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The hum of the engine kept him awake, the thoughts in his head kept him preoccupied. Staring out through the windshield he could see the headlights cutting through the darkness. Dawn was just beginning to break on the horizon. As many times as he had made this trip before with his wife, he could damn near drive it in his sleep... Judging by the suns position and the lay of the shadows it cast, he guessed it was around 8:30 or so. The sky was an airbrushed blue, kissed with cotton candy wisps of clouds. Gently he reminded her that they needed to get on the road again, and she nodded in agreement, then hugged him tightly once more. Silently she smiled at him, eyes still moist but full of the emotion he always loved seeing. Together they stood up and brushed themselves off. She took one last look at the gift, burning it into her mind. He glanced at it, but stared unabashedly at her, watching the sun alight in her hair, her aura casting its own invisible glow around her. Grasping one another’s hands, they began the short stroll back to the car. Morning brought with it a gentle wind, enough to stir leaves and carry loose dirt across the clearing. The bow tumbled end-over-end across the clearing towards the edge of the bluff, which overlooked the small town, its color standing in stark contrast to the surroundings. The decorative ribbon would find a purpose with one woman in the small town below. Only Mother Nature and Father Time stood between the two. Mother Nature whispered a gentle draft, causing the bow to roll over the edge of the bluff and float towards the valley floor below. Father Time stepped in to do his part. "Jaden, what is it. I can see something is wrong on your face." His expression took on an ashen look as they neared the bend, and he could see the figures moving towards the train now. "Whatever you do, keep down!" he mandated. "You and Daniel will be fine, but do not get up. Is that clear?" His voice flatly direct, and clearly a negative response wasn't an option. "Yes, yes, of course" she stammered. "Please tell me what's going on" He checked out the window again, then looked back at her. "Sioux." Outside the studio night hung enigmatic and Dali-esque. A starry sky held court for the Sandman, a sedate breeze coiled around every lightpost, thousands of silent dreams bobbed in the invisible sea of evening shade. Neon washed the side of the building with its electric pallor spelling out the studio’s moniker, RMM.... A solitary car was visible on the black-and-white security monitor inside the studio. The security cameras really weren't necessary since the studio was located well outside the Gabriel Bluff town limits. They had been installed mostly to assuage the egos inside the building than to deter any perceived criminal activity. If quiet and serenity were tangible, then both would have been caught on video this night. Uncaptured would be the trace of whispered moments to be, the conflagration of spirit rising from the heart, the mirrored-ball of emotion as it began to throw shards of sentiment and passion about its dreaming host. On this evening, inspiration was bestowed with not just one name, rather, beguiled by three. The sweat on the bottles reflected the dying sunlight as it struggled to stay alive. Paul sat and watched the streetlamp next to the tree slowly flicker on, unlatching the blinds and swinging the panel open for an unobstructed view of it. Bobby's worn fingers clenched his beer bottle and raised it aloft. "To getting my friend back." Paul raised his bottle as well, tapping the neck against the barrel of Bobby's bottle. He nodded knowingly in response. He liked the sound. It was comfortable. He liked comfortable. He had to be careful not to get too drunk. He was starting to like the alcohol, and it scared him. But not too much. "What possessed you to get into this line of work?" I asked, slamming the door shut with a loud metallic thud. He kept staring out the driver window looking for a spot to merge, so he appeared to be talking to the window instead of me. "Used to be your garden variety garbage man." He paused a moment then looked at me and pointed a finger. "Be damn sure you write 'sanitation engineer' if you quote me! They don't like to be called garbage men."... ... Coughing, I dropped to the ground, placing myself between the kicked open door and the passenger side. Every fiber of my being concentrated on the task at hand. The passenger was female. All too familiar a female, although her head was turned to the side so I couldn't see her face. Grabbing her wrist I checked for any sign of a pulse; present, but faint. Then she slowly turned her head toward me. My heart and stomach collided. Thaddeus Volkson rested his solid carcass in the worn channel he'd created on the couch. Inanimate, unmoving save for having to get up to get something to eat or drink--or of course to heed Nature's call. If television was in fact a vast wasteland as Newton Minnow eulogized then Thaddeus was its first trailer park squatter. ...Ray was only slightly less lethargic than Thaddeus with the added onus of lacking cerebral credulity. What he lacked in smarts he made up for with compassion. "Those are quite the conversation piece." "For cryin' out loud, Patchy!
