Insight for Writing: Brevity

“To write good poems is the secret of brevity.”

WIKI: Dejan Stojanović (born March 11, 1959) is a Serbian poet, writer, essayist, philosopher, businessman, and former journalist. His poetry is characterized by a recognizable system of thought and poetic devices, bordering on philosophy, and, overall, it has a highly reflective tone. According to the critic Petar V. Arbutina, “Stojanović belongs to the small and autochthonous circle of poets who have been the main creative and artistic force of the Serbian poetry in the last several decades.”

Published July 23, 2019

Walking through shadows,

seeing another’s true pain;

lost, to help those loved.

This came to me after reading @chainedinshadow post earlier tonight. If you haven’t, go to her page and read it. https://theprose.com/post/214271/the-monster-of-anorexia

She also made a video: https://youtu.be/STdIENLRygM

(I rarely tag folks for my Haiku’s, I figure if you like’em and see mine, then it’s all good. If you don’t see’em, it’s still good because it’s out there for someone to read.)

45, etcetera.

No byg deel, lets just laye back wher no one can c mee, etcetera.

its lyke the pytch that i creeayte when iam scared, etcetera.

y do thei tawk so lowdli? or maybee it is normel, etcetera.

whut can stap these words bruther? maybee sumthin nice, 2 remembur frum a happe playce, etcetera.

No honey, all the sad places, just looked happy, etcetera.

Don’t worry, I don’t like it, but it’s real and it breathes; etcetera.

Don’t cry, we still love you,

etcetera.

pPPopp, etcetera...

mummi still lovs u, so just hush in2o a lawng sleep now, non.

go to sleep mumey is heyre darleng

etcetera

Washing his face with a special lotion, he pats himself dry and then reaches inside his makeup case and prepares himself for the day’s events. Lifting out his new face, he carefully slides it over his own skin and gently pulls it down until his own face and neck are no longer visible. Taking an extra five minutes, he smooths over every possible wrinkle until his new face looks no different than the billions who walk the planet. Next comes the hair, and today he will become a blonde where his hair will just touch the collar of his shirt. Short, but with that yuppy look that was so popular in the eighties. No one will know that David Burns is actually Freddy.

Next, he places the hands over each of his own and his day is almost complete.

Closing the makeup case, he sets it inside a small trunk packed with various sundries such as a 9mm Beretta, a .45 Colt Auto-Mag and several Bowie knifes, along with future files of unsuspecting people to meet their fate. The trunk is lead-lined and impervious to X-ray scans at the airport.

His pilot (Freddy has his own plane), Martin, will be waiting on him, and never asks questions. He gets paid very well to pilot the plane and keep his mouth shut, though he knows that Mr. Allen is a dangerous man. Martin has never, of course, seen Mr. Allen in action, but he knew better than think of getting in the way of his business. Mr. Allen, at 6’3”, 235, broad chest, with an imposing voice that told Martin all he needed to know.

The man is dangerous.

Freddy leaves in three hours for Zimbabwe. He has a contract there to fulfill, and two others he will meet for a personal meeting. The first is what he does best. The latter is just his personal credo of justice. It is those he looks forward to most.

He decides to wear casual clothing; desert-colored slacks, loafers, no socks, a tan lightweight long-sleeved shirt, and Ray-ban sunglasses.

Taking his trunk and a small carry-on bag, he heads to the elevator and will instruct the front desk of Mövenpick Hotel Lausanne to watch his possessions while he lunches at the Sidewalk Café directly across from the hotel. His stay in Switzerland was a well-deserved three-day vacation, but it was time for him to do what he does best.

***

At the Alpha Palmiers, Anita Andreason, was also preparing for her departure. It took her three weeks of an intensive search to locate and terminate Sheldon Boulden, a major-drug trafficker in twenty countries as well as the states. He wouldn’t have come under her radar were it not for one of her close friends from her past who died because of the crap he distributed to people. Now, Boulden lies in a gravel pit, ten kilometers from here and if his body is found, his death won’t be tied to her. She never leaves clues. She knows better. She was trained better. At 5’9” and 125, she is a solid woman of beauty, brains, and strength. Very little, if anything, ever escaped her.

Today, she grabs one of several wigs, looks at them and decides to go as she is. Instead of covering her curly locks, she grabs hold the back and with a hair tie, ties her hair into a ponytail. She did however, choose a pair of colored contacts. Brown eyes today instead of her emerald green that would almost seem to sparkle in sunlight.

