Pickers on My Pant Leg

Her laugh was like sweet music.

One fine day I was walking in the woods by my house, the ones across the overgrown field that used to be owned by Mr. Kooser. There is an abandoned farm house in the back of the field, just before the woods. There are stones in that field, and trash strewn about. 

I had been walking, or rather, parkour-ing, my way through the woods toward the farm house, hopping over logs, swinging from vines, leaping across streams as is my wont to do in order to stay nimble, when my pant legs had collected a coating of pickers. You know pickers, those damned things that stick to your pantlegs. I'm no botanist or naturist, I don't know what plant they're from. Burrs. Whatever.

Anyhow, they were coating my pantlegs. Such a bothersome attachment. I suppose that's how nature chose for them to pollinate, or procreate; they stick to the legs of a hapless traveler, who carries them elsewhere, then they drop to the ground and propagate the continuation of their subgenre in life.

I approached the house and I saw her sitting on the porch step, looking rather forlorn. As I drew near, her eyes fell to the pickers on my pant legs, and it seemed to cheer her. She said not a word, nor did I.

I drew closer and she reached out and plucked one of the burrs from my trouser legs. She giggled. She plucked another; and laughed. She began pulling them from my pant legs with both hands, and soon was teary-eyed and breathless with laughter. Her laugh was like music, smooth and rich, and made my heart flutter. When there were no more to be removed from my pant legs, she looked up and smiled at me, rose, and walked into the house. The door creaked behind her.

After she had gone in the house, I brushed the bits of forestry remaining on my drawers to the ground, and knocked on the door. No one answered. I knocked again. Still no one answered.

A man walked by as I attempted a third knock. My knuckles were about to connect with the door when he called to me.

Hey! He said. No one lives there. No one for five years now. What are you up to? He said.

There was a girl. I said. She was just here.

Girl? He said. There's no girl. Not anymore. There used to be. He looked down the road and sighed. Say the dresses in the closet, he said. He took a deep breath and sighed another sigh. He began walking down the dirt road, looking over once, and nodding. Another one, he said, under his breath, and continued walking.

I looked down at my clean trouser legs, stepped off the porch, and walked across the field toward home. She sure had a nice laugh.

---

--Jasper Handysides

Elizabeth

She'll make your heart flutter, that's a fact, but she'll always be out of reach. 

There have been many days, many days indeed, when I'll have her over to my old farmhouse for beans and rice. We'll have a nice time, good conversation, and often a nice little sit on the back porch swing, looking up at the stars. My heart fluttered. Oh, did my heart flutter. I'd invite her up to my second floor bedroom, the one with the canopy bed, and the energy between us was enough to electrify a whole neighborhood of houses. I'd sit on the bed, heart pounding, and beckon her over. Every time, a look of infinite sadness would drape itself over her pretty countenance, and she would just stare out the window, as if waiting for someone.

Elizabeth, honey, I'd say, please come away from there and tell me what is wrong.She wouldn't say a word, just sigh. Oh the sighs. I could almost see the sadness accompany her breath that fogs the window.

I cannot, she'd say. My heart belongs to another.

My own heart would break each time. But always I pursued her. Dinners of beans and rice. Songs on my guitar. She smiled enough. Until the end of the night, when she brought out that sadness and set it on the windowsill for all to see.

--Horatio Bean