Whatcha cryin' for?" "Don't start guys." Joe leaned
forward into the light and glanced at both men. Cradling his forehead in one
hand, he made prompting circles with his other. "You ever had that feeling
of--what's the word---premonition?" "The drum beat, it's fading now. Little by little. It used to have an actual feel to it, what I imagine a blind person would feel when they ride a wooden roller-coaster. The rumble tugs at your muscles, makes your heart race. Sensations you never knew existed rush at you all at once." She cried. The stranger extended his hand. Toby reluctantly shook it, noticing a lack of warmth in his flesh. "Good to finally meet you. Sheila has said much about you. All of it good, I assure you." There was no scent of fresh baked goods wafting through the cold December air like there used to be. Mr. Tillingham always baked extra cookies and pastries the week before Christmas and simply breathing made you hungry, even if you'd just enjoyed afternoon tea and scones. Now the smell of burnt everything permeated the area. She coughed, causing her to gulp down a blend of icy and filthy air. With each labored step he'd scan every possible hiding place for the slightest hint of activity. Every breath lodged the foul odor of death and burnt flesh in his lungs--he'd have gagged if he hadn't become accustomed to it. Every so often he'd tap his chest just to feel the ring he wore on a chain around his neck, a tangible reminder of the humanity and love he left back home. As all soldiers did, he promised to return to her, to marry her.
Ten simple words, not necessarily related nor matched in any contextual sense. The game? Use them any way you wish. So I did. [Full story here] "Listen close. Hear that? The sound of water everywhere--it laps against the dock, rolls and bubbles onto the beach, crackles and patters as it falls from the sky and onto everything around us. It's partly Nature's way of telling us to pay attention, part Neptune's way of beckoning us to come to him. Depending on our level of arrogance or stupidity, we choose one, brushing off the other. Sometimes we get lucky despite ourselves," I paused and closed my eyes, drinking in the greyness. "Sometimes...we don't." [Full story here] A Note From Obscurity : non-fiction June 6th, 1982. Over 400 graduates sat awaiting the diploma they'd reached for since birth. Some because they really wanted it, others simply to fulfill some societal mandate. All, because they'd earned it. Each one harboring their own unique vision of what the future may hold. The sweet release of the educational system filled us. The latent lion of uncertainty lay waiting amongst the tall, obscuring grass of the future. Father Time left us to our devices. ...So I say to you all, look where your heart was some twenty years ago on that warm June evening. Then look at all you've accomplished up to now. See that while we've all been tested, there but for the grace of God go we... One word. One lying, deceitful, s.o.b. And yet, once in a while... [Full story here] Warm darkness punctuated only by the flicker of electric candles and the whitewash of small lights well above the first pew. The ceiling of St. Mary's on 5th and H floated nearly five stories above the church floor; vaulted and supported by beautiful faux-marble columns. She was quiet this Sunday morning, yet hid something from me--something she wanted me to know, for a reason I'm not sure I yet understand... [Full story here] His Masters Voice : non-fiction Those few who choose to sit upon the orchestral stage are blessed from the beginning, for their journey with and through classical music will teach them not only their craft, but resonate, without their knowledge, through every day of their lives.... [Full story here] Ask me if these are poems and my gut tells me, for whatever reason, they are not. i consider these to be an acute exposure of emotion, put forth to weather the varied experience and opinions of others. Maybe that's what poetry is. I didn't sit down to write "poetry" per se. To that end, one of these was reviewed this way: "prose is a matter of putting words in their best order; but poetry is putting the best words in the best order...(a) moving example of human poetry." To say I was flattered is an understatement. I'm truly glad that someone enjoyed it. If that's what poetry is, then life steeps us in it.
[Who Am I]
[Loves Taste]
[The Long Forever]
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