Next, she looks at her minimal wardrobe. When she takes on an assignment, she was never one for packing as if she would be on a two-week vacation.

She opted for her designer jeans, short white socks, her Reeboks, a full-sleeve blouse with the top three buttons opened and a medium color navy-blue jacket. Since the weather was calling for upper sixties today, she felt she wasn’t over or underdressed.

The gun she used, a short-barreled Colt .44, she broke down into sixteen pieces and placed all the parts inside a small lead-lined case that would easily fit in her travel bag. Because of the three-inch lead covering the case, no one in Customs would react adversely.

There was a bistro a block from her where she wanted to eat before she took her flight to London and then to the states to visit with Clare, and her little darling of light, Kathrin. That little girl brought out the side of her rarely, if ever seen. Absolute joy.

Looking around the room to see if she had forgotten anything, she grabbed her bag and her designer sunglasses, went to the elevator, then the front desk and checked out.

“J” walked through the glass doors that parted and headed for the Sidewalk Café.

***

Freddy opted to sit outside to eat. As his waiter brought him a menu, he decided to once again, go over the details of his next hit. Opening a valise, he brought with him, he extracted a folder with the information to read.

Anton M’Bawaui, resident attorney for seventeen years. Married, eleven children, with a near-perfect prosecution record. Former military man, decorated twice during his tour of duty. He stopped reading for a few moments and looked over the menu. Looking on both front and back of the shiny-covered menu, he found what he wanted. Going back to M’Bawaui, he read more. A former consulate of Kenya after his military service. And he dabbles in painting.

It is rare Freddy knows why a man he is sent to terminate must die, and truthfully, he would tell you it doesn’t matter. He leaves an address to have materials sent to him, looks it over, goes in and does the job, and within the hour, his offshore account is bigger than the day before. Freddy demands and commands a hefty price and people pay it. He is methodical, planning every move whereby he knows when the perfect time is to hit and extract himself from the scene and quickly disappear. No fingerprints, no shell casings found, no nothing found. His many sources know he can be trusted as the only name ever mentioned is the many alias’s he uses.

As he was about to put the folder away, a table away from him, a tall, somewhat slender but very fit woman sits across the way from him. He sums her up and takes in her appearance. About 5’8” or 5’9”. Probably tops out at 125. Her hair is meticulous, thick, and full, but too curly for him, but she looks good with it that way. Peering a little more, in hopes she removes her sunglasses, he wants to see the eyes. Eyes always tell so much about a person.

The waiter reappears, hands the woman a menu and then goes to Freddy’s table. He ordered the Braised Veal, a baked potato, a summer salad with vinegar and oil, topped with Julianne ham, chicken, bacon bits, red and green sliced peppers with red onions, and a side of grated white provolone cheese, and coffee. The waiter left but quickly returned with a carafe which Freddy poured a steaming cup and drank it black.

***

“J”, ever on alert for even the slightest movement, made herself as comfortable as she could at the outdoor table, and set her shoulder bag next to her right-hand side. Looking around, moving only her eyes, she couldn’t see anything out of sorts.

People walked up and down the sidewalk, cars traveled over the cobblestone street as well as a twelve-seat wagon, telling the tourists some of the history of Lausanne, Switzerland. She caught a portion of what the man said while controlling the four horses at a steady pace.

“The city, ladies and gentlemen, is situated on the shores of Lake Geneva which is French for Lac Léman, or simply Le Léman. It faces the French town of Évian-les-Bains, with the Jura Mountains to its northwest.” Then his voice faded further up the street he traveled.

Looking over the menu, she mused that that was one reason she took this assignment. She loves the mountains. She gets a rush from their towering strength and loves to climb. There is a thrill of the challenge to do something never done before, and she had climbed one of the Jura mountains. The tallest one, almost a mile (5,260 feet) high. It was a pretty place for hiking and camping, and except for the powerful peacefulness the ocean gives her, she could spend her life in the mountains, and if she can survive those people who are constantly sent to end her life because she bucked authority, that was what she intended to do one day.

The waiter came to her table and after looking over the menu, she knew what she wanted. “J” ordered a veal burger with onion rings and steak fries. She then requested a glass of Vino Red.

Noticing several tables filled with girlfriends over lunch, two couples, one much older, the other, looking every bit the touristy type, were very much into each other, nodding their heads, smiling, and holding hands.

The waiter quickly returned with a bottle of Red Vino and a goblet glass and then retreated back inside the Sidewalk Café.

