Nonsensical. Noncommittal. Disingenuous.
She exists in a state of perennial, nonsensical gratification. Flitting from blossom to blossom, she quenches her thirst with ever changing flavors. The nectar of the honeysuckle has no sooner faded from her tongue, than the vibrant violet catches her attention. The morning glory, the lilac, the mums, the hyacinth.
She is too disinclined to engage on the same excursion a second time for fear it was her destiny to summit only once. Too disingenuous to admit defeat, she embarks on the journeys tailored to a skillset she hasn't cultivated, but rather been granted. Why conquer the dawn wall if she can walk up the trail behind and sit on the peak of the captain with her feet dangling over the aspiring climbers?
She's too afraid to decide on one meal, because there is a chance she may like another better. She samples bites from each like a famous critic. Never full, only a whetted appetite. Too soon, the restaurant is closed, and she has no choice but to go somewhere else to find a morsel to tide her over until she may embark on another journey, tasting, and tasting but never full. Noncommittal, lest she find herself satisfied: only to be let down again.
Youth. Beauty. Time. They are her pleasure and damnation.
News-flash: It appears that it’s not so much ‘how’ you cope as ‘where’ you cope
To all my friends who might happen to be Jewish,
I am truly sorry for the way you are being treated and will stand beside you to the end.
I hope you are seeing what is happening at the U Of F, Ole Miss, U of A, and UNC, among other great southern universities. For myself, I thank the good Lord for my Southern heritage, a heritage which might have been tainted a ways back, but is standing tall as toddy today. I am on my way this weekend to one of those Southern universities to see my grand-daughter graduate. I would like to thank those kids who have guaranteed that my trip is set off upon with a great amount of pride. I am somewhat ashamed to admit to having and sharing in my stories on this site my poor opinion of our colleges and universities (or more specifically of the educators who are filling those universities with rot), but I am so very proud to see that the rot has not infected you all. That shines!
God Bless America and Yeehaw you Intifada sons of biscuits. Go crawl back under whatever
rock you crawled out from.
Sincerely,
Huckleberry Hoo
Crater
Kill me slowly with your kisses sweet like antifreeze. Poison me, drown me, watch me suffer as I die but be the one holding me under and dosing my drinks.
I can't say the words, not when I've just accepted the size and shape of Love in its many forms so personally that giving it the use of my own vocal chords to sing the sorts of praises that would make even Tennyson squirm is simply unacceptable.
Her Love is an anvil, heavy and solid and made to be built upon. My Love is a hydrogen bomb, disastrous ruination meant to end life and crater the earth. But maybe, my love will simper. be something she could cradle in her hands and not burn from the intensity of it. Maybe, in another life. Another time.
Anytime, really.
Bedside Manner
“Awaken, dear sir.”
Not again! I turn over in my bed, eyes still closed, and hope the disturbing voice disappears. But I know it won’t. I can’t seem to shake the strange thoughts and voices that pop into my head at 4 or 5 in the morning when I have to pee but I don’t want to get up.
“Whilst you sleep in this paltry room, my good man, ’tis…”
Oh, this one is a doozy. I got a woman with a British accent bugging me. Last night, it was a pro wrestler with a gravelly voice and an eviction notice.
I turn to the other side and my pillow falls off the bed. I reach to the floor and probe with my hand, but can’t seem to find it. Drat! I grudgingly open my eyelids. And I freeze.
A woman is standing next to my bed. She is in an elegant blue nightgown. Brownish-blonde tresses are falling over her outstretched arm, which is holding my pillow. But I won’t look at her face. I am afraid of what I will see in this nightmare.
I shut my eyes and rub my lids with my fists. When I slowly open them, the woman is still there. But the pillow is closer, inches from my face.
I summon the courage to turn my gaze upward. I see a narrow, pale-white chin. Lucious pink lips in the hint of a smile. Finally, alluring eyes with long dark lashes. She nods toward the pillow.
I know this image is not real, but I smile and move my hands toward the pillow. But she whisks it away. She leans down closer to my face.
“Tis right that I withhold your pillow, Mister Longworth, because on this morn you cannot sleep in,” the woman says in a flat, serious tone. “You must rush in to work, because at this very moment, a fly-rink colleague at Dorn Manufacturing is plotting with company Vice President Franks to terminate your employment and your division. Don’t lay there like a wooden spoon!”
