Carter Hall pipe tobacco sits in a metal tin. It's like a paint can; the lid has to be pried off. The manufacturer included a little attached tab for that purpose.

I open it every now and then. Inside, a treasure of North Carolina soil and sunshine rests in a foil pouch.

The foil pouch was bought within the last two years. The can itself was new when "Just Say No" was the catchphrase of the day, and the moonwalk was all the craze. Better days?

Or just older days?

This metal can was found on a trip Back Home. When it found me, I was a time-traveller. Once opened, the faintest hint of tobacco was riding barely beneath the surface of consciousness and memory.

I brought it back with me. I purchased new tobacco to keep in it, but not to smoke. I sometimes simply open the can and inhale.

He was a stevedore, but that was just a job. He was more, and he was less. He was an alcoholic, but he was more, and he was less.

He was born before the Great Depression. When Uncle Sam demanded his help in the Philippines, he didn't shy away. He didn't volunteer, but he didn't run when he was called to do his job.

He spent his days in the jungle, hiding from the Japanese and laying railroad track. When I asked him what he did in the War, his rheumy blue eyes looked past me, through me, into me. He saw people forty-years dead, he heard whispers in the dark from half a globe away.

"I was an engineer," he said, half-coughing in his rusty voice. That gray tobacco smoke billowed as he sought distraction from the nosy boy surrounded by the ghosts of yesterday.

He explained that the railroad was important. He had to build it, he had to guard it, but then he had to destroy it. Thoughts of army movies played in my mind where recruits are made to dig a hole, then fill it in, then dig it again as some sort of punishment. I asked him if it was like that.

"It was like that, but with people dying."

I didn't ask him again.

After he passed away, I inherited his home. As I was cleaning up and packing things for donation, I stumbled across a shoebox.

He always wore ankle boots, brown leather, with a zipper. A creature of habit, every two years like clockwork he went to the same place near where he worked on the docks. There, he bought two pair of boots after riding the elevator to the third floor of the old-school department store.

That store is a bar now. Trendy loft apartments fill the third floor.

Inside that shoebox, I found a small cardboard box, the kind that would have held earrings or maybe a necklace. Underneath that box, a few black and white photographs of jungle canopy and destroyed buildings. Written in his award-winning hand writing (I found the Penmanship Award from his elementary school days) was a note that read, "This is what war does."

I took the small box in hand, and I pulled off the top. My heart skipped a beat.

Five silver teeth gleamed in the dim lamp light.

He was a fireman. He was a soldier. He was a smoker, a drinker, a hard man with a calloused softness. He was generous and unkind, he was gentle and he was not.

He was my grandfather, the best one I ever had.

He was less, and he was more.

In the darkness of the night, I lay in my bed, my mind racing, a million things in my head,  flashing back to moments of regret, wishing I could turn back time and forget.  But I know deep down, it's too late now,  I'm about to die. The memories flood my mind, a torrential wave, of laughter and tears, of hope and of grave, of moments that defined me, good and bad, as I lay here, alone and terribly sad. I wish I could go back, and make things right, to say the things I left unsaid, but it's too late now, the end is near, I can feel it, death is almost here. And as I take my final breath, I know, that the memories will stay with me, and grow, forever etched in my mind, my heart, and my whole. I wish I could say that I have grown,  but deep down inside, I'm all alone, there's something about it, maybe it's just all I've ever known, it doesn't matter, I'm about to turn the stone. So let this be a lesson to all, young and old, to live life to the fullest,  to take chances, and never fear, because life is short, and death is near.

Adventurous Spirit 8

Back at Nicks place for sale Ari and Essie looked over the backyard garden and came to the conclusion that if it were cleared and raised beds with a sitting bench built in it could be very well

managed by anyone of any age.

There would be room for cutting flowers, herbs and small daily vegetables. With suitable paths and patches of easy to groom lawns it would be an easy maintenance chore.

"I think that shade tree is a beautiful old olive. The trunk looks like an olive. I'll have a landscape friend of mine come look at and make sure it can be pruned a bit and saved." said Ari.

"Yes, back in the states the older homes always had a picnic table in the back seating 8 to 12. We all loved gathering out there under the trees in the summer.

Such fun memories with my real family. They are mostly all gone. Now it's the selfish ones I do not know or trust." replied Essie.

Ari squeezed Essie's hand saying gently "Now you have Maria and I and other new and true friends. You will not forget your old friends Remember;

“Old friends, like old shoes, are comfortable.

