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Posts Tagged ‘Prose’

Flights of Fancy

In Fiction, The Daily Drool on September 4, 2009 at 7:32 am

It was written in the clouds – literally- She had no idea how he’d done it, but as the little plane dipped and soared above the horizon the sun sparkled and shone upon the misty sentence : “Come home, Sasha”  and after it, his heart.  How it was faring at this altitude she was afraid to wonder, but he’d sent it to her shivering, delicate, and stubborn, all the same.

It hadn’t been that long, she thought, since they’d last kissed.  Riddled with doubt about his intentions she’d asked the fateful question “Are you honorable?” To which his tangled tongue’d had no reply.  She would have to rely on her heart’s intuitions on this one, and that was something she’d never been any good at.  How could one trust such a weak thing as one’s heart?  Lifting her tail and running, now that made sense.

How was it that he’d found such strength in his when it had been she who’d been so steadfast in the courtship?  Was it merely a matter of the time and space she’d left in her stead echoing back at him “Chase her” or had it been there all along, loud and clear except for the looking?  As though her ears had been tuned to such a presumptive tonality that she’d missed what he’d been singing all the while?

But this spelling in the sky… well, that was a different game altogether.

She looked around with hushed eyes.  Had anyone else seen?  Surely there were rules about such things – about bombarding your lover with valentines in the sky when she was quite peacefully trying to take a vacation.    It was bad enough he hadn’t left her mind even for a moment once she’d gone… not even to let her enjoy her salmon dinner in peace the night prior.  She’d ordered a lovely glass of wine – the first of many- to accompany the sweetly glazed piece of pink decorating her plate, and leaned over the delicacy with fork raised only to remember how heartily he’d laughed at her the first time she’d seen one swimming.

It had been the season to head upstream and no one had told her they would be   jumping out of the waters like miniature rockets. She had almost feinted with the surprise and he’d laughed about it the whole way home.  It was so lovely outside though, the sun sparkling, the air arching, that each breathe had twinkled in his mirthful eyes and she’d not bothered to pretend to be hurt that he was laughing at her.

All of this remembered in an instant, and she, left holding her mouth open mid-bite, paralyzed by the want to go back there.

How frustrating that he could continue to creep in like that and disrupt the making of these new “Sasha” memories… memories that would last a lifetime and require no twinge from her wreckless heart… except that she couldn’t seem to get more than ten minutes into any of them without wishing he was there beside her in their baking.

It had been an honest enough idea- pack her bags and cash in on that hefty settlement- the one she’d received in exchange for two months uncomfortable labor at the mercy of a lecherous boss. She’d no idea he’d been snapping pictures up her skirt from the webcam he’d placed beneath her desk.  She had been shocked when she’d discovered he kept a most lascivious screensaver, horrified when she’d noticed a familiar pair of panties staring back at her from the melee.  Of course he pleaded mercy as the evils of a challenging marriage had driven him to taking extreme measures. It was a heartbreak to be facing a sexual tundra without hope for an affair as a fifty year old man with nary a hair left on his head such as he would never successfully get laid in today’s materialistic market.

The jury hadn’t felt sorry for him though.  Sasha had almost felt guilty cashing the fifty-thousand dollar check with his miserable name on it; those panties had only cost her three dollars.

The stewardess leaned down to offer her a steamed towel (Sasha felt less guilty about flying first class once she’d learned about the steamed towels) and all but choked when she saw the clouds outside.  Shaking her head just enough to blur the line between “im” and “possible”, the stewardess peeked outside again, but Daniel’s heart, having sensed the danger, had already zipped off towards the safety of skin and bone, its mission artfully accomplished.  Sasha, rattled from the suddenness of this new affection merely smiled at the woman and asked that she might get her another miniature bottle of rum to wash down her own heart which had leapt to her throat in the hopes of following his.

Pillow Steak

In Essays on July 21, 2009 at 9:11 pm

At first I’d thought I’d simply picked up a bad cut of meat.  I mean, it happens occasionally that you stoop over the butcher-counter inspecting all those containers of red, settle on a particularly-bloody-but-not-too-outside-your-price-range piece of flesh and take it home only to find that it didn’t go as well as you’d imagined with the creamed potatoes and snap peas you were drooling over at the check-out counter.

But this was different.

This was… wrong.

This was missing.

The absence of… flavor.

A million mis-understandings flitting through my brain, punctuated by my own mastication… It’s from a cloned cow and they cloned a bad one.  Crunch.  We aren’t the only one’s hit by the economic crisis, the cow’s have run out of flavor.  Munch.  My God, I am part of the The Matrix and the taste-simulator is broken!  Swallow.

Who should I notify first?  What could be done?  And would I invite a world of trouble by blowing the whistle on this flavorless gristle…

The thoughts are racing past so quickly that I am halfway through the potatoes before I notice they too are lacking in taste.

