I slump to the floor of my one bedroom apartment. A plate of half eaten spaghetti states at me from across the room. It hits me. He didn’t even balk when he packed his things. No tears. No perceived error in his judgment. A mound of dirty laundry he left taunts me from the corner. The diamond he placed on my hand so many years ago. I thought he was the catch of a lifetime. My fingers trace dried cake batter that had dripped onto the stove at some point. I reminisced of how he would sing in the shower, off pitch, tone deaf. I had to break out of this funk. Get back on the ball. But in that moment, I saw his favorite wind up toy among the lineup of trinkets he left. I snapped. Recklessly, throwing everything left behind into his dugout canoe in front yard, I proceeded to strike the match, and watch it burn. It warmed my heart to watch those flames lick, lap up, and consume his worldly belongings, like his absence had consumed my soul.

I see the sun and rise with it,

I see the moon and fall to it.

The wind whispers, laying out stories as though they want to lure me into the trees,

The water sings, chanting tales about love as though they believe I should fall

The fire calls, in a low tone asking me about all the others, wanting me to pay attention.

The earth hums and the mushrooms become familiar again and I don't feel empty.

Sad single

in a slump

she decides

to walk to a place

where it was dark inviting

where she knew she’d win double takes

her striking breasts mounding out of her blouse

soft moist sweet bunt cakes always a hit

one sure to bag her

a lineup of free drinks

maybe even a plate of hot onion rings

thick with greasy batter ranch dressing gooey come

followed by guys with swollen balls

sliding in close

to catch a better glimpse

hoping to score

lips smoothly pitching

those words she liked to hear

hand on her thigh creeping up

fingers extended searching

for her swampy dugout

until she’d balk

it was a game she played

one that always ended

when blurry-eyed just enough

she’d give in

and say to anyone left

”So…who’s going to take me home?”

knowing it was an error

that she’d wind up

still sad single

no diamond ever

to be offered to grace

the finger of her left hand.

The windup alarm clock jangles loudly, and I open my eyes. The morning sun is shining through my bedroom window, and I can hear Mom downstairs making breakfast.

It is my favorite time of year. I have a lineup built of things I want to do this summer, and I can’t wait to get started. Today, I think I will finally paint the dugout canoe that has been sitting abandoned in the garage since Dad left--kind of like us.

I jump out of bed and throw on my jeans. It strikes me that yesterday’s diamond-print shirt still smells okay, so I slip it on and head to the bathroom to brush my teeth and pee. I pass Ashley in the hall, and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I do my best Big Time Wrestling impersonation, and she laughs. For a kid sister, she’s not too bad.

Downstairs, Mom is whisking batter, and the griddle is already hot. Score! She knows how much I love pancakes. Soon there is a mound of deliciousness on my plate, and a glass of cold milk next to it. Best breakfast ever!

“Gerald,” Mom says. “The dog needs a bath today, and I have to get to work early. I also need you and Ashley to get your laundry downstairs.”

My shoulders slump, but I know better than to balk. I used to pitch a fit when stuff got in the way of my plans, but like she reminds me, I’m a teenager now. Besides talking back is one error I won’t be making again any time soon.

Instead, I grab Rusty and we head out to the back yard to play fetch with his ball.

-------------------------

© 2023 - dustygrein

Sarah stood at the kitchen window with a bowl in her hand stirring up batter for biscuits. She added a ball of lard to the mound of flour in her bowl, a cup of milk, stirred the mixture until it formed a ball, pinched off little balls of the dough, rolled them in her palm, patted them into a pan, made a score along the top of each one to spread butter in and placed them in the oven. Henry her husband of forty years was standing on the front porch in his overalls eyeing a large, diamond back rattler curled on the top step. He was trying to lineup the slanted eyes in his sights, and he knew if he made an error in judgement, the rattler would strike. He was large, deadly, and already starting to windup into a defensive coil. Henry aimed at the raised head, squeezed the trigger and saw him slump onto the step. He picked the dead snake up with a stick, started to pitch him off the side of the porch, but knew he would catch hell from Sarah, so he carried him to the door of the dugout behind the house where Sarah kept her canned food and winter apples. She wouldn't balk at him leaving the snake there until he could skin him to make a head band for his hat. He washed his hands at the outside spicket, picked up his gun, opened the door to the kitchen where a plate of warm biscuits, a pan of bacon and eggs, and Sarah, waited for him. Life was good.

