Nostalgic bygone days
Formative years whiled away within once bucolic hamlet of Arcola. I feel grateful reelin in the growing up years living within picturesque Arcola. Half a century ago, then said rural enclave comprising about half dozen farms dotted the landscape. Boyhood decades idly lapsed, where yours truly crossed the bridge guarded by trolls. They asked for sweet proceeds purchased a short jaunt to reach penny (once upon time dime a dozen) candy store. Said mecca ideally suited local kids to congregate. Primary usage constituting repurposed old house mainly functioned as sectioned off portion quasi country post office, whereby hubbub older folks met up to chit chat plus satisfactorily, singularly, and adequately stoking, kickstarting, buzzfeeding... gossip monger. Nowadays former generations of Ashenfelter's, Elliot's, and Troutman's of family farms long since industrialized housing headquarters for Glaxosmithkline, Pfizer, and Wyeth Pharmaceuticals, while suburban sprawl (think vinyl city) practically sprouted up like mushrooms overnight. Though long since kicked out nesting coup (lack of wings found yours truly an anomaly among other healthy member viz birth family), I rarely visited picture postcard (think Currier and Ives) boyhood happy non hunting grounds. No matter nary a shred reminiscent of idyllic landscape intact, I treasure precious memories that figuratively swell mine heart and soul with peaceful easy feeling. Prepubescent phase of mine luxuriated wildlands, that witnessed Canadian geese, (I could distinguish their honk that's how) made temporary layover flocking to well secluded pond withal, veritable garden of Eden marsh/wetland. Both parents grew up within urban jungle. Father loathed the city (Brooklyn), but mother throve while reaching maturity, (albeit physical) bound within Coney Island, methinks Canarsie a bedroom community. Both favored raising future (pluperfect) family where more open space offered markedly greater breathing, living and playing room. Thus veritable, impressionable, and formative days of yore steeped within pastoral (reed critical) environment even Ludwig Van Beethoven would approve. Distress (witnessing yours truly teetering on cusp of puberty) arose in part toward radical transformation, viz home turf. Outward change, vis a vis industrialization overlaid charming near pristine woodland plus anatomical metamorphosis ushered whooping psychological hiccups. Once again, a belated appreciation toward parents woke during decades into adulthood. They willfully, proactively, and instinctively, intervened to prevent their sole son withering away to nothing courtesy anorexia nervosa.
These latter days (unsaintly) reflect more self anger at depriving me to experience healthy development of body, mind and spirit. Despite gripped with suicidal pretentions mine corporeal essence remained robust. Never did I suffer the scare of severe medical illness. Nope, not even the flu infected thy susceptible fragile shrinking vulnerable being, which generally fit as a fiddle constitution prompts me to declare such unequivocal assertion. Another reason (aye sup prose) to count my blessings. Nsync with vibrant immunologic system, I managed to avoid any broken bones. As a rather tentative, reserved, hesitant cute little boy averse against risk, et cetera child, no litany of childhood battle scars punctuates a rather unexciting, safe ploy limiting braving gung ho demeanor. Many an emotional debility more than made up (adequately compensated) for common mishaps associated with fancy free and footloose (blistering) innocent early existence. These mental health issues (biochemical, hence congenital) quarks did wreak havoc within academic and interpersonal aspects. Public education (no matter classed as non crowded) presented torturous endeavor. Though mom and dad gravely concerned at nearly failing one after another grade, they raised raised a ruckus regarding abysmal low marks. Yes, their leniency toward my apathy certainly acknowledged now, though fashionably late within thine three score years since birth. These belated kudos also extend to being pleasantly surprised when birthday rolled around. Even when either sibling of mine, (an elder and younger sister) got feted asper notching another orbit around sun, mother also gave the other two progeny, whose special day an approaching or months in the future happening. She once explained, (perhaps even more than one occasion) her reasoning such, that she did not want one or the other kid (essentially both) to feel left out. Yea, I could tout her compassion as feeling thankful for doting (maybe even mollycoddling) this reserved, shy and during adolescence severely withdrawn male offspring. The bounteous trappings lathered lightly all three of us in stark contrast to dirt poor economic household molding predilections ill fate dealt mommy dearest. Disposition evinced toward yours truly (namely myself) would be less pleasant (rather abominable) once chronological arbitrary age of eighteen attained. Rather than adulation, there manifested abomination regarding my lack of motivation, integration, ambition, et cetera. Such unacceptable behavior intolerant, particularly toward mother. She vicariously recounted (and subsequently re-lived) her dismal girlhood, she being the youngest of four children. Morris Kuritsky (maternal grandfather), though learned as a tailor rarely earned adequate income to feed and clothe his hungry and poorly clad brood.
