When Sorrow comes to visit, he doesn’t take off his shoes. Dragging and tracking mud from outside to every room in the house. He doesn't even pretend to wipe his feet at the welcome mat before entering. With each visit, his clothes become shabbier and his hands filthier. He always announces and apologizes that he can’t stay for long, he has others to visit. I always suggest water, but he prefers tea. Taking longer to prepare and prolonging his stay. We always listen to Etta while the tea is being made. I’m not ever sure when he’ll leave, some visits are more extended than others. No matter how long the stay, you can always tell he was here. The longer he stays, the more dirt and mud build up on the floor. The more smudges and streaks upon the wall. Even long after he’s gone and I’ve polished the floorboards and purified the walls, there’s still stains that he left behind. Forget-me-nots proving he was once here. Before he goes, he'll turn to me and say I should be grateful I’ve only got to scrub mud from the floors and trail a rag against the walls. If he were to take off his shoes, it would be far more mess to clean.

Sometimes the shape of creativity

is the undulation of a violin

the way the sound

waves

with the silence

of the wood that extends, to tuning keys

up where resonance is contained,

in unexpressed ideals

Holmes

as loose string

when words fail

and imagery evades,

and a sigh escapes--

from the audience,

Hanging on life's

Expectancy--

and that

amorphous darkness

between.

In a realm where lines and curves intertwine,

My spouse stands, proof of a design divine.

Shapes, both straight and curved, in harmony dance,

Enriching our world with a magical trance.

Her physique, a complex fabric spun,

Threads of determination, fortitude, and grace run.

A portrait of lines and curves unfolds,

A tale of resilience and stories untold.

In the geometric world, variations reveal,

Circles of existence, triangles daring,

Curves that flow in a musical song,

Yet beauty confined, a concept gone wrong.

Society's gaze, a limited view,

Narrow boundaries, a distorted hue.

My spouse, like many, in this dance,

Navigates self-love and societal trance.

Let's break free from tradition's mold,

Explore beauty in forms yet untold.

Contours, a cause for celebration,

A unique narrative in each incarnation.

Her figure, not just a physical shell,

A canvas of experiences, a tale to tell.

Contours gentle, warmth and care,

Firmness, resilience in the face of despair.

A silhouette gracefully outlined,

Moments of joy and sadness combined.

In this intricate dance, no missteps to find,

A work of art, captivating, refined.

To those who doubt their form's allure,

My message is potent, steadfast, and pure.

Your physique, an artistry so divine,

Shaped by time, a unique design.

Each curve, every silhouette,

A testament to a journey, a story to beget.

Embrace the beauty in every line,

A celebration of what makes us shine.

Redefine beauty, break the norm,

Embrace diversity in every form.

A vibrant community, free and unbound,

Where self-acceptance in beauty is found.

╔════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ════╗

I've been flooded by a rainy cloud,

thoughts all scattered, ruined alive.

Word by word, they tear my face.

Scarred cheeks, no light trace.

So I stare cold, eyes upon,

looking at my picture place.

Trying not to shade the sun,

let them paint my sorrow gaze.

And I've been waiting thus all day,

for these words to die at bay.

Yet no one seems to cut the flame,

left to burn, in my own frame.

╚════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ════╝

╔════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ════╗

The amort man will never know.

He'll stay asunder like a doll.

To aphonic voices of the clocks,

in this endless paradox.

His dulcet soul, athirst for lies,

will keep his mind entertained.

The awful feeling in his chest;

a way for God to keep him sane.

To end this vile madness,

his sins must cease and burn.

Before he reaches dire sadness,

the crucial point of no return.

╚════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ════╝

Sometimes everything, everything, is turned upside down. In dreamlike state they say anything is possible. Anything.

What must remain, as persistence, is the pumping. Adrenaline fuels dream to reality. No matter how you rotate the mystery, the rhythm must be there, consistent. Till the end.

That's the way it was, terrifying, culminating with the escape. The plan was simple. Two days in for petty theft. Maturation of the stock, and collection on release. Starter debt paid from the yield. Simple. Just a little foot work.