.

.

.

....in the universe...

the next is unsettling

.....never idling....

.

.

.

From behind the shadows in  my blue room, night comes but I am wide awake. I can hear my heart in my pillow. Familiar dreams—rusty, pensive, ready to pounce, sit stagnant at my bedside. I stare so hard without blinking that my water glass beside me begins to breathe with anticipation. A dog barks. An ambulance cries.  I am uneasy aside my calmness. Nocturnal mania ensues within the bounds of my skull. Untethered half empty epiphanies are charge-less. I look at the moon but it is too far away to visit. I open a book, blank. If I write or paint—I’ve succumbed. So I meditate on the stillness. My floor moans here and there. A faucet spits. Just then the elderly begin to stir.  It is dawn. The early risers are rustling. And I become sleepy. The sound of the city begins to rise as I begin to fall into unconsciousness. Rocked by the energy escalating with each chirp, I invite my dreams into my bed. Finally, time rewarded as I sleep below the sun.

"Okay, pick him out of the lineup."

Not wanting to catch hell from the captain, the detective fumbles with the wrapper of a Mounds candy bar instead of the pack of Lucky Strikes in his chest pocket. Lately, the brass has been busting balls around the precinct about a no-tobacco-use contest, and each division has been keeping score on who pledges to quit. He'll never stop smoking, but he’s willing to pitch in with the team, even if it means little white lies while in the office.

She slumps her shoulders. The detective knows the signs; if he isn't careful, she'll wind up paralyzed by the idea that calling the cops was a huge error. He watches her body language; she stiffens when he tells suspect one to turn around slowly.

Each man on the other side of one way glass steps forward and spins on command, but number three tries to balk and whine about how they have the wrong guy.

There's a tear slowly rolling down her cheek, and the detective hands her a clean napkin dug out from his pocket.

He leans over, gently places a hand on her shoulder, and speaks reassuringly, almost like he's trying to calm a frenzied doe. "I know you have a lot on your plate. One of these dickheads did more than batter you. He took something from you. Don't be afraid to take something back for yourself."

She smiles, nods, and draws a shaky breath.

"It's number one."

He looks through the glass, nostrils flaring. Christ, he wants a cigarette.

"So do you want him arrested, or do you want him to never hurt you again?"

She grins with something that almost shines like joy, but her doe eyes become more like the cruel black diamonds of a hungry viper.

There was a lineup of performers and the back of the cold winter tent. Women in sparkling dresses and men in striped tank tops gripping hoops. The tiny boy peeked over the mound of dirt to get a peak at the dazzling people. People who were praying for no deathly error in their performance. One slip-up and the crowd would strike with their ridicule. Then would come the berating by the boss and the night would end with no job.

Jobs were like diamonds during the time. Like a fragile porcelain plate, it could crack and the precious secure feeling would be lost.

The boy knew nothing. He could only balk at the dazzling creatures. He wanted to become like them. Them. He wanted to become the cake batter, have all the right ingredients to be able to be transformed into a delicious cake. A cake others would want to eat. He wanted the praise.

But with a slumped back, a scarred face, and clumsy hands,there was no hope for the little boy. He was a wind up toy, an automated prop others used as entertainment. He was not what other boys would call a 'broken record'! He was not a ball to be kicked around!

He was a boy with dreams. A boy who could catch words and store them in compartments in his mind. He wanted to sell his pitch to the performers of his dreams to give them a reason to adopt him into their circle.

But, the performers had scores of fear weighted on their shoulders. One little boy could tip the balance of their lives, their job, their relationships. They were cramped in a dugout canoe, and one boy--one with dreams and thirst for acceptance--could topple over the canoe, leaving them all drowned.