I close my eyes, but I still hear her telling me to get up. “If you do not reach the president and put a stop to this codswallop, you will be condemned to this pigsty perhaps until death. Where is the fireplace in this bedroom? And your bed—is that a common wood frame? Where is the brass, good sir? You live like a Middle Age primitive, not a self-respecting Englishman in the enlightened nineteenth century.”
I try to think of other things. I try to sleep. I toss around and the sheets come loose. It seems like an hour has passed. Maybe two. She is still there and still talking.
Enough! I throw off the bedcover and sheet, bounce out of bed on the other side, and run to the bathroom. I hear her voice until I shut the door. At least I finish my business in peace. I cautiously open the door. The voice is gone—and so is she.
But the messy bed I left is now a picture of order, every cover and sheet smoothed and in place and the pillow fluffed—with two wrapped mints on the pillowcase.
I shake my head and sit on the edge of the bed. Before I know it, I am laying atop the covers. My eyes closed.
“Excuse me.”
The next thing I know those two words are tumbling from my mouth. I am standing at the foot of a grandiose brass bed in a sprawling room with a fireplace, a chandelier, ornate furniture, and flowing drapes.
Someone in the bed stirs and slowly peels back an ornate bedcover. I see the frightened but alluring eyes. Quivering pink lips. And that narrow chin. This is the same woman who visited me.
She asks, “What are you doing in my bedroom?”
I open my mouth, but only frightened silence comes out. I shut my eyes, cup my face with both hands, and shudder. I open my eyes and I am back on my own bed.
I close my eyes and open them again. I am standing next to a bed in the corner of a gymnasium.
“Ahem,” I say because I don’t know what to say.
Someone in the bed stirs and tosses aside an old green cover. It is the wrestler who tried to evict me just the other night.
“How’d you get in here?” the wrestler says in a gravelly voice. “And do you have that deed?”
Panic sets in and I close my eyes.
A phone rings.
I open my eyes and I am laying atop my own bed.
The phone rings again.
I leap out of bed, run to the phone, lift the device off the charger, activate the app, and shout, “Hello?”
“Longworth, is that you?”
“Yessir, Mr. Franks. What can I do for you?”
“Nothing. Due to downsizing, I regret to inform you that your division has been eliminated along with your job. Effective immediately. Thank you for your service.”
The call ends. I shuffle back to the bedroom. I brush the mints off the pillow and lay on the bed. I wipe away a tear.
#
The Hag
Her throat rattles from the closet, alerting me it’s midnight. She’s coming. I face away. Melatonin hasn’t kicked in so I count backward trying to flee. Five. The door groans. I shrink into the mattress, paralyzed. My therapist said, "Breathe slowly," but broken fingernails scraping bedrails induce hyperventilating. Four. Crippled limbs crackle closer. She wheezes onto my toes. I retract them. Three. Sheets tugging, I pull firm! Another tug, then Another! Two. The bedframe squeaks. Her weight becomes enormous. I suck empty air. Clicking grows louder. She sniffs at my ears.
One. I have to look…
Jawbone unhinged; She screeches!
Haunted house
I am a haunted house. A broken, hollowed-out shell of the girl I used to be. The ghost of who I used to be lingers but she gets weaker every day. Everything seeps out through those cracks. Light comes in but it has nothing to reflect off of. Nothing to cast a shadow of. Inside I am empty. Broken, and hollowed out.
Swipe Right
“I need a pick up.”
“I’m sorry, sir, we have no one in your area.”
“What do you mean you have no one! I paid good money for the Platinum Level subscription for this reason alone.”
“It can’t be helped, sir.”
“You had better help it if you know what’s good for you.”
“Is that a threat, sir?”
“Take it however you want to, just get someone here now.”
“As I said, we have no one in your area and you are not in a position to threaten anyone.”
“Excuse me?”
“You just admitted to murder. Sir.”
“No, actually, I just requested a pick up. Sylvester.”
“How…?”
******************
“Vics name is Angie Jones. Her mother found her. She’d missed a lunch date and a therapy session so she knew something was up. She found her like this.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah, looks like it was just the two of them. Mom is a wreck. Blaming herself. They have her under suicide watch now.”
“This isn’t a suicide, Marsh.”
“You think not, right? She couldn’t do all that to herself. ME will tell us more, but pretty sure there was some sex involved so more like rape and murder. No way it happened here, though. No blood or any other bodily fluids anywhere. No evidence of a break in or a fight. Nothing. But, she did leave a suicide note and the mother confirmed it was her handwriting.”
“WTF!”
