Fear of Widths

Fear of Widths by David D. Levine

by David D. Levine
$0.99 (Short Story) ISBN 978-1-61138-230-3

Fear of Widths by David D. Levine (short story) is a magic realist tale of a man who becomes unmoored from reality in the wake of his parents’ death. It was originally published in Land/Space, an anthology of speculative fiction exploring the prairies.

“Fear of Widths” is also available as part of Space Magic, an award-winning collection of science fiction and fantasy stories by David D. Levine.

Sample:

He gripped the steering wheel harder to still the trembling in his hands, to maintain his focus.

It was difficult to watch the road when the infinite horizon sucked at his attention. It was so very flat here. Even the tiny rise of a freeway overpass was enough to give a view for miles. A panorama of factories and churches, standing out from a background of boxy little houses: tiny square things, brick and clapboard, with pointed roofs against the snows. So simple, like a child’s drawing of a house. Each with a little concrete stoop, just two or three steps high, and a simple, flat lawn of green grass. Perhaps a bush or two. Not like the overhanging roofs, deep porches, and sprawling rhododendrons of his neighborhood in Portland.

How could a cartoon of a house keep you safe from the vast open spaces? Portland houses had solidity; those overhanging Craftsman roofs enclosed, protected, defended. Just in case Mount Hood decided to blow off its lid like Mount St. Helens, revealing the horizon beyond, they were ready. Milwaukee houses were naive, defenseless. They clung to the flat landscape like lumps of chewed gum; their only strategy was to be too inoffensive to bother with.

The houses were tidy here, but the cars were in bad shape. The one passing him right now was nothing but a lace of rust, its bumpers held on by bungee cords. Back home — back in Portland — a car that age might have five more years in it if you kept the oil changed. But here they salted the roads.

Or was it the salt, really? That was what his father had told him. But how he felt it was the great widths of this flat landscape that sucked the life out of cars. Storms swept hard across the prairies, with no mountains to block their effect; maybe the North Pole, its effects also undamped by terrain, pulled molecules of metal out of cars, leaving them riddled and weakened. Then the weather finished them off.

They got off the freeway and headed west on Capitol. Parks and fast-food places that might have been anywhere; suburbs whose names he’d forgotten. Seen from street level, the houses weren’t really so tidy: paint was peeling, shingles loose. Midwestern winters were hard on houses. Or maybe it was the neighborhood; he had not lived here in so long, he didn’t know if this was one of the bad ones. Probably that was it. There were too many boarded-up storefronts here for a “good” neighborhood.

But something in him believed those stores were not closed, just boarded up against the pull of the prairie — the infinite widths of horizon that kept drawing his eyes from the road ahead of him. Like a hurricane, he thought. He imagined cautious Milwaukee shopkeepers boarding their windows against the horizon: grim Germanic faces, starched white aprons, pencils tucked behind ears… and ten-penny nails clamped between white lips, eyes glancing over shoulders as the shopkeepers nailed up another sheet of plywood.

Unlike a hurricane, though, the horizon never went away.