Matchstick Dollhouses
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MATCHSTICK DOLLHOUSES A Thesis Presented to The Graduate Faculty of The University of Akron In Partial Fulfillment Of the Requirements for the Degree Master of Fine Arts Nicholas Reali May, 2015 MATCHSTICK DOLLHOUSES Nicholas Reali Thesis Approved: Accepted: _______________________________ _______________________________ Advisor Dean of the College Mr. Christopher Barzak Dr. Chand Midha _______________________________ _______________________________ Faculty Reader Interim Dean of the Graduate School Dr. Mary Biddinger Dr. Rex Ramsier _______________________________ _______________________________ Faculty Reader Date Mr. Eric Wasserman _______________________________ Department Chair Dr. William Thelin ii TABLE OF CONTENTS Page CHAPTER I. COTTONMOUTH KISS……………………………………………………………….1 II. SOMEONE’S GOT TO HELP ME DIG ……………………………………….…….8 III. THE UNIVERSE IS SHPAED EXACTLY LIKE THE EARTH………..…………18 IV. WHEN I GROW UP ...………………...……………………………………………22 V. MY BROTHER THE ASTRONAUT …………………………………………...…..25 VI. THE FIDDLE …...………………...………………………………………………..32 VII. THE VILLAGE ……………...…………………………………………………….43 VIII. LIMBO …...……………………………………………………………………….46 IX. CEREAL BOX BEAR TRAPS ……...……………………………………………..52 X. BIGFOOT’S WIFE …………………….……………..……………………………..60 XI. WHAT THE CAT DRAGGED IN ………………...…...…………………………..64 XII. THE COLONEL………………………...…………………...……………………..76 XIII. DISAPPEARING ACT ……...………………..…………………………………..79 XIV. PROSPERPINA …………………….…………………………………………….81 XV. FOWL.......................................................................................................................85 XVI. THE LAST BROADCAST ……………..…………………………...…………...88 XVII. DO THE LIZARD ………………………...……..………………………………95 XVIII. ZOMBIES AND BANANA SUNDAES………...…….………………………123 iii XIX. MOONLIGHT MILE ………………..…………..……………………………...125 XX. HONEY I’M HOME …………………..…………………………………………128 XXI. NEST……………………………..…..………………………………………….131 iv CHAPTER I COTTONMOUTH KISS A man that’s never been to the swamp’s a man that’s never sweated. Ain’t no sweat like a swamp sweat. Mosquitos grew fat as field mice. Swarms, thick as mud neath the mangroves, attracted to our wet skin. The family skiff drifted slow, carrying me, my lil’ sis Cecilia, and our construction supplies. We knew where we were headed, but didn’t know how to get there. River knew. It carried us along, hull constantly colliding gainst the roots snaking through the sludge. Black water. Legend said if a boy peered into the waveless depths, looked at his reflection long enough, he’d see the man he’d become. I never saw anything. Cecilia sat beside me, leaning gainst the gunwale as we trudged along. She crunched a caramel apple. The sugary coating, same color as her skin, dribbled cross her chin. After finishing the treat, she tossed stick and pit overboard. A warmouth gobbled the floating scrap, flash of jaws broke the surface then disappeared into the murky darkness. Hours earlier, in dawn’s steamy haze, Gramps cast us off. Loaded our two day provisions onboard, including a duffel with the building materials Cecilia picked. She kept their identity secret. Fore Gramps thrust the skiff into the wilds, he mumbled through a mouth full of chaw and spit, “Journey’s bout as safe as a cottonmouth kiss. But every Galvez settled this side the river’s a-done it.” By ‘every Galvez’ he meant every 1 Galvez boy. I was the first to have a girl tag-along. The time’s a changing everyone said. I was grateful for the changing. A grebe trilled through the cicadas’ ceaseless drone while we lay on our backs. My feet tapping gainst the bow. Cecilia’s gainst the stern. Our head’s whisper close as we watched the sky creep behind the canopy. Thin beams of dust-speckled sunrays intermittently lighting our faces. Sleep overcame us. A lazy sleep. Our dreams filled with ghosts, banana peels, and smoke the scent of honeysuckle. We woke to the night’s chattering. Tree frog croaks, heron cackles, hungry gator bellows. I cast a flashlight through the hidden landscape, blood red beads bobbing above the water. Could always tell a gator’s eyes from a frog’s. Gator’s a deep crimson. Frog’s yellow. Swamp’s an awful place to be in the dark. Any manner of beast – hell even the reeds themselves – liable to drag you down into the muck. But that sky, that starry swamp sky, is a sight to behold. Swaths of speckled light swirled above us and reflected below us in the still water. The two of us tucked inside the heavens as we drifted further and further from home. Terrestrial astronauts wandering through the surrounding unknown. We stayed awake the entire night. Gators quieting minutes before the sun bled into the land. A mist emanated off the water, shrouding the swamp in fog. Visibility confined to an arm’s reach away. Spanish moss appeared through the smoke, hanging from gnarled tree limbs. Scaly leaves grazed our faces as our journey creaked towards its end. The island somewhere out there. The island our folks fairy taled to us even before our first words. The island that emerged like a mirage as day’s rising heat burnt off the fog. The island of our forefathers. 