocean water spreading from his left side to his right, filling the space his emotion had left. His role the rationality of murder to save one’s own life. Impossible apart.

“Our downward imagination has entered the earth.” Raymond gently grasped Rose’s hand on the palm where there was no physical scar. He rested his head against hers.

“Bottom’s dream.” My blood is yours.