Rectitude with absent filial obligation does haunt me, especially since the two darling daughters I helped beget deeply affected by unemployed parent. Unbeknownst the satisfactory explanation (if any can be found) detailing why grandpa Kuritsky (long since deceased), his idleness most likely differs why Matthew Scott skirted seeking gainful employment, even shoveling horse manure. Social anxiety, (i.e. marked panic attacks) ran rampant and rent asunder one agonizing psyche, who now accepts in utero and/or neurological maladies that plagued most every breathing day since first screaming above decibel of tolerance, yet gratitude afforded personal counseling available in tandem with prescription medication that allow, enabled, and provided peace of mind to cope with cares and concerns of an uncertain world wide web.
Hindsight (always 20/20 versus 20/200 without glasses – bifocals – revisit "Time Enough at Last" the eighth episode of American television anthology series The Twilight Zone) softens harsh edges weathering blistering vitriolic populated ultimatums courtesy those who chose to bring me forth, and bare weaknesses inherent within these lovely bones, no fault of mine iterating insufferable misery. Actually, quite the contrary relationship with father. A widower nonagenarian (livingsocial at retirement community nestled with in sprawling Blue Bell) seems more gentler toward his aging baby boomer heir to the porcelain throne (think glorified toilet), and even sends money. He never assisted this troubled troubadour, when I hermetically sealed myself within safe bedroom. Now without me asking, he provided moderate financial assistance to sustain ten year old 2009 Hyundai Sonata, which original parts conk out one after another. Thank you very much papa.
A.G.
The sound of the beast’s gentle steady neighing echoed in the foggy air. Sahara slowly opened her eyes and gazed at the small creature. It snorted, and then stuck out its tongue at her.
This made Sahara burst out laughing. She preferred to spend her time outdoors, basking underneath the golden sunbeams, while listening to the sounds of nature, or green noise as her beast taming instructor liked to call it.
*SWISH*
‘What was that?’ Her eyes landed on something glistening near the side of the beast’s wooden stall.
Sahara bent down on one knee. She reached for the shiny object, and gasped.
There had been stories passed down through oral tradition. Sahara wondered if these old folks’ stories had not just been made up for the young ones to be at least gentle to those around them— the villagers, including the forest critters, even knowing how to take care of everything surrounding the village- all the natural and precious resources.
Sahara felt a wave of shock pass through her body. Whatever this thing was it definitely was worth holding onto for a while.
Later, after she had sung a lullaby to all the beasts she was asked to take care of during the day, Sahara decided to lightly walk toward the Nile. Once there she sat down by the riverbank, and whistled a soft, steady tune.
As she did so, the amulet in her grass weaved bag began to glow a bright rainbow color. Sahara quickly rose to her feet, and pulled out the amulet from her bag.
To her dismay, the amulet shattered in her palms. But then a female being clothed in Royal garb smiled, and grinned.
Sahara stared in awe at the being. ‘Hey, surely you must know who I am? Right?’ The being spoke in a booming tone.
Sahara blinked, and shook her head. ‘Nope. Your face looks ancient. Are you a Mummy?’
The being gasped. ‘How dare you? I’m Mench… you silly child!’
Sahara raised her left eyebrow, and sighed. ‘Alright. I must be daydreaming, or sleepwalking?’
Mench snapped her fingers, and whisked Sahara right into a moving chariot. Sahara screamed. ‘Hey….take me back home…right now!’
Sahara closed her eyes, and when she opened them she was back at her favorite chill zone, by the Nile. Mench asked, ‘What in the name of Ra are you kids learning about these days?’
