Annalise Barber
hungry & inheritance
hungry.
(fiction)
you enter his office, clammy from waiting in the lobby. it’s a cube of cinderblock and tile,
housing angular chairs. unwelcoming, but you’ve learned not to expect much.
he lounges behind his desk.
examining you.
before you so much as take a seat, he begins to bellow the terms of your agreement,
slicing through the paperwork.
i’ll, of course, need your voice, he drones.
my voice, you ask. there’s gotta be something else.
you won’t miss it, he dismisses.
a pause.
he glances from the contract.
i promise, he says.
and so, you rip out your throat.
the pit in your neck is quite drafty. you rearrange your scarf to conceal the wound as you
hand your voice to him. he slips the bloody carcass into his jowls. he closes his eyes in
satisfaction. (your voice tastes divine.) he returns to scouring the paperwork, wiping the
blood from his mouth.
what about those eyes of yours, he asks while highlighting the paperwork.
(in his voice, you hear your own.)
such richly dark eyes, he mutters. they’re required for collateral.
you hesitate to respond.
i’ll be careful with them. probably even more than you, he states.
you touch your eyes, waveringly.
from each socket, you dislodge an eye and place it onto his desk.
yes, he sighs, what a good girl.
and now, onto the harder matters, he muses.
he folds the contract into a beige folder.
your skin, he says. i wouldn’t normally ask for it, but you know how things are.
so limb by limb, you scrape away your skin with your teeth. he lathers himself with the
flakes of flesh.
when he demands your hands, they are more challenging to gnaw off.
your teeth, an agony.
and afterward, he asks to devour you. what’s left, anyway.
you fold your arms across your chest, but there’s so little left of you.
so little left to refuse.
(fiction)
you enter his office, clammy from waiting in the lobby. it’s a cube of cinderblock and tile,
housing angular chairs. unwelcoming, but you’ve learned not to expect much.
he lounges behind his desk.
examining you.
before you so much as take a seat, he begins to bellow the terms of your agreement,
slicing through the paperwork.
i’ll, of course, need your voice, he drones.
my voice, you ask. there’s gotta be something else.
you won’t miss it, he dismisses.
a pause.
he glances from the contract.
i promise, he says.
and so, you rip out your throat.
the pit in your neck is quite drafty. you rearrange your scarf to conceal the wound as you
hand your voice to him. he slips the bloody carcass into his jowls. he closes his eyes in
satisfaction. (your voice tastes divine.) he returns to scouring the paperwork, wiping the
blood from his mouth.
what about those eyes of yours, he asks while highlighting the paperwork.
(in his voice, you hear your own.)
such richly dark eyes, he mutters. they’re required for collateral.
you hesitate to respond.
i’ll be careful with them. probably even more than you, he states.
you touch your eyes, waveringly.
from each socket, you dislodge an eye and place it onto his desk.
yes, he sighs, what a good girl.
and now, onto the harder matters, he muses.
he folds the contract into a beige folder.
your skin, he says. i wouldn’t normally ask for it, but you know how things are.
so limb by limb, you scrape away your skin with your teeth. he lathers himself with the
flakes of flesh.
when he demands your hands, they are more challenging to gnaw off.
your teeth, an agony.
and afterward, he asks to devour you. what’s left, anyway.
you fold your arms across your chest, but there’s so little left of you.
so little left to refuse.
inheritance.
(non-fiction)
the piano. an instrument of boxed strings (yes, strings!) and box-like keys. the first time
someone described the piano as a stringed instrument, i thought, couldn’t be, and
investigated it for myself. (it is. i’ve peered into a piano’s ribcage.) and so, measured by
octaves and steps, pianos are tinkering boxes of hammers and strings.
perhaps it’s this structure (the evenly spaced rows of piano teeth) that allows for such
masterful exploration. in a “classical” (European) style, the piano belts dramatically, yet
straight-necked. not so in my household, or (for that matter) any household where Black
improvisational music bounces within a piano’s strings.
i can’t remember a time when my family existed without a piano. (it’s a
necessity—whether a keyboard or an upright.) the piano was as much a father as my
father, the two being inseparable. in one moment, the suburban air silenced. the next
moment, sounds toppled against each other in chaotic clarity. the difference? my
father’s fingers.
dad would sway at the piano, harmonizing his body with the music. his hands scattered
from one end of the keys to the other, borrowing and reconfiguring tunes from the radio.