Then there was that man. Rather attractive, appeared to be in his mid-thirties, perhaps 220 and close to 6’5”, but hard to determine as he was sitting. The casual wear in his choice of clothes did his frame justice, and by looking at him, she knew he worked out. His upper-arms were muscular, and his chest was broad. That man was no tourist.

Removing her sunglasses, she wanted to get a clearer look at him. Peering without really looking, she thought she saw something off about him but couldn’t quite determine what it was.

***

She has finally taken those damn glasses off. Wait a second. Her looks reminded him of someone he has heard about. Often, stories will filter back to him about other professionals on his private email.

Freddy is aware of every contract killer in the world of which by his last tally was: 312. Of them, only five are women. Three are redheads, one is blonde, and the other has this woman’s hair color—brown. She fits his mental profile. What is it again? Joan? Jeanine? June? Jane? Yes, Jane. She is very adept at what she does. Were he not leaving so soon, he might have struck up a conversation with her, but then again, Freddy wasn’t one to mingle business with any form of pleasure.

As he was halfway through his lunch, the waiter brought her food. She isn’t a vegetarian, he mused.

***

As “J” settled into her meal, she couldn’t get the image of that man from her mind. What is it about him that holds such a strange fascination for her? He doesn’t look so much different from the many men that her life has walked through.

After the third bite of her sandwich, it then struck her. His hair. The style, the cut, it looks nice, but it is also out of style. She remembered a somewhat boyfriend when she was a teenager with that kind of haircut. The yuppy cut it was called. She thought all the yuppies melted away to oblivion by now. But it seems as if one has survived.

Then she noticed a small detail. His shirt. Long sleeves on a day like today? Then another detail came to play neither she or Freddy would have noticed on any other day.

She could see a slight break of skin at the nape of his neck. To the normal person it may never be noticed, but “J” always looks for the smallest details.

Though no one has ever seen his face before, she knew who this was. In her mind, the most dangerous man on the planet. His real name, she had no idea, but in the inner-circle, people talked about him. His perfect record. His private vendettas. He is both feared and respected.

If there had been more time, she would approach him but that may not be the wise thing to do. Last thing “J” needed was his attention fixated on her. In one sense, she saw this man as a challenge, and yet it wasn’t a challenge she wanted to accept.

***

Freddy finished his meal, reached inside his wallet, and extracted two twenty-dollar Swiss Francs and laid them on the table as he stood, his valise in hand. In doing so, he knew she had been sizing him up. He hadn’t planned for this or prepared himself for this, but the professional in him said he must. He walked over to her table.

***

She watched him stand and throw money on the table, thinking he would walk away to whatever his next destination was. But, no. He was walking toward her. Without thinking, her right hand automatically went to her left side and grabbed the handle of a small four-barrel derringer.

“Miss, forgive my intrusion. Since we both are in the same profession, I only wish to give you my respect. A pity, in a small way. Were we not who we are and what we do in the world, this meeting could have been much different.”

Her hand pulled away from the derringer.

“I could almost agree on that. Except that if we aren’t who we are, we would probably never have met at all.”

Freddy nodded his head, and without another word, turned and went back to his hotel.

“J” watched him, and then she saw his left hand go up by his neck and there was a light tug. He must have noticed. She continued watching him until his figure disappeared into the Mövenpick Hotel.

Within minutes of ending her meal, she stood away from the table, and did the same thing Freddy did.

Disappeared.

************

The first thing I want to mention is that all places named in this story are real. The picture is an actual picture of the Sidewalk Cafe in Lausanne, Switzerland.

To let you be aware, the character “J” belongs to anarosewood. Freddy is a character I created five years ago in a series of five books I am writing, and currently into the fourth book. Freddy is a dangerous man, but so too, is this woman who is only known in the private circles as “J”.

We spent time talking about the “what if” they met. What would happen? Would there be a confrontation?

I offered to let Anarosewood write this from a woman’s slant, but she in her graceful way, declined, so I took up the banner. With her permission, I started this not really knowing where it was going to go until I finished the first paragraph.

So, anarosewood ... thank you, my Beautiful Devil, for allowing me to bring this one home. 8=)

Are you sick and tired

Of lives passing by you

Like cars on a highway?

Does it remind you of 

What could have been?