‘How to tame beasts.’
’Ah— okay- but you really should be learning about the ones who created the beasts that you are trying to tame. I might need to have a word with your Minister of Instruction.
‘Back in my day, and time, we made sure to give you humans powerful gifts. From the moment you were born, you had been granted something you could use to make this world a better place.’
Mench continued to lecture on, and on, about how as a goddess she would try to remind the folks of the powerful gifts that they were missing out on. They had not been providing any more sacrifices, and so, these gifts had not been passed down to the ones born during Sahara’s timeline.
Sahara was about to drift off to the realm of dreams when she felt a sharp pinch on both of her cheeks. ‘Ow! What was that for?’
‘Wake up. C’mon. Stick with me kid, and you shall receive powerful gifts!’
Sahara took off running in the direction of the palace. She was ready to call it a day.
Mench yelled out, ‘You can’t escape fate, kid. You were meant to find the amulet, or rather the amulet was meant to find you!’
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=0OJrjUm0Fb8
#Abandoned #gods ©️ 04.06.2023
Book Four - Part 8 - Rhyming Evil - Chapter Twelve
Another Weekend in Montie
It was business as usual at the Twenty-Second.
Summer came in full swing in the last two weeks. During that time, there had been a few arrests for public intox, one domestic dispute handled, three different felony arrests (besides Kelso’s. Someone tried to steal a speedboat belonging Jean, the Mayor, and her husband,
Frank Marsh, while they were away on a small vacation. Another man, obviously new to the area, was arrested by eleven police officers for trying to rob Benny’s Pub. One should never rob a place where police congregate).
Everyone, including Devon and J.W#. were on their assigned route. J.W. made a brief explanation of how he needed to stop off at the Davenport Animal Clinic and speak with Patrick Davenport for a few minutes. It wasn’t a problem for Devon.
Just after eleven, both J.W. and Patrick talked about the file that held the last bits of information concerning Daniel Watson. His exact location at impact, time of death, personal effects listed, as well as other items extracted from the car, later given to Daniel’s mother. It was pretty much things Patrick already knew.
“There is one thing that isn’t in the report.”
Patrick looked intently at J.W.
“My partner, Andre Devon, called the crash site in. I was kneeling next to Mr. Watson, and found a small trace of his pulse still beating, but it was very faint.
“I leaned in close asking if he could hear me. I was telling him that help was on the way. All he said to me was, ‘tell Patrick, my mother. I love them very much.’ Then he inhaled sharply, his eyes opened wider from the severe pain he was in, and then he died.
“It never occurred to me when you and his mother came to claim his body, that you were the same Patrick in question. By then, I had nothing more to do with the case. Accident. End of story. I know that might have sounded harsh, but we deal with a hundred or more fatalities in this county every year. Some that leave a life intact; others that doesn’t.
“Mr. Davenport, I truly am sorry for your loss. I know how it is to love someone as deeply as you did Daniel.”
Patrick’s eyes were like twin water buckets filled to overflow. With the back of his right hand, he wiped away the tears, cleared his throat, and regained most of his composure.
“Thank you very much for this, Officer Roberts. This means a great deal to me to know the truth, to know his last words, that he died thinking of his mother and me. In life, he always placed us first.
“He would do that silly Spock line from a Star Trek movie where he would say, ’Patrick, the needs of many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one.”
J.W. stood up.
“If I may ask, Officer Roberts, but what do the initials stand for?”
“James Woodcock. Woodcock was my mother’s father’s name, but I prefer, J.W.”
Patrick looked at him, smiled somewhat and extended his arm, and hands clasped. Neither man was certain at that moment, but the handshake felt warm, and seemed to last longer than either one expected.
“Have a good weekend, Mr. Davenport.”
“Please, call me, Patrick.”
“Very well then, Patrick.”
“Be safe out there, J.W.”
As J.W. opened Patrick’s office door to leave, he turned slightly and smiled at Patrick. “Our boss tells us the same thing every day.”
Over at the Pit-Stop, Stevie was talking with a few of his friends when his cell phone buzzed. It was Ellie. Let us just say, his friends and the world, took a back seat, as his concentration and conversation was on her, and how her vacation was going.