“Yeah. This is a, what was that SAT word my kid was flapping about last night? Oh, yeah, a conundrum.”
************
“Boyd? Computer Forensics found something. We got an address.”
“Perp?”
“Likely. They were able to access the last known destinations in her car’s GPS. The last was her own, early on the 19th, but the prior was the evening of the 18th. 6249 Bellerouge Road.”
“Swanky.”
“Yeah. Listed owner is a Dr. Rod Ashton. Judge Langley accepted probable cause. I already got the warrant.”
“Let’s go. Yo, Mel, get local PD out to 6249 Bellerouge Road. Tell them to go in quiet. Don’t want to spook the guy before we get there.”
“You got it, Boyd.”
**********
“May I help you gentlemen?”
“Are you Dr. Rod Ashton?”
“Yes, but I don’t see patients in my home. You can make an appointment with my receptionist although I’m fairly booked for the next several months.”
“Not prospective patients, doc.”
“We have reason to believe you were the last person to see the recently deceased, Angie Jones. You may have seen the case on the news.”
“I don’t watch television news.”
“We have a warrant here to search the premises.”
“A warrant?”
“As I said, you were the last to see her alive.”
*********
“Boyd! Marsh! You gotta see this!”
“I don’t think he’s seeing patients in this place.”
“He already said he doesn’t see patients in his home. This is his house of horrors. Sick bastard.”
********
“Dr. Rod Ashton, you are under arrest for the rape and murder of Angie Jones. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
“I’d like to speak with my lawyer.”
“He can join us at the station. Get him out of here!”
*********
“Self-defense my ass!”
“That’s what he and his lawyer are claiming.”
“No jury is gonna believe that crap when they see the torture chamber. Plus, why didn’t he just report it rather than ditch the body? BS.”
“What kind of game is he playing?”
“Got me. Looks open and shut. If he’s claiming self-defense, he’s admitting he killed her. He doesn’t have a leg to stand on.”
*********
“You’re going to get some backlash exposing the site. I’m sure you’re not the only person of means on it. This could get ugly fast.”
“I’ll handle it.”
“Your call. We’ll present the digital footage when you’re on the stand. You’re as good as free.”
“That’s why I pay your exorbitant fees, Arthur.”
*********
“Please state your name for the court.”
“Dr. Rod Ashton.”
“Dr. Ashton, please tell the court what happened on the night of March 18th.”
“Well, I was home, having a glass of wine and watching the NCAAs when my phone buzzed. I knew from the tone someone had swiped right on my FF account.”
“Objection, FF, Your Honor?”
“Sustained. Please refrain from using acronyms, Dr. Ashton, to limit confusion amongst the jury.”
“Sorry, Your Honor. That is a good point, actually. Most people would think it means Final Fantasy, like the video game that was popular back in the 1990s. It doesn’t, although I guess it is kind of a real life version of a final fantasy.”
“The point, Dr. Ashton?”
“Yes, well, the app is called Final…well the F word. I suspect it would be objected to were I to say it.”
“We get the point, Dr. Ashton. Continue, please.”
“It works like any other dating app except one partner seeks, um, actual death during la petite mort, and the other…doesn’t. One partner enjoys inflicting pain for sexual pleasure, the other has a death wish and wants to die…I’d say happy but there is no guarantee that they will find pleasure in the pain. There are those that do… At any rate the app matches the one with the other.”
“Objection. This is the first I’m hearing of this so-called app.”
“I apologize for the late submission, Your Honor, Counselor. Please accept as Exhibit 1 a printout of the homepage and two subscriber contracts from the FF site. The stated basis of the app is clearly relevant to everything else that took place that evening.”
“I’ll allow it. Objection denied.”
“Dr. Ashton, what happened after your phone buzzed?”
“I picked it up, of course. I was excited. It’s a new app I accessed on the dark web and I hadn’t had anyone swipe right on me yet.”
“Who had swiped right?”
“Someone who called herself Angel.”
“Let the court record show that Angel was the profile name of the deceased, Angie Jones, as noted on the recently submitted subscriber contract and thus shows Ms. Jones as the initiator of the events on the evening of March 18th.
“What happened next, Dr. Ashton?”
“We messaged back and forth a bit. I took her on a video tour of my, um, playroom, so she could see my toys; had to make sure she was sure since there are no take backs once I get started. Don’t get me wrong, I am quite the, uh, sadist, but I find I rather like the idea of willing partners. Keeps me out of jail.”
“Your Honor, permission to approach the bench.”
“Counselors.”