A conspiracy?

I sample the peas – nothing.

Just what is going on here?  I reach for the cranberry juice, bracing for the inevitable, only this time instead of nothing I taste…

My pillow.

Yes, it is morning- and there is pillow in my mouth, between my teeth, and against my tongue.

And the sunshine is laughing, the cats are rolling their eyes, and my mind… oh it is coming back to me from its sojourn in the Land of Nod, one sad, embarrassed brain cell at a time.

Fur Trees and John Travolta

In Fiction, Prose, The Daily Drool on April 13, 2009 at 8:02 pm

It was early… an early-bird call.  So early in fact that I questioned whether or not this bird might have had one too many, skipped the tequila, and gone straight for the worm.  But there it was, plain as the un-day – and I reached for it in all the confusion… shaking my cat loose of its happy place.

“Mmph?”  

And he wanted to talk.  To talk about his day.  Because for him, it was still going.  

“Butits, huhmp, it’slikethreeo’clock- in the morng!”

What?  Is that English? 

And I repeat the time – “Three o’clock, it’s three o’fucking’clock in the morning!”

It was important, though, he needed to be heard.  To feel that the world wasn’t silently eclipsing him as he toiled away at his act;  Tending the broken hearts by night, and his own broken dreams by day.  

So I listened.  And I snoozed.  

“Are you listening to me?”

Mmph.

And there it was, finally a crystal clear click of understanding.  “What time do you have to be up?”

I’m leaving at 6:30.

“In the morning?”

YES.

“Oh, Jesus, I’m… I’m really sorry.  I’ll talk to you later.  Go back to sleep.”

As if I could… He’s stirred just enough of my neurons that things otherwise unnoticed at such an hour are now devastating my nest.  The cat is doing battle with my piggies and my brain is counting minutes; each one lost up against each one to come.  The sheep have gone off to pasture and I’m left to my own wicked devices.  

3:30.  

3:30 in the frickin’ morning and I’m dreaming of a sleep long past due.  

3:45 and the birds, as if taking their cue from my phone have all waken.  Singing out to the sun, ushering it towards the day.  

I’m wrapping the pillow over my head, I’m kicking the day off, crawling my way back into a dark, silent, night.  

4:00 and I’m now down to two.  Two blasted hours with which to rest my way fresh for a new day.  

I’m thinking wicked thoughts.  Thoughts of murdered bird, simmered in tequila, served over noodles that I eat in bed.  John Travolta shows up to ask if I’d like another, and I tell him “No thanks, the train is already in the courtyard.”  He nods, our intimate understanding sending every molecule into a delicate shiver.  I turn to the large furry tree sitting next to me and ask him to pass the salt.  

I’ll remember this dream once morning comes, and blame it on that phone call.  I’ll grumble my way to the toothbrush, and grumble my way to the door, and I’ll grumble my way through the sprawl with my ex-friend’s name on my angry tongue.  But for now, oh for now, I settle in to a strange sleep, not for one moment questioning the strange sights before me as the fur -tree offers me a mint.

Sneaky, sneaky me

In Essays, Playwriting, The Daily Drool on March 29, 2009 at 4:43 pm

Every day I walk the same earth as you, and yet everyday I wonder if it’s true.  Am I really seeing what you see?  Am I really living, breathing, eating the same life?  Because I constantly see another world atop this one;  A complex web of possibilities stretched across every cell, every membrane, until it’s just a yawning blur of  racing colors and smears reaching into oblivion.

It’s not always there… this “Otherness” – more ethereal than anything – it exists just between my eyelids and my eyes.  It creeps up sudden-like, nimble paws silent on its path, giving away nothing in its approach.  Naught from the wind, it comes springing upon me without scent or sight or sound – but swiftly my thoughts go to it and I am there – seeing the great “What if” of it, seeing into hearts, minds, souls.  They become literary before me, a sum of all their parts.  I can’t turn it off, and the world gets reduced to a puzzle, something I must figure out, rearrange, put together and hang on a wall.  

It’s the reason I write.  It’s the reason I can sit for hours staring into space – watching my own private drama unfold before I ever put pen to paper, finger-tip to key… This elusive nether-world carries me along, sometimes more familiar than the solid holding my shape.  It’s home, and yet it is a wisp.  It’s invisible, yet sometimes it is more real than any reality I try to live in.  

It’s always with me, this delightful indulgence, and I delight in its arms.

Midnite mysteries…

In Essays, Fiction, Prose on February 13, 2009 at 7:26 pm

It was dark, and a little… out of focus.  The colors were so bright I could practically smell them, feel them, press them into my skin, but the air felt fuzzy, and when I looked up he was smiling at me, just as I would have imagined… Only, I was imagining him, wasn’t I?