2 Only Galvez blood knew its location. Deep within the swamp’s heart, hidden by the marsh’s tangled mass of switch grass and cypress. Solid ground. Home to a grove of live oak and our family’s rite of passage. After the skiff struck land, I hopped over the rail. Offered a hand to Cecilia, but she slapped it away. Boat swayed like a cradle, splashing pea soup colored scum. Dragonflies darted along the shore as my sister stepped foot on the silt. A silt that felt foreign to me, but Cecilia treaded upon with an innate assuredness. Swamp flowed in her veins. Not mine. I enjoyed the scent of pencil shavings and Playdough. Her – squirrel viscera and rotting wood. While I read book-sale paperbacks, she practiced slingshot and foraged for muscadine. Spent her days climbing trees and catching frogs. No kid in our sleepy town knew the swamp better. If I’d’ve set off on my own, I’m not sure I’d’ve found my way back. I knew it. Cecilia knew it, and so did our folks. Cecilia led the way. Duffel half her size strapped to her back, supplies rustling with each teeter-tottered step. She nearly toppled over ducking under the limbs twisting just above the ground. We stumbled through the barbed weeds and panted in the swelling heat. Mud caked on our arms and legs, drying to dust and flaking off our skin like snake sheddings. Bodies exhausted once the vegetation thinned. In the middle of the island, surrounded by the forest of oak, was the clearing where the Galvezes first settled, and where each following generation built homages to their roots. Legend said over a century and a half ago, Jean Galvez fled the coast after a bank robbery went south. Hounds and shotguns trailing close behind. He wandered into the swamp to evade the authorities. Lost them, but lost himself too. Spent days searching for a way out. Swamp tried its darndest to take him, but he was too strong. Had to 3 survive several trials, like wrestling an albino gator in a quicksand pit neath the full moon’s light. Eventually he decided if he couldn’t find his way home, he’d make a new one. Built a small mud hut on the island and became one with the swamp. Hut still stood as Cecilia and me approached the clearing. It’d weathered to little more than a mound, structure overrun by red and yellow blossoms of firewheel and buttercup. Though Jean abandoned the island for more fertile land, a tradition of building a home was born. Beside the mound lay a collapsed pile of tree limbs. The remains of a cabin whittled and rotted to mulch, built by Jean’s son in homage to his father’s hard labor. As generations passed, the buildings grew more elaborate. A hay bale barn, railroad tie plantation manor, and a milk bottle pyramid now serving as an egret rookery. Glass shattered and smeared with guano and feathers. Gramps’ whiskey barrel Camelot, a dedication to not only the Galvez tradition but also to his drink and President of choice, still retained its shape. Castle loomed over us, but it weren’t nearly as tall as the last monument. Pappy’s monument. A hubcap skyscraper, five stories tall. Nearly taller than the surrounding live oak. In the shadow of our father’s tower, Cecilia dropped the duffel. Rummaged through the sack, removed a grass hook, and threw it at my feet. Tool heavy in my hand as I hacked away at the meadow’s weeds, threshing out a foundation. Pollen and shreds of leaves spored into the air, tickling my nostrils as I struggled with each swipe. It’d take hours to clear enough space to build anything close to our family’s previous feats. But after a few minutes, Cecilia told me to stop. Clearing barely wide enough for a fire pit. “What now?” I said. “We build.” 4 I looked down at the leveled spot underfoot. Shrugged my shoulders, sickle hanging in my limp grip. “You’re going to need a wider foundation.” Cecilia shook her head, dark sweat soaked hair swaying over her shoulders. She dug her hands into the duffel, pulling out matchstick boxes like Christmas presents. Wood rattling inside the cardboard with each box tossed gainst the ground. “Matches? That’s the secret you’ve been hiding behind that coy smile this whole time?” “Coy?” “Shy. Shy smile.” “Hell, there ain’t nothing shy about me. This here smile’s, con-fi-dent.” She smiled as wide as possible, showing off her gap of missing front teeth. Jagged slivers of white protruding from her gums. “Pray tell Miss. Con-Fi-Dent, how you plan on building anything out of these here twigs?” “Wood’s wood. Matches just as good as 2x4s.” “Cept 2x4’s are measured in inches, not millimeters. Less you got a million of them there boxes, you ain’t building anything.” “Am too.