He was to have gone with them, but because of his accident, it was best thought that he stay close to home this time in case anything unexpected happened.
They were talking a mile a second, as if they haven’t talked to one another in decades. Isn’t love such a grand thing?
Johnathan Prescott and Dianne Andrews would take the weekend away to the Belvedere Arms Hotel in Erie. Johnathan rented one of the four newlywed suited the Belvedere Arms advertised. Three days, two nights, $1,650, not counting meals. It didn’t matter. He wanted Dianne to get an idea of what a small portion of their honeymoon would be like after they get married.
For Dianne, if he could, he would place the universe at her disposal. That might be a little over the top, but what wasn’t, was the sheer fact he knew he would give his life for her without question, hesitation, or reservation. Then again, Johnathan had plans on being around for an awfully long time.
Once J.W. came home from work, he called Michael, and told him he couldn’t meet with him this weekend. Instead, he decided to drive north and enjoy some alone-time. In preparing for his getaway, he also let the brief conversation, and the tone of the meeting with Patrick, play over in his head.
About the same time as J.W, Patrick walked through the front door of his house, when no sooner, his cell phone rang.
“Hi, Pat. I hope you had an incredible day. I called, because I booked us a reservation in Brighton, at McNamara’s. It is an elegant restaurant. I’m sure you will love the ….”
“Cliff? I’m sorry, but I’ll have to pass. Not really into going out tonight.”
“Oh. Not feeling well? I could come over, make you some soup, pamper you, and ….”
“That’s quite all right, Cliff, but I can take care of myself. I received some personal news that has me in a quandary, and I need time to sort through a few things.”
“Then call me when you are up to going out, please.”
Patrick could tell by the tone of Cliff’s voice; he was both disappointed and angry at being stood up. Patrick simply thought that Cliff would just have to get over himself.
It was late night that found Baker and Ed, side-by-side in bed, with Stevie sound asleep in his room. Except for breathing, were a pin to drop to the floor it would almost be deafening.
Finally, Baker turned to Ed, whispered in his ear, “Guess now is a good time to tell you, I love you.”
“I didn’t know you were debating the subject.”
“Well, the thing is, I have a serious question.”
“Bring it, Jan. Remember? No secrets.”
“I know, and it’s a simple, well, maybe not so simple question. But you’re thirty-seven, and I’m thirty-five. Until a few weeks ago, I never considered this, especially after Freddy almost killed us—you, but now, more than ever ….”
“Geez, Jan. Just ask me the question.”
She punched him lightly on the arm.
“Never rush a woman who wants to have another child.”
“Okay, I won’t. But what has that got to do with your being … Wait! Another child! Are you telling me we are going to have a baby?” Ed sat upright in bed with a look of excitement and expectation. The first thing his good hand did was to caress Baker’s stomach.
“Relax. No, at least not yet. But I love you so very much and because of that, I want to have a girl, or another boy in this family that is directly from your seed, your heart, your soul. I want to raise a part of us.
“One day, Stevie will be gone. He will have his own responsibilities, his own family. And when that happens, I would love to have a little one running around the house to drive us crazy.”
Ed smiled and wrapped his arms around her and kissed her on the top of her head.
“So, you’re talking, when then?”
“Stevie graduates school next year, and he’s looking at different colleges. I’d like for us to try to make a baby next year by summer’s end.
“When I get to mid-term, say five to six months, I would take paternity leave, or just quit the force altogether. It isn’t as if we need the money.”
“Jan, I’m not saying yes or no; but we have one big hurdle to get over before that would happen, that, being Freddy. I don’t need to go into details because we know what I’m meaning.
“If we get past him, and if you still want a baby next summer, then by God’s will, and a lot of luck, we’ll have us a baby.”
Baker leaned up and Ed tilted his head a little lower and they kissed. Baker would tell Stevie before the weekend was over. After all, they too, shared many secrets as well.
By Saturday daylight, a brisk steady rain began to fall. Clouds kept the sun at bay, until Monday.
It was that kind of weekend. People still went grocery shopping, or to a movie, but all the outdoor fun things were put on hold.