But old shoes, unlike old friends, tend not to be supportive:

it is easier to stumble and sprain an ankle while wearing a pair of old shoes than it is in new shoes, with their less yielding leather.”

"That was from Alexander McCall Smith."

"Yes clapped Ari"

The two of them heard a gruff voice saying:

Yiasou Ari and Maria. Happy to see you. Come see all the fish I caught."

Nicks Papa was back. His friends helped him with the fish catch.

He thought Essie was Maria at first then he asked who the good looking lady with Ari was.

By the time the fish was cleaned and packed away in ice and Essie introduced to Zeus, Nicks father Rasmussen,

Sophia and Omega drove up to the house.

Ari and Essie proceed to show them the house and their plans to renovate. They were so excited at the possibility of living in a 4 bedroom house and a garden for Mama there were tears of joy streaming down Sophia and Omegas faces.

Essie excused herself and asked Nick if it would be OK to bring the ladies over to sit in his backyard under the shade tree.

Zeus heard them and knowing his son would say yes hurried into the house to make coffee and bring out some sweets he had just purchased at a local market.

When Nick came into the kitchen to see what his Dad was up to he laughed when he said:

“ If Ari wants to buy let him.

Did you see her Mama? What a sweet lady she must be.

Sell!

Sell!

I'll even help with clean up.”

“Oh, Papa let me help with the tray and coffee pot. You bring the cups.”

Outside Maria and Essie tended to the ladies making them comfortable. All the backyard cats that belonged to Zeus gathered around hoping for their treats.

“Oh what lovely cats said Omega. I do hope if we move here I can have a kitty to keep me company. Are they all yours?”

Zeus stammered out their names: Pepper, Crackers Bella, and Duffy. What about the little white one over there?

Under the woodpile. Kind of hidden under that big salt lick.

Oh, that's a new one to me. I never saw it at all.

Let's name her Salty.

Salty?

Yes you have a Pepper so why not a Salty?

Ari looked at Nick who looked at Rasmussen the three men all put their hands out touching and said: Deal.

Essie went over to Ari and the two took hands and danced around in circles.

Mari was totally confused. She was happy for the Taverna owners to find suitable lodging. Especially right next to her good friend Nick.

She was also happy Zeus and Omega, who were close I age would become friends.

Maybe Essie was happy because she would have some employment.

She still had a perplexed look on her face when Ari hugged her saying:

Sissy we don't like frowns on your cute face. Come here Essie let's let Sissy in on our secret.”

Essie came over saying: Remember when I said I liked I at your house so much I never wanted to leave.

You said you wished I would stay as long as I wanted?

Well dear new friend I'm going to stay. I'm going to help Ari with the repairs that I know how to do with this rental of his. I will live upstairs rent free. In exchange for that I will be caretaker here.

We are going to make a lift with a sturdy and safe seat for you to visit. There are four bedrooms downstairs and four upstairs. You can even stay over if you wish. The smallest bedroom will be my tiny office. I am so happy I can't wait to get to work.

Ari beamed.

© Julia A Knaake

Loneliness had disfigured him. That was what he concluded, when he failed to recognise the skeletal face as his own. They had warned him that the night shift was deeply unhealthy, that the strange hours would meddle with his circadian rhythm. But that didn’t quite explain it. He wasn’t tired. If anything, he felt too alert. It was the world that had become catatonic.

When he first began, he could not recognise this. For months, he tried his best to rouse some life back into the world. But it would not be woken. At this time of night, people would not meet his eye, much less be coaxed into small talk. Now, the old world felt far away, a memory of a memory, and he no longer recalled how to return.

This deep into the evening, the ferry was empty except for the dregs of the night that had at last been turned out from the bars. The air hung heavy with cold and all was silent, aside from the creak of corrugated metal as the craft drifted toward the jetty.

There was no one there to moor the boat, and he had long ago given up. So, taking his motionlessness as cue, the passengers got up, crossed the threshold, and staggered off into the night.

Now came the wait. For forty-five minutes, he was compelled to sit until it was time for the next crossing. Rarely would even a single passenger alight. The wait made him uneasy. He feared that one day, the night would finally take the opportunity to swallow him completely. But, it was his job to ferry anyone needing to cross, and so he would wait in the dark.

It was as the engine began sputtering back to life, that a lone figure came over the hill. The ferryman watched the man pick his way down, the long grass rustling with each step.