“Your Honor, the defendant is clearly titillated by telling his story. I would like to reiterate that although I accept that it was, perchance, not rape, there is no question that Ms. Jones died at the hand of Dr. Ashton. It does not matter if she went willingly. It is still murder. I am also not convinced that this is an isolated incident given the existence of his so-called playroom, aka, house of horrors.”
“Your Honor, my client admits to rough sexual relations with a willing partner who, as delineated on her FF profile, wanted to die. Nothing more. Since Dr. Ashton is a doctor, we might liken it to Assisted Suicide…"
“Not amusing. Counselor.”
“But we don’t. We are calling it self-defense. If he did not kill Ms. Jones, she would have killed him, and that was not his wish.”
“I have seen no evidence of self-defense, Counselor. Right now, you are on thin ice. Get to the point.”
“Yes, Your Honor.
“Dr. Ashton, what happened next?”
“I gave her my address and got ready.”
“What time did the deceased arrive at your home?”
“Around 10:00? I had showered, readied the play room and was just starting to watch another basketball game.”
“10:00 pm?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did Angie enter willingly?”
“You know she did. You have the video.”
“Objection. What video? No video was provided to my offices prior to these proceedings.”
“Again, I apologize, Your Honor, Counselor. I’m afraid we just got access to the digital footage minutes before court was in session. Here is a copy. Your Honor, please let this video stand as exhibit 2. If it pleases the court, we can show the footage and it will be evident to all that the deceased was not only a willing partner in the proceedings on the night of March 18th, but also the catalyst to her own death.”
“I would like the opportunity to view said footage prior to presentation to the Jury.”
“I’ll allow it. Court is adjourned for one hour.”
“Your Honor, the footage is eight hours long.”
“My God.”
“Court is adjourned. We will continue tomorrow morning at 9am.”
*********
“Angel?”
“Are you as good as you say you are?”
“You’ll be screaming within the hour.”
“You first…”
“WTF! Is that a stiletto in her hand?
*****
“All rise. The case of the state of California v Dr. Roderick Ashton is now in session. The Honorable Judge Langley presiding.”
“Counselor, as we discussed in chambers this morning, you may show the pertinent clips only.”
**********
“We find the defendant, Dr. Roderick Ashton, not guilty on all counts.”
“Thank you, Arthur.”
“That’s why you pay me so well, Rod.”
“Indeed. Back to the old ways I guess. I have a truck coming Saturday.”
“How old?”
“None over 18. All beautiful. Just like you like them.”
I Took a Walk At Night
I took a walk at night.
I turned my music off
This time
And noticed.
The birds playing their game of tag in
the trees
silhouetted black against the darkening blue sky.
Noticed
the canvas of watercolor painted by the sun as it sank beneath the horizon.
Noticed
the amplified echoes of children playing
as they held onto the last remnants of the day
of their childhood
before they’re handed access to everything in the world and it all
changes.
Will they miss this?
Will they even know?
If they look up at night, they will see stars.
Will they?
If they listen, they'll hear the wind.
Will they?
Will it even be here?
Will they?
I may be a pluviophile
Think Sunday afternoon, sometime in the late 70s. Nothing on TV. Nothing to do except watch the rain gently meander across my bedroom window. I turn on the radio to discover another of a similar ilk. He spins the Carpenters, B. J. Thomas, and Brook Benton. The last, I hear for the first time. The middle makes me think of the movie with Katherine Ross on the handlebars. But it is the first, with Karen extolling THAT voice one day prior to an excusable casus belli for listening just for the sake of listening.
The rain keeps its steady tempo throughout the day. Harboring a chill easily transferred via conduction, the rain is almost evolving, almost personified as alive.
And I like it.
Perhaps I am a sucker for the melodic drone. Perhaps it is the endless possibilities of alternate scheduling I have acquired for the events of the day I find attractive. Or it is the permeating resonance of the audio frequencies established by the cold front and warm front intersections that hold my imagination?
I begin to wonder if this is all by serendipity or Soviet style economic planning for me to indulge in the hours it would take to compare and contrast.
Either way, I am hooked by my isolation to my new friend and the singular embrace it offers. I find no competing diversions to my attention span. By now, I am in a world of my own, finding no viable reason to escape.
My trusted Websters confirms what my American Heritage has been insisting for hours. I am an initiate pluviophile with visions of emeritus grandeur. I reign supreme in a world of rain with no plans of departing.
I am content.
That is until I discover the meaning of petrichor.