Editor’s Note: These pieces were submitted as a pair in response to our 2023 ekphrastic initiative.
“Dog Tired” by D’Andre Tillman
GAS GUZZLER
John Boone looked dog-tired. Dinky door-chimes announced his entrance.
“Empty as hell out here,” he said. “Ain’t nothin’ but road and dust.”
Shepherd grinned. “Great spot for a gas station.”
“I reckon,” John Boone said.
He looked towards the pumps and furrowed his brow.
“Shep, that big fella there is drinking from your pump.”
Shepherd shook his head and scanned the array of cigarettes behind the counter. “He pays,” he said.
“He’s drinking diesel. Like milk from a tit. I reckon that big fella’s a few pickles short of a jar, Shep.”
“Don’t think about these things, John, they don’t make sense.”
John Boone shambled up to the window pane. “You ain’t even take a look at him. You see him, Shep?”
“Don’t look at these things either, John. Here’s your cigs.”
John Boone remained at the window. A box of Marlboro Reds laid on the counter.
“You payin’ for the cigs?”
John Boone shook his head. He still peered through the window. “Shep, that big fella’s got the biggest smile I seen. He’s still guzzling that gas.”
“Don’t think or look, John, it ain’t good.”
“I’ll think what I want and look where I want. Land of the free, Shep.”
Shepherd pursed his lips. “I heard of a Buddhist once who went crazy ‘cause he was trying to figure out what the sound of one hand clapping was.”
Finally, John Boone looked away from the window. “What do you reckon’s the sound of one hand clapping? Prolly like this. Thwap, thwap.”
“Don’t think about these things, John.”
“Thwap, thwap,” John Boone said, thwapping a single hand. “I reckon that gas guzzler knows the sound. Maybe he’s a Buddhist.”
Shepherd watched him. Slowly, without letting his eyes leave John Boone, he reached under the counter for his six-shooter.
“Maybe he likes the taste,” John Boone said, looking back out the window. “I ain’t never tasted gasoline, but it does smell good.”
“John, you best pay for your cigs and go.”
“That happy idiot,” John Boone muttered. He put his hand up on the window. “You reckon he’s guzzling gas because he’s slow? Or is he slow because he’s guzzling gas?”
“Pay for your cigs or get out,” Shepherd said. The six-shooter grew sweaty in his palm.
John Boone started to pull away from the window, then stopped and stood in a state of limbo between the glass and the cigarettes, transfixed.
“John, you fixin’ to end up like that Buddhist? Look away, damn it.”
John Boone leaned back towards the window. “I’m curious, Shep.”
“Don’t be.”
“He’s still drinking. Looks so damn happy. Makes me wish I was happy like that.”
Shepherd shook his head. “God gave us good heads for a reason, John.”
“That reason ain’t make sense to me no more.”
“It makes sense to God.”
John Boone shrugged. “I don’t reckon it does. None of this makes no sense. Your good head ain’t as good as you think, Shep.”
Shepherd put the six-shooter at half-cock. “A Buddhist once told me to think on the phrase: If you meet the Buddha, kill the Buddha.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t think on these things, John.”
John Boone shook his head and looked back out the window at the gas guzzler. Sanity leaked from his eyes in tears. He muttered about killing the Buddha and moved his hand to his waist. Shepherd shot him dead.
Lance is a senior graduating this May with an economics degree. He has been published a handful of times in past editions of Klio, Kalliope, and Folio, as well as the online literary magazine A Thin Slice of Anxiety.
D’Andre Tillman is a meteorology major with a minor in art at Penn State main campus. He works primarily in digital media. In his free time, he enjoys bowling, biking, and hiking.