“Are you still taking people across?”

“I am.”

Coins clinked as they exchanged hands, the propeller began to stir, and before a full minute had passed, the craft had pushed off from shore.

Despite the gentle rocking of the water, the ferryman kept his eyes fixed ahead. The river had a nasty habit of guiding the boat into the shallows and the jagged stones protruding from its bed.

“Do you like your work?” The question took a moment to register; he wasn’t accustomed to the passengers speaking.

“Sure.”

“Must be nice. Freeing. Out here in the night, just you and your boat,” the words came out in a sigh.

The ferryman glanced at the man: thinning hair, crumpled white shirt, a grave look on his pallid face. “Its got its perks... but sometimes a little too much freedom,” he added.

“Too much?”

“Nothing to keep me anchored.”

“Oh. That’s disappointing,” the man said with a pained sincerity. “I would have thought…”

“As did I. But now? Well, the nights drift by.” The remark hung heavy for a while and neither man made an effort to resurrect it.

“Y’know,” a squeak from the bench revealed the man had stood up, “I shouldn’t even be out this late. I’ve got work tomorrow, things to do. HR’s told me, if they don’t see an improvement, they’re going to let me go.”

“So, why are you?”

“I don’t know,” the man rubbed his eyes. “It makes me feel alive, I guess. I need something that feels different. Everything beyond this, it just doesn’t feel real anymore.”

At this, the ferryman looked away, and from the corner of his eye, watched his passenger approach the railing. He stood there gazing at the water, slackened neck-tie flailing in the wind, its tongue flapping against the sullen red marks that encircled his neck.

“It's this or go to sleep I guess,” the man confessed. Never married, I don’t have kids, it’s just me and the flat.”

The ferryman felt a pang of pity. “We all have to sleep eventually,” he offered.

The man looked back at him hard, the greys of his eyes shimmering in the scant moonlight. “And you?”

“What about me?”

“Family, kids, anyone waiting for you?”

The ferryman shook his head, ignoring the vague lapping feeling within, “None of that matters past a certain point.”

The already faint light of the shore had, by now, long ago receded into the distance. Without it, the chill became apparent. His passenger broke out into bouts of shivering. From deep within, the ferryman felt the lapping rise to a dull ache, yet he said nothing. There wasn’t much point at this rate.

Having shuttled thousands across, the ferryman knew where they were from instinct.

“We’re here.” A moment later, a small bump brought the boat to a standstill.

The darkness was so thick, neither man could make out the land that lay before them. Together, they waited, alone except for the ever stretching silence. The passenger’s teeth were no longer chattering.

He turned to the ferryman, “I don’t want to get off.”

The ferryman did not meet his eye. “I know,” he said, “but, this is the end of the line.”

aka the Party Mix

Lady Prose stepped into the tent as the Flame Lord continued his typing with the Clickety Clack. Clickety Clack. Clickety Clack. His eyes took on a mad gleam and his white teeth shone in an insanely evil grin.

”What’s he typing?” The Wolf Den asked.

putski looked over his shoulder to see the bizarre phrase repeated ad nauseam. “All work and no play makes the Flame Lord want to burn things. All work and no play makes the Flame Lord want to burn things.”

The tent flap lifted and MeeJong stepped out, but her body was covered with green scales, her eyes had become golden, her teeth sharp, and two massive wings extended from her back. She’d become a dragon.

The Wolf Den and her companions took several steps back as the Flame Lord stood beside MeeJong. His skin had also become scaly green and he also had huge dragon wings. Flames shot out of his eyes and mouth as he and MeeJong said in unison. “Come play with us. Come play with us. Forever and ever and ever…”

”Oh shit” Shells muttered.

The Wolf Den started to convulse. Long gray hair grew out of every inch of her body as her snout extended and sharp teeth grew. She howled at the moon as putski, the Pearl, and Shells also became werewolves. They showed their claws and prepared to pounce. “Oh we’d love to play with you” the Wolf Den said.

”Wait” MeeJong said. “I don’t think you understand what I meant when I said come play with us.” She produced two bottles of bourbon with a grin as the Flame Lord pulled out a huge joint and a lighter.

The Wolf Den smiled. “Now we’re talkin’”

And a black snake slithered towards them and in a puff of smoke, took the form of a beautiful woman. “Am I late to the party?” Mamba asked.

And the seven of them sat around the camp fire, drank and smoked, and talked about women with three nipples, midget clown porn, creative ways to commit suicide, and which arch villains they wanted to fuck. And the only things that were killed were six bottles of bourbon and an ounce of weed.