I mean, I haven’t seen the guy in years, and here he is showing up between me and the wood paneled wall of… where are we?  Yes, yes, this most definitely must be a dream.  And yet, he looks so real… and we’re talking in that annoyingly theatrical way I oft remember using in my dreams.  Why am I so dramatic?

There, that was him, wasn’t it?  I’m not dramatic, or at least, I dont think I am.  He was the one who used to throw around that accusation.  Dramatic.  Although he was the party of crazy.  I’m sure…

But he’s smiling.  Miles of happy teeth staring back at me, practically dancing in his mouth, like little white beacons of promise. 

What was I saying?  He’s waiting, imploring, question marks are practically tumbling out of his eyeballs and onto my shoes, shoes, shoes… there’s the echo again.  Either I’m dreaming or we’re having this totally surreal moment inside a tunnel.  

And then it hits me, we haven’t seen each other since the fight.  Talk about dramatic, we were each so intent on getting the last word that we battled via text message into the wee hours of the night, long after our voices threw in the towel.  Why, then, is he looking at me like that?  With so much love…

What am I getting from him now that… do I need this?  Absolvment?  Understanding?  A warm, masculine force to tell me I’ll be okay?  Why him?  Of all forces to invite behind my eyes?  Him?  

And then he’s hugging me, holding me.  He leans in to kiss and I tuck my head into his shoulder instead.  “Is this alright?  This is what I need.  Just a hug.”   And he gives it to me.  A safe-haven that carries me into… where are we?

I’m starting to feel heavy again, solid, and his arms are getting thinner.  It’s all going to fade away into nothing, isn’t it?  “Are you real?”  I try to ask but my lips are suddenly too heavy… and that floating, echoing thought-speech that we had going is rendered inopperable.  I know I’m going to wake up at any second. That the weight I’m feeling in front of my tongue is my all-too-human-lips, that the body is receiving signals, electricity to force it to move… that this cave will not hold, and I will wake up solid and wondering… wondering… of all the angels to hold me, why did I call on you?

And then I blink.

I blink and my cat has her butt pressed against my pillow.  And the thought-speech is replaced with her gigantic meow reminding me that it’s time for breakfast.  So I get my now-solid body out of bed to turn the corner of this day…  His presence now only a wisp tucked behind the fog, leaving me rubbing and rolling my eyes, leaving me wondering.

But before I can delve too deeply into the “Why’s” of it all, the “How did he get heres?”, with the sandy remains of the night still tingling in my thoughts, she meows again.  

I better feed this cat before she takes off my fingers.

And just like that he’s gone.

A spot of fiction…

In Fiction, Prose on February 1, 2009 at 6:43 pm

It was filled with that coffee house music, Godless ambianic music meant to mean something.  To whom exactly I don’t know.  Certainly not the menopausal women who stood in front of me, arguing about which one had snack duty and who’s kid made more dooty… 

Encapsulating romance…that’s what I garner from the cat-crying over-head.  I order my hot chocolate, “Whole milk, yes I want whip cream.”  The woman looks me over, up and down. “That’s right!” I feel like screaming in her anorexic face.  “I said whole milk!  With WHIPPED CREAM, calorie for yummy calorie.  My metabolism runs the marathons, all of them.  It’s not my fault my bones need the calcium.  Vitamin D helps them drink.”  She drags her sullen feet towards the mystery machine making mochacino marvels.  I’m thirsty.

I wait.  There is a haze of longing ‘round my neck, pulling me inside.  Internal combustion, infernal seduction… I’m swept up in my fantasies.  If I could exist only in dreams, I think, everything would be perfect.  Enough drama to keep things interesting, with happy endings to make me smile.  I’m swaying with the ambiance, remembering romance with my hips. “$2.40” she says.  I quite my daydream and reach into my pocket.  3 seconds later we make the exchange and it’s all over for our affair. 

I turn around.  My God, there he is.  Standing behind me with my heart in his hands.  My hands hold a cappuccino.  The coffee girl made a mistake.  Stumbling towards the counter, my tongue in my cheek, he puts his hand to my back.  The fire spreads down my spine, lighting my ass on fire.  An explosion.  “Please fix this” I plead to the girl who thinks we’re still talking about coffee.  “How are you?” he wonders.  He who has been absent.  He who has been indifferent.  He who has been out of reach for so long that my arms have grown 2 inches in the reaching… “How are you doing?” I’m fucking dying over here if I don’t get my God-damned hot chocolate!  Soulfully singing something about “okay” I look to his chin to avoid looking to his lips to avoid looking at his nose to avoid looking into his eyes.  MY GOD!  The eyes of a God.  Lightening and thunder, or thunder and lightening, it’s ripping the place apart…