“Ashes to Ashes” by Brian O’Dea

*Featured image courtesy of MiVargof on Pixabay*

We start off strong this week with a very unique piece from Brian O’Dea. “Ashes to Ashes” is Brian’s first work on FC, and I sincerely hope he creates another great piece for us to read in the future.

Ashley Fetterman  

When she checked ‘yes’ on the note I slid into her locker, I knew I’d finally found the feeling all the songs and movies promised. Before Christmas break, we were married behind the swing sets in sacred preteen ritual before our teary eyed classmates. Her blue eyes watered as we swore to one another to always share our snacks, to always sit by one another in assembly, and to never let a teacher, principal, or any power pry our hands apart. 

After just one semester of elementary school marital bliss, I caught her brushing Barry Ogdon’s hair behind his ear in the cubbies. From this bitter betrayal, my descent into the world of dating followed a strange pattern from which I found no escape. 

Ashlee Hampton 

Hers was a world of glittery pink into which I knew I was always a temporary guest. Our union had been carefully coordinated by the upper echelon of high school society primarily based on our complimentary hair color and height. She delighted in her ownership of things that obeyed her command: The yellow slug bug bestowed on her sixteenth birthday, her Pomeranian who never forgave me for helping dye it pink, and the glittering array of necklaces and bracelet that swayed around her room like a hypnotist’s pendulums. A blissful spell only blondes with plastic wands and cards can cast—beautiful, powerful, but puddle deep. 
We made out with equal enthusiasm and ineptitude at regular intervals until I burped mid tongue dance one evening, and thus was unceremoniously hurled back into pubescent bachelorhood once more, a wispy chin hair the wiser. 

Ashlyn Koffman  

We spent most of our time together taking and breaking things that didn’t belong to us. I don’t think I ever saw a shade of color ever touch her skin, black from her combat boots to scribbled midnight eyeliner, never opening the gates it marked guarded more than halfway. We’d share stolen cigarettes while laying in the back of her truck bed. She preferred it to her house full of half empty bottles. Sometimes, we’d swipe one, drain it to the dregs before I fumbled with her bra strap and buckles while she made my eyes roll back. 

She kneed me in the nuts and spat on my face when I suggested she come on vacation with my parents. I never saw or heard from her again after she moved to Baltimore. Another Ash whose cinders were destined to twist and dissipate in the wind. 

Ashleigh Heidenstein 

She used the word ‘tautological’ in Intro to Philosophy my freshmen year and for whatever reason that stirred something in me. I actually did the assigned readings so I could participate in group discussion, bombed tests and essays solely so I could hire her as a tutor, and after months of honest campaigning, she allowed me to slip a tongue in her mouth outside the library one evening. I earned my spot as her prize placeholder puppy who got damn good at just barely hopping through her hoops. Turned out it wasn’t the tricks but the breed that ended up being the wedge between us. 

She categorically swore to never speak again when I expressed uncertainty that objective truth existed. Swore me off and shacked up with some STEM guy with slicked back hair within a month. Got accepted to a doctorate program somewhere up north, last I heard, she’s still thinking about finishing it. 

Ash Hendrix 

I took a shit job at the chicken factory after I graduated and we worked next to each other on the line. His eyes always lingered a little longer on mine than I felt comfortable with but he did it all the same. Couldn’t help but watch his deft hands debone the chicken carcass after carcass but he somehow did it with kindness, respect even. After a double shift we got drunk enough to dull our denial of what we both wanted to do. When he tried to put his arm around me in the morning, I cracked his jaw and fled west til the low fuel light flickered on.  

I got a letter from him years later, embroidered thick blue envelope with a scrawl I knew was his before I read the name. Burned it before I could think too much about it. If I’ve learned anything, it’s not to disturb and smear the ash once it’s settled. Let the wind do the work. 

Ashlie Hayburn  

She sauntered up to me while I sat on the barstool doing an admirable job of maintaining critical distance between my face and the floor. Slid a finger in my belt loop and by the end of the night I had bite marks from ear to ankle. 

We delighted in devastating one another, alternating wild swings between compassion and cruelty. We’d share our deepest selves then find new ways to twist and pull at the tenderness. She’d call me a cock sucker, I’d call her a whore, round and round we spun until we inevitably ended up in bed making a mockery of making love. The pain and pleasure carousel distracted me for a time, but crooked logs always burn funny. 

After another one of our motel masterpieces she asked me if I loved her. I laughed. Earned me a nice slash across the face from her curled yellow nails, never healed right. She hopped in her car, gave me the finger without turning round, and took her fading ember to be snuffed on some other end of the earth. 

Ashly Roberson  

The main problem with getting everything you want is then you have so much to lose. I’d cleaned up my act after a few years of dusting and meeting her felt like someone had slipped a hundred in my tip jar. I knew I didn’t deserve it but was determined to make the most of the favor. There were still the same questions like the others but the answers always appeared if we talked long enough. We laughed easy and often, had plans that made sleeping and rising at a reasonable hour make sense. Felt like I had a reason to clean the old lungs out, started to believe it wasn’t too late to turn the black back to pink. 

Half a decade together—more than most, but not near enough—snuffed out by bad bloodwork then a brave, futile four months before her lungs lost the beat. My tongue still tastes charred every time I see her name. 

Ashley Fetterman – Encore 

When the orderly rolled her next to me during ‘Arts and Crafts’ at the home I almost didn’t recognize her. Same blue eyes now dried and hidden behind wrinkles and creases, but still bright enough to light mine just like they did on the jungle gym. 

She half-remembered Barry and swore it was me she caught holding hands with Susie Chestin that split our sacred union. We spent the night alternating between laughing and crying, the absurdity of how we got from there to here so fast with our feet barely grazing the ground. 

We stayed up too late reminiscing, piecing together the stories of classmates like torn jigsaw puzzle pieces as best as we could. Burned the midnight oil and cigarettes like if we sacrificed enough we could wind it all back, maybe do a little better on the second go knowing what we do now. Fell asleep in our chairs with a smoldering ashtray between us, our gnarled hands entwined like tree roots. We must have forgot to cut the stove, silly us, a childish mistake. By the time the hook and ladders showed up, I hear they had trouble sifting her and I apart. 

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Brian O’Dea (he/him) is based in the Ozark Mountains and writes primarily creative nonfiction and short stories. He has a forthcoming collection of travel narratives tentatively titled “Between Vines” set to be published by Ozark Hollow Press. His work has appeared in Yorkshire Publishing’s pandemic anthology, ROVA Magazine, and more.