After all, even the weather isn’t always perfect.
The Ethics of Writing Hard Things
Writing hard things is a complex and delicate process that requires a high degree of ethical consideration, empathy, and sensitivity towards the subject, audience, and stakeholders. Hard things refer to topics that are often uncomfortable, controversial, or sensitive, such as racism, sexual assault, mental illness, and others.
The ethics of writing hard things revolve around four main principles: respect, accuracy, honesty, and empathy. These principles deal with the following ethics:
1) Respect: Writing hard things should respect the dignity and humanity of the subject, audience, and stakeholders. Respect requires that writers use language and images that do not offend, dehumanize, or exploit people in society. They should also consider the cultural, historical, and social contexts that shape the subject matter.
2) Accuracy: Writing hard things should be accurate and factually correct, using credible sources and evidence to support any claims or arguments. Accuracy means that writers should avoid sensationalizing, exaggerating, or misrepresenting the subject matter to gain attention or generate controversy.
3) Honesty: Writing hard things should be truthful and transparent about the author's intentions, biases, and motivations. Honesty means that writers should disclose conflicts of interest, ethical dilemmas, or other factors that may affect their work's integrity or objectivity.
4) Empathy: Writing hard things should show empathy towards the subject, audience, and stakeholders, understanding their perspectives, emotions, and experiences. Empathy requires that writers listen, engage, and value diverse voices and perspectives, avoiding any form of discrimination, stereotypes, or prejudice.
In conclusion, the ethics of writing hard things require writers to approach sensitive topics with respect, accuracy, honesty, and empathy while considering the impact on different stakeholders. Writing hard things should be done with a sense of responsibility and care, striving to create honest, transparent, and inclusive conversations that contribute to social justice and human flourishing.
Book Four - Part 8 - Rhyming Evil - Chapter Eleven
Thursday – July 5th
Baker’s Office – 9:12 a.m.
It was another one of those days where she would spend the next several hours going over reports.
She also tried to keep apprised of foreign news that could be related to Freddy. So far, there had been two reports of victims killed with his SOP (standard operating procedure). Two in the last seven months, well, not counting Marie Hampton, former real estate agent.
Tracking his movements as best as she could, there had been another five, brutal gangland-type slayings that could possibly be attributed to Freddy. Each murder had to deal with someone who had some form of power and based on his last two kills; the other five murders took place; starting in South America and ending in Australia. The method of movement was similar, if not the same, in other countries Freddy has been in.
He’s smart, shrewd, cunning, and deadly.
As she started her other project; checking missing persons, she knew there was only one way to catch Freddy.
A bullet to the brain.
Rim Road Pass – 12:30 p.m.
20 Miles West of Montie
The guys were all there. They made a pact with each other, and to seal that pact, each one sliced the palm of their right hand with a pocket-knife (and not very deep either), and then they pressed their palms against one another’s hand to seal that promise in blood, and officially, they were each other’s brother.
The Montie Pythoner’s would be saying goodbye to Jimmy Kerrigan. He got his scholarship to North Carolina.
Every member of the team promised to meet back here at Rim Road Pass every five years to relive, to recapture their lost youth, and also talk about their new lives and loves. The only acceptable reason for not returning was either active military duty or being dead.
A brother’s promise made in blood could never be broken otherwise. Stevie, Ron Snyder, Dale Whittier, Brad Stone, DeWayne Phillips, and carl Macklin Jr., along with Jimmy Kerrigan, all made a promise to each other, and deep down, Stevie believed they would all come back every five years until they either all died, and hopefully, from natural causes.
Once that was finished, they sat around for a while, talking about what they were going to do for the rest of the summer, and then the topic found its way to basketball.
Ron Snyder asked Stevie the question that was on every player’s mind.
“Stevie, we all know the bean ball you took to the head. The doctor’s said no sports. Are you going to come back, and at least help the Coach with play-calling?”
“Guy’s,” Stevie’s eyes took them all in. “I promise I’ll be back on the court in some aspect. And maybe, just maybe, I might play a game or two. If I stay out of the paint, get that isolated shot, I should be good to go. Of course, I’ll need to clear that with the doctor, my mom, and Coach.