(perfect pitch and no sheet music in sight.) songs aged into each other, each
contributing to the adventurous experience of sound. his rhythm (powerful) stumbled
intentionally as if surprised.
sometimes, he’d sing. sometimes, i’d sing along. (our lyrics created by intuition, as if
whispered in our ears by the ghosts of jazz.) but, mostly, it was just him, just dad. he
could play for hours, only stopping when his kids needed to sleep. sometimes (even
then) late into the black night, i could hear the transformation of notes reverberate past
my bedroom door, echoing from my father’s piano.
i decided to learn the magic for myself after dad purchased a new, lacquered, upright
piano. realizing that dad could only guess at sheet music, i asked for a more “traditional”
education. (foolish.) for years, i attended lessons with a neighborhood musician. and,
faithful to the page, i learned all the right words. decrescendo. staccato. four-four.
half-time. though proficient, i failed to inherit the soul that only thrived within the
improvised romance of my dad and his piano.
the new, lacquered, upright piano remained at my mom’s house when dad left.
mom insisted on keeping it. (i needed it for my lessons.) and so, the music stayed yet
didn’t stay. that’s the thing with Black improvisational music (no matter the genre—jazz,
rock, r&b, rap, etc.). when the soul’s gone, the music’s gone.
and now, my father performs at polite christmases behind a grand piano, string lights
reflecting in its black surface. the notes, somehow, are less spectacular when displayed
for the family of my father’s girlfriend. (“friend.”) and yet, the reactions from her family
are just as awed as mine from childhood. such talent, someone murmurs. there are
mmm-hmms of solidarity, as if in a church service. and, in these moments, he is dad yet
not dad.
it’s difficult, i’m learning, to reclaim the melodic tradition of my father. (or, perhaps, it’s
less of a reclaiming and more of an acceptance.)
on occasion, i re-experience that flutter, that blessing and birth of improvisation. it exists
when my roommate instigates a round of freestyling, when a friend welcomes my quick
lyrics to his guitar, or when i fabricate harmonies to lauryn hill’s miseducation while
cooking.
and beyond those occasions, i’ll turn on my keyboard, attempt the different ratios
between a minor and major chord. my fingers will hesitate to match the notes of my
voice with box-like keys. well into midnight, i’ll pluck those keys smooth. and it’s there.
almost.
(non-fiction)
the piano. an instrument of boxed strings (yes, strings!) and box-like keys. the first time
someone described the piano as a stringed instrument, i thought, couldn’t be, and
investigated it for myself. (it is. i’ve peered into a piano’s ribcage.) and so, measured by
octaves and steps, pianos are tinkering boxes of hammers and strings.
perhaps it’s this structure (the evenly spaced rows of piano teeth) that allows for such
masterful exploration. in a “classical” (European) style, the piano belts dramatically, yet
straight-necked. not so in my household, or (for that matter) any household where Black
improvisational music bounces within a piano’s strings.
i can’t remember a time when my family existed without a piano. (it’s a
necessity—whether a keyboard or an upright.) the piano was as much a father as my
father, the two being inseparable. in one moment, the suburban air silenced. the next
moment, sounds toppled against each other in chaotic clarity. the difference? my
father’s fingers.
dad would sway at the piano, harmonizing his body with the music. his hands scattered
from one end of the keys to the other, borrowing and reconfiguring tunes from the radio.
(perfect pitch and no sheet music in sight.) songs aged into each other, each
contributing to the adventurous experience of sound. his rhythm (powerful) stumbled
intentionally as if surprised.
sometimes, he’d sing. sometimes, i’d sing along. (our lyrics created by intuition, as if
whispered in our ears by the ghosts of jazz.) but, mostly, it was just him, just dad. he
could play for hours, only stopping when his kids needed to sleep. sometimes (even
then) late into the black night, i could hear the transformation of notes reverberate past
my bedroom door, echoing from my father’s piano.
i decided to learn the magic for myself after dad purchased a new, lacquered, upright
piano. realizing that dad could only guess at sheet music, i asked for a more “traditional”
education. (foolish.) for years, i attended lessons with a neighborhood musician. and,
faithful to the page, i learned all the right words. decrescendo. staccato. four-four.
half-time. though proficient, i failed to inherit the soul that only thrived within the
improvised romance of my dad and his piano.
the new, lacquered, upright piano remained at my mom’s house when dad left.
mom insisted on keeping it. (i needed it for my lessons.) and so, the music stayed yet
didn’t stay. that’s the thing with Black improvisational music (no matter the genre—jazz,
rock, r&b, rap, etc.). when the soul’s gone, the music’s gone.
and now, my father performs at polite christmases behind a grand piano, string lights
reflecting in its black surface. the notes, somehow, are less spectacular when displayed
for the family of my father’s girlfriend. (“friend.”) and yet, the reactions from her family
are just as awed as mine from childhood. such talent, someone murmurs. there are
mmm-hmms of solidarity, as if in a church service. and, in these moments, he is dad yet
not dad.
it’s difficult, i’m learning, to reclaim the melodic tradition of my father. (or, perhaps, it’s
less of a reclaiming and more of an acceptance.)
on occasion, i re-experience that flutter, that blessing and birth of improvisation. it exists
when my roommate instigates a round of freestyling, when a friend welcomes my quick
lyrics to his guitar, or when i fabricate harmonies to lauryn hill’s miseducation while
cooking.
and beyond those occasions, i’ll turn on my keyboard, attempt the different ratios
between a minor and major chord. my fingers will hesitate to match the notes of my
voice with box-like keys. well into midnight, i’ll pluck those keys smooth. and it’s there.
almost.