For now, the pace, the pacing of 6x8', meaning 48 square, or 384' cubic space. A mere 48 hours short-breath, a little break, in this safe room. Because they'll be looking everywhere. Almost, every where.

It was grotesquely simple. The silicone was what made it possible, the security, waterproofing, heat insulating, acid buffering. All the vital data on the micro-SD was safely enclosed in the vacuum tight silicone casing. Swallowed right before the handcuffing. And now the wait.

Of course, there was a partner on the outside. Two halves palpitating, in separate chambers. That is the heart of the matter, whether, the flow of time and integrity, would continue with each passing compression.

What was worth more, keeping or letting go, that is answer.

I passed the tan silicone casing at the 47th hour. Scrubbed it with the antibac from the dispenser at the sink to the right of the open toilet while pretending to brush my teeth.

Don't drop now, don't drop, don't drop out. I kept the tiny square compressed between ring and pinky fingers, having feigned arthritis since booking. The plan was to put it between my toes on reaccessing my shoes.

So far so good.

I have my civilian clothes. I have this livid vision of the pig head from the Lord of the Flies. I've dreamt about release for days, even before the heist and every time, it's skewered pig head chasing me. Some twisted symbolism of thumbing the snout of the po po.

Maybe.

Now I'm out, sun glaring and the parking lot is empty. Empty. And it shouldn't be. Don't run. Don't run. Don't. We're free and clear. Free and clear. This was the new start. But there's nobody here. My own footsteps crunching gravel. Free and clear. Nobody on the horizon. I can hear my heart pumping, my pacing quickening. Then a motor is revving. It's coming. From behind.

It's coming to get me. I'm running. You said, whatever you do, don't run. Don't let them see you running. No way of out speeding a fierce Koenigsegg Jesko Absolut, turbocharged 1,600 horsepower. No idea where in blue blazes the steel came from, and I'm feeling blindsided multidimensionally.

Somebody found out, or somebody squealed.

The last thing flashing before me is pain, the empty parking pavement yellow streaked, and those stupid Air Jordan's treadmilling the partly cloudy sky, while I'm squeezing the little memory disk, like my life depends on it.

And then, blackness.

11.17.2023

FFF#6: FootChase @ChrisSadhill

Sweat stung his eyes, his knees ached, and his lower back barked with every hurried step.

A puff of concrete wall filled his vision before the report reached his ears.

"Fuck!" He scrambled back around the corner of the empty anchor store. The mall had been in its prime during the first Bush administration, and it still clung to life like a stubborn hospice patient. A handful of local businesses still occupied the place, but they were largely cash-only operations with inventory that never really turned. Local gangs invested in trendy fashion shops that never really managed to change trends or be very fashionable.

"I hate this place," he muttered, taking a deep breath and scooting low around the corner.

For the moment, no more shots greeted him as he continued his pursuit.

The last time he'd been to this mall was before Macy's pulled up stakes and shifted to the quieter part of town. Some genius development firm had opened up a newfangled open-air shopping center; a mall by any other name, only this one had shoppers sweaty, cold, or wet between stores. This evening, he had to drop by the old mall to chat up an informant working in a hat store. Everyone knew they washed money for the team who refused to ever wear blue. While talking, the detective spotted the shooter from a case that had been open a few weeks.

The shooter spotted him, too, and everybody's night got ruined.

They'd run through the mall, out an emergency door, across the first floor of a parking deck, and now here they were about to hang a left around the building to start all over again. Luckily, the shooting didn't start until they were outside.

"God damn, I need a cigarette."

It was difficult to see anything around him. Darkness, tunnel vision, and gunsmoke lurked in a windless cloud that surrounded his senses. His heartbeat should have been a kettledrum in his ears, but he could hardly even hear himself speak.

Hands barely trembling, he replaced a partially spent magazine. Operating in the dark, leaning on training and instinct, he moved quickly through the parking lot. He glided from the cover of one car before approaching another. His movements echoed his Army days; one jungle was another, even if leaves had been replaced by steel.