“I’m thinking sometime before we go back to school next month and try to get a medical clearance. Besides, last year it wasn’t my head that broke, it was my old leg. This one is new and improved, and guaranteed never to peel, rust, fade, or crack. If nothing else, I’ll be there to help Coach Claymoore.”
After another hour, everyone broke up, got in their cars and trucks, or like Jimmy, he left on his Kawasaki 450, and the only memory at Rim Road Pass were tire tracks, footprints, and dried spots of blood clinging to dirt.
Kelso’s Clothing Store
1135 Mason Street – 4:47 p.m.
The changing of the guard went smoothly. No tornado’s, no harsh winds or pelting rain. No traffic accidents, assaults, or robberies. Almost three-fourths of the day, down, and everything was looming good.
That is until Adam-11 slowly drove down Mason. Andrew Davis at the wheel, his partner Ryan Clinton, jabbering on about how the Mets might take the World Series. The Mets?
"Why not, they’re in the hunt," he said to Andrew.
Andrew came back with; "It’s July, see where they are come October."
It was then when Ryan tapped Andrew’s shoulder and pointed at the front doors of Kelso’s. Three men shot out of the place like a bullet, and started to jump in a dark green, Econoline van.
Andrew turned on the lights and siren, hit the gas pedal and before the van had enough time to take off, Andrew veered the car at a right angle in front of it. Ryan had radioed for backup. Both he and Andrew jumped from their car, weapons raised, where each man had both sides of the van covered; Ryan, looking directly at the driver, a young Hispanic girl, maybe seventeen if that; yelled for her to get out of the van. Sirens could be heard approaching. The girl bit her lip, looked behind her, then back at the gun staring her in the face.
“I said, step out of the van slowly, miss. Hands on top of your head. I won’t tell you again.”
Andrew, on the far side of the van yelled out, “All of you inside the van, come out with your hands in the air, and empty!”
The girl made up her mind and stepped away from the van. She was about five-feet tall and maybe ninety pounds.
“Hey, you crazy bitch! Get back in here!”
“Miss, get in the back of my car.” Ryan motioned her inside. Once she was in, he raised his head toward the van, and yelled out, “Give it up! There will be several black and white’s here, so I advise you to step out of the van now and avoid a fight. You will lose.”
As he said that, three more cars converged onto the scene.
Andrew, his weapon trained at an angle on the sliding panel door, could hear them arguing over what to do next. All were yelling in Spanish. When they saw the police cars surrounding them, the three young Hispanics, slid the panel door open, and threw out their guns: two being a Mac-10, along with eight handguns.
Bloodshed, and the potential for a lot of it, was averted that day. How much longer could that continue?
Sunrise, cumming and discretions
She asked me to see the stars and I had nodded in an absent trance. There was too much noise in my ears and too many lines in my nose. But, she wanted to see the southern skies through my eyes. And Williamsburg mountain wasn't a hop skip and a jump, but she was there. An hour drive to heaven and peace and her wrapped in my arms. An hour drive to show her something in me, something unsettled...yet rooted and wild. And so I lit a joint and slid in shotgun. A far cry from the noisy bar on main street.
She took my joint and I took her hand. Feigning for a cigarette, I fumbled for my dispo, just to take a hit. Needing something. Something more familiar than the sound of her voice, singing quietly along with the silky tones of Lana del Rey.
*We were Born to Die or we were immortal.
Tonight nothing made sense *
The roads were empty. 2 a.m and counting and her hand was on my inner thigh. Resting easy and comfortable. We turned the curve and shifted down. The hum of the engine and the softs sounds of the radio melted together, into some melodic hum...with fireflies and crickets and the sounds of the Appalachian Mountains, swaying in and out of my mind. Torn and broken, addled by drink and drug...
I felt her lips against my neck. Warm, soft and inviting. I pulled away, for a moment.
A tinge of guilt.
And then I pulled her closer, kissed her deeper before I let the walls rebuild...
I stepped outside and she followed, sheepish.
I pointed out the constellations,
As her hands slid beneath my shirt. A sudden give inside of me...and I gave into to the softness of her touch, calloused fingers exploring my skin. I leaned into her and gave in.