Today is a nice day 

To start all over,

Look no further than 

This bargain sale on souls

Bragging half off

Taxidermied hearts -

So that perhaps one day

You can collect enough

That you finally have

One of your own 

A Message

Just as it was that day,

Enrich your mind, your essence,

Search for the true peace he sought,

Understanding his soul is limitless,

Saving a place inside himself for us all.

Be not afraid to cry for help.

Listen for the word to touch you,

Envision what awaits your future,

Driving forces will carry you.

Forgetting not that single day,

Often memories filled with both pain and tears,

Relinquish your spirit to his memory.

He gave his life for an uncertain future,

Unfailing in his strength he died for us,

Mankind speaks of him in many tongues, many ways,

A reverence unlike no other man in history,

Notwithstanding, his return will be glorious,

Infuse your thoughts, faith, passions of the moment,

Therefore, by faith, belief, trust in the Word,

Yearn deeply for a return with a glorious evermore.

* When the rubber hits the road, it smarts.

* No man is an island; Seriously, we're continents.

* A picture is worth a thousand words, but sh*t says it all.

* Two wrongs don't make a right; It's a privilege.

* Better late than never... it's your funeral.

History tells us that President William Henry Harrison died after serving only 32 days in office in 1841. Harrison holds the unfortunate presidential record of shortest term in office.

History also tells us that Gerald Ford was also not elected to office but was appointed as Vice-President under Richard Nixon after Spiro Agnew resigned. Ford later went onto become president when Nixon resigned, and Ford appointed John D. Rockerfellow as his Vice-President.

But which man only served for president for one day? He isn't officially listed, nor is there an official painting of him hanging in the White House.

It is that man pictured above.

David Rice Atchinson.

Atchinson never claimed that he was technically President of the United States for one day—Sunday, March 4, 1849. Outgoing President James K. Polk's term ended at noon on March 4, which was a Sunday. His successor, Zachary Taylor, refused to be sworn into office on Sunday. He refused because of religious beliefs.

As President pro tempore, and therefore Acting Vice President, under the presidential succession law in place at the time, Atchison was believed by some to be Acting President.

In an interview with the St. Louis Globe-Democrat, Atchison revealed that he slept through most of the day of his alleged presidency: "There had been three or four busy nights finishing up the work of the Senate, and I slept most of that Sunday."

Historians, constitutional scholars and biographers all dismiss the claim. They point out that Atchison's Senate term had ended on March 4 as well, and he also was not sworn in for another term, or re-elected President pro tempore, until March 5. Furthermore, the Constitution doesn't require the President-elect to take the oath of office to hold the office, just to execute the powers. As Atchison never swore the oath either, that did not make him Acting President. Most historians and scholars assert that as soon as the outgoing President's term expires, the President-elect automatically assumes the office. Some claim instead that the office is vacant until the taking of the oath.

Atchison discussed the claim in a September 1872 issue of the Plattsburg Lever:

"It was in this way: Polk went out of office on 3 March 1849, on Saturday at 12 noon. The next day, the 4th, occurring on Sunday, Gen. Taylor was not inaugurated. He was not inaugurated till Monday, the 5th, at 12 noon. It was then canvassed among Senators whether there was an interregnum (a time during which a country lacks a government). It was plain that there was either an interregnum or I was the President of the United States being chairman of the Senate, having succeeded Judge Mangum of North Carolina. The judge waked me up at 3 o'clock in the morning and said jocularly that as I was President of the United States he wanted me to appoint him as secretary of state. I made no pretense to the office, but if I was entitled in it I had one boast to make, that not a woman or a child shed a tear on account of my removing any one from office during my incumbency of the place. A great many such questions are liable to arise under our form of government."

Atchison was 41 years and 6 months old at the time of the alleged One-Day Presidency, younger than any official President. Theodore Roosevelt, the youngest to serve, was 42 years and 11 months old when he was sworn in following the death of William McKinley in 1901, and John F. Kennedy, the youngest to be elected, was 43 years and 7 months old when he was inaugurated in 1961.

David Rice Atchinson - Born August 8, 1807 -- Died January 26, 1886, died at age 78. He was buried at Greenlawn Cemetery in Plattsburg, Missouri, where a statue honors him in front of the Clinton County Courthouse. His grave marker reads "President of the United States for One Day."

Both Atchison and Atchison County, Kansas, are named for him. The town subsequently gave its name to the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad. Atchison County, Missouri, is also named for him.

Because sometimes

The paper

Is the only one

That will listen

And the pen

Is the only one

That will speak the words

You need to say