Safety glass spiderwebbed above his head and he flattened himself on the blacktop.

In the yellow glow of a lonely overhead light, he saw movement of stark white athletic shoes.

Quickly and quietly, the green glow of his front sight found the splash of red that Nike never intended as a target.

The evening was shattered again by the detective's 147 grain lightning and thunder, followed by a scream and a curse.

Two more thunderclaps and the cursing stopped.

Groaning, the old man climbed up from the pavement and hobbled to where another man would never grow to be old.

Holstering, he had that cigarette before calling in.

https://youtu.be/HggvsHLbheQ?si=QmoUxNZrmxkwCJXe

Hotchett scampered up the bookshelf and waited silently atop it. He gripped its edges and leaned forward. Resembling something like a gargoyle, he remained completely still until at last, he heard the "thump." He cocked his head right and left.

"The thump-thump is on the stairs," he rasped. The noise stopped, and Hotchett covered his mouth with both hands. It resumed its trek down the stairs. He let out his breath and slid to the floor. Knowing his movement would be muffled by the plush carpet, Hotchett moved behind a chair near the staircase. The noise was louder, almost as loud as the rapid beating of his own thump, thump.

"Here it comes! Here it comes!" he thought. First a yellow toenail peeped around the corner, then three toes, and then Hotchett flew from his hiding place. He had his hands around the ankle.

"No more games," he grunted. "I am clipping your toenails, and that's that!" The foot began kicking wildly at his face. But Hotchett had it pinned. From somewhere deep in his pocket, he pulled a thick rope. It only took him half an hour to tie it to the wooden board. A pair of toenail clippers appeared while the foot thrashed against the rough wood.

"Stop that. You'll give yourself splinters." A loud rap sounded at the door, and Hotchett sighed. He walked to the door and put on his most dejected face. Mr. McBrady waited outside, arms crossed. They both knew what was coming.

"Mr. McBrady," Hotchett swung the door open, "Of all the feet I have had to deal with, yours is the worst."

McBrady narrowed his eyes. "He's just misunderstood that's all."

"Then he'll have to be misunderstood elsewhere. I have tied to the board downstairs, so I'll file his nails, but nothing else. I'm through." Finally, McBrady nodded, and hobbled on his singular foot behind Hotchett into the basement. But the foot was gone. Tears sprang into the one-footed man's eyes.

"He was my favorite foot!" The foot barber patted his arm, and said consolingly,

"I hear they're selling them for half price down at the Cuticle."

My heart was heavy, but I trudged on. My weight was that of Atlas, but I put the next foot forward. My feet sunk deeper the harder I tried, in Sisyphisian torture. And when all was lost, I turned and looked behind me. There were two sets of footprints in the sand.

Renewed with spiritual courage, I resumed in earnest. Looking askew, I noticed there was only one set now as I walked.

I was alone.

And it was hard. There was no one carrying me. Each inch was as painful as Prometheus' liver. Each stride was as if fouled by harpies.

Where were the other footsteps? Why was I left alone to carry my own weight?

I began to run, as if in a race, but it was a foot chase. After all, my companion, my savior, had either dropped far behind me or has jumped ahead, hurtling past unspoiled beach.

My pain of Prometheus was from foresight. So I stepped it up, and then laughed at the pun. Or was it the endorphins kicking in. I raced as fast as possible. I would catch up to my savior and ask him, WTF?

I jumped over driftwood. I flew over seaweed. I skipped over the beached whale. Then I stopped. I regarded the beached whale. It side-eyed me, then squirmed its way backward and was at see within a moment. It issued out a spray from its blowhole as I did the same from my own.

I saw that the whale had left a grand indentation in the sound from its errant drive onto dry land and its retreat back into the life-giving waters. And next to its indentation was another. This whale, like me, had a savior who was much too busy for me, apparently.

You can call me Job. And that, as they say, is the rest of the story. So pray for me.