Naked flesh finding naked flesh. She was warm and wet and ready.
And the quiet moans, as I slid inside of her, seemed to echo through swaying pines.
We watched the sunrise from the hood of her benze. Lost somewhere in the coming sun and our discretions.
She is Poetic Form
She dances like long form prose. Lips soft as a sonnet, her locks of hair flow like free verse, lingering sweet poetry. She has rhythm, such rhyme, limerick, beautiful haiku.
Her soft voice speaks in ballad, ode, softly singing lyrical into your ear. She writes in blank verse with lambic pentameter, each of her stanzas flowing like an epic river.
Couplet, villanelle, and cinquain. She loves writing words of all kinds, one's that will bring you harmony, like acrostic, sestina while waiting for someone to read her quatrain.
She will love you like a narrative, an epigram. Her heart is filled with notebooks filled with words kept together like crumbled paper.
When she leaves this earth, mourning, loss, and reflection. She reads her elegy aloud from above ~ redemption isn't dead, each word written and read is still alive like soliloquy.
The fifth shot (3)
A couple of days later when I woke up, I didn’t find him next to me in bed. This was not surprising to me as he often left to work and left me sleeping. I started stretching when a few minutes later, I found him walking with bedroom robes holding a tray in his hand. The tray has a lush assortment of breakfast items with a rose on one side of the tray. I was dazzled. My hero has returned and he has finally come to his senses. The first words that came out of his lips were “I’m sorry you had to go through such a nasty crowd. If you think these women were vicious, you have no idea what happens with the men, Trust me. I am as much as a greenhorn among the men as you were with these women.”. I sipped the freshly squeezed orange juice and said in a hurry “These women said such mean things.” Then I stopped before I took the first bite from the croissant and said “Pierre. Have you been unfaithful to me.”. I’m not sure if I imagined that he hesitated for a second and his eyes rolled before he said with such envied confident voice “Search me, dear. Look deep into my eyes and see if I you are not my one and only.” I was about to debate that when there was a knock on the door.
It couldn’t haven been anyone else at this time of day except Michelle’s nanny. Pierre moved from my beside and I got up in a hurry, my nightgown all ruffled from the night’s sleep. We both opened the door wondering what she would want. She spoke and said “I’m sorry madame but I believe that Michelle has quite a high fever”. We hurried out of our room with the Nanny to Michelle’s room. Pierre put his hand on Michelle’s forehead and his face became quite changed. He gave order to the Nanny to prepare icy cold wet towels. We stayed next to Michelle completely worried about the case that he got. Pierre checked his other symptoms and declared that Michelle had scarlet fever.
Pierre contacted some of his doctor friends and they prescribed medication for him. There were also instructions that included that no one except the parents are in touch with him because the disease was contagious and can spread quickly. This meant dismissing the Nanny and any other help in the house and it would only be the three of us. Or, more likely, the two of us. As Pierre announced, to save his political career, he would be in the house but not in the room with us.
For a week, our house was ghost place. Around the corridors, there were sound of echoes, as I took Michelle to my bedroom. And there, I waited for either fate to be resolved. For Michelle to be cured and for Pierre to come back. His specific instructions were that we stay away from each other for fear of catching the disease and then he would be of no help to us. In this week, my passion for Pierre grew stronger as the more absent he was from my life, the more I longed for him more. I was hoping he felt the same.
The week passed and Michelle’s symptoms began to disappear. I called for Pierre wherever I could find him but I wasn’t sure whether was he in the house or not. Finally, he appeared. I told him about Michelle’s condition. He wore a medical mask and came to see him. He told me that the danger was over, and we could the help and his Nanny back in the house. All has returned to normal or so I thought. All returned to normal but it seemed Pierre caught the disease of seclusion and isolation. He never returned to the bedroom except twice.
He came to the room the first time to announce his big announcement. After Michelle’s recovery, we were going to attend the political party’s second major event. I adamantly refused. He started pleading with me. “I can’t go without you. The party prefer me to be with their wives. This saves me in the ranks of the political party. I might become a minister one day. Don’t ruin it for me.”. This time I rejected his plea. “You mean you want me there as your fun item for you and your friends. I told you what happened last time. Thank god that Michelle got sick so I don’t have to go and see these faces and hear these voices again. These voices that are still in my head. I can’t shake them. I won’t go.” Then Pierre continued to plea some more till his tone of voices shifted. “You know my parents were right. You’re simply not cut out to be a politician’s wife. I should’ve known better with your weird country accent, and your strange habits that I never understood till now.”. I stood silent and then I said words that to this very day I had no idea from which subconscious it came from. “Well I married the doctor, not the politican. You know, the one that actually helps people not manipulate and cook their lives the inside of a kitchen no one knows anything about its rusted cutlery and tarnished pots and pans.” I seemed to have won the day as he was stupefied by what I said and stormed out of the room.
I had no idea that tears can run so hot as they burned into my cheeks all night. I sat there in Michelle’s room watching him as I remembered the fond memories of first meeting Pierre. That charming smile and overwhelming confidence. If one thing helped me get through the war, it was him. What was our mistake? We were young? We took life and everyone else for granted? I was so sure of him and he was sure of me. Can really the life of politics ruin a man’s soul? Is this the time to ’prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet”? The I started remembering how he got busy with all his political party matters. There wasn’t a day that went by that he wasn’t either busy with their business or chattering away about their business.
I walked slowly from Michelle’s room to my bedroom. I kept staring at the emptiness of things as I wanted to so many things at once including smashing a thing or two. But I thought to myself that it wasn’t worth it. Maybe things will clear in the morning and somehow the clock will reverse and only those pleasant items will re-emerge. I dragged myself to bed, dimmed the light, and I thought I felt a blackness like Pierre pass me by. His whispers were soft almost like the hissing of a snake. All too soon he was performing husbandly duties and getting his way with me. But this didn’t feel like Pierre. It felt like a phantom of him. His delicate caress was gone. It felt like he was pounding to take something away from me and not hand something over to me. It felt all too vicious and malicious. I could smell a cocktail of women’s perfume and alcohol off him. But I didn’t care. I hungered for him. And out of our passionate entanglement came our second child, the witness to my downfall.
Leap of Faith- Part 2
On the night I danced atop raindrop graves inviting the skies to strike me down, my discarded heart struggled to pace my legs as I twirled to the cadence of thunder. I offered a silent plea to any willing god who’d expunge from me, the damnation of passion forlorn. For my tireless wings had lost their wind making a heartless tomorrow seem inescapable. I yearned to die if living without love was to be my fate. So, I kicked the puddles filling with heaven’s tears flouncing my native dance to mock the storm. My untamed arms flailed the arrogance of a youth’s bravado enticing the pain to be relieved by a single strike. My eyelids fell to meet the end as Zion’s reprisal cut through the shroud of darkness with a firebolt, yet it spared my life leaving me dumbfounded and enraged. I opened my eyes to the stir of birds vacating their limbed perches as they scattered across the horizon anticipating an aftershock—The very rhythm I had been dancing to all night. I continued on like it never happened poking at the growling beast above until…BOOM! With a sudden flash, a message revealed itself atop the grand clock tower—The silhouette of you. You watched over me with an enrapt beauty, and all this time I thought I was alone. My skin flushed without warning, and I no longer beckoned for death’s embrace, but instead sought the passion cemented in your eyes. It was then I longed to receive the warmth retained deep inside your heart and upon meeting each other’s gaze I knew we would chase the shadows of dreams no more—We would live them.
Two Tips That Seriously Work
I have two no-fail methods of curing my own writers block:
#1: Look around you and open your eyes to the lives of the things and people around you. What about that great tree in the park? How old is it? What kind of changes has it seen? Everything has a personality—a story. Write it.
#2: Dump. I’m serious. Grab a pen and paper, open a new note tab, or just type here on Prose. Start writing and don’t stop until your mind is empty (or close to it). Can’t start? Pick a letter. Write your thoughts—all of them. When you’re done, look back and glean ideas from there. To quote from one of my previous posts: “Some of our best ideas are hidden deep in the recesses of our minds.”