The End

Or is it?

You're driving and I'm beside you, my bare right foot propped up on the dash. I hike up my sundress, the sun feels good on my skin.

You look over and smile at me, your eyes bright. I don't even know where we're going today. I'm just in a blissful state knowing we're together, finally.

You reach over and slide your hand over my knee, along my upper thigh, pushing the hem of my dress out of the way. Stopping there and squeezing for a few moments. I love the feel of your firm grip.

It occurs to me that other drivers may see us. Maybe even truckers with their elevated view. Good for them, I think. To think we may be seen just makes me more horny.

Your finger starts tracing my lips, exploring each curve enticingly. I recline my seat just a little bit to allow you better access.

I can hardly believe all the delicious feelings you're creating with just one fingertip. You gently press on my hardened button, swollen with sweet anticipation. I'm powerless against the firm, tight circles you start making there.

I shudder with a small orgasm and feel slightly self-conscious as your fingertip encounters my quick wetness. You laugh and raise your fingertip to your mouth, lick it thoughtfully, and then return to me, plunging in.

You are enjoying my silky smooth, wet folds as you slide in two fingers and leave them there briefly for me to enjoy. I squirm and squeeze against them tightly, savoring the feel of each knuckle as I eagerly envelop them with my wet heat.

You soon begin to work me rhythmically. Little sounds escape me and my back arches involuntarily as I can't hold it back much longer. I need more. I need you.

I beg you to pull over so I can feel your face in my lap, your mouth covering my lips, and so I can grind my swollen clit against your tongue. I can’t handle another second of your fingers teasing me. I'm sitting up now, quivering on your fingers, soaking wet, hotly pulsating, holding your hand tightly to me, squirming, squeezing, trying to bounce, begging you as my leg shaking orgasm builds—

My own noises wake me up. I'm naked and sweaty. Writhing against a body pillow, wet fingers working furiously, panting, reaching for invisible you.

Damn it.

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.

My own stories bore me.

I've lived them, turned about in their seams, and it seems all the magic is let out on the Night like a fluff of lint from the dryer... our tumbler of passion, forlorn and worn now like a shapeless garment subverting youth's bravado.

I wear the dark sky, Moth eaten. Searchlights are pouring in or out, I cannot be sure, but I can see the dust in which weeds are growing... like it never even happened!

Where could he go, having had his fill, of Nothing...?

And so this silent plea, in search of some new tireless wings to peer into each opening and stave off that heartless tomorrow, upon which every thread and limb of creation is hanging... with hunger.

Am I destined to fall into the moon, and rise with some withheld breath, like in a hot air balloon? I am looking out for that flittering creature with its harmless bite, and fluttering beating, like leaves parting in the window of the evening. I want to watch the interplay of Light and Shadows, of dreams catching up with Life.

What is writer's block? Isn't it, in it's most honest terms, a lack of confidence in our ability (at the moment) to produce a decent piece of literature? Maybe you don't believe in yourself... maybe you don't believe in the message. Maybe you're just not sure how to convey the message in a way that's entertaining/gripping/believable.

What we have here is a self esteem problem, and the best way to get past that is to prove yourself wrong. Pick the simplest topic you can find-- something that you know so well you can write about it without even being fully awake. It's commonplace, it's relatable, it's undeniable. I give you... human excrement.

I took a crap the other day the size of Sudan. It was of a phenomenal-- dare I say, biblical-- proportion. I've often considered, mid-crap, investing in some kind of respirator for occasions such as these, and this particular episode got me to break out my phone right there on the john.

I was playing Mozart. Don't be gross. I mean I had Mozart playing on the Bluetooth speaker that's part of the overhead fart fan. (Awesome invention.) Lots of times, I'll play something grandiose, like the theme to Superman the Movie, and pretend I'm crapping for the fate of the free world! That's going to help you get through those unripe banana movements. I'll play Primus if things get weird-- you know when it's going to be weird-- and the baseline in "My Name is Mud" will make those hot-curry/Tapatio/why-did-I-eat-the-whole-bunch-of-grapes situations seem actually kind of enjoyable.

But, as I was saying, I was playing Mozart-- not the Marriage of Figaro-- that wouldn't inspire a Tootsie Roll. I'm talking about Sonata number 17... in C. Now that's going to get things moving! Sometimes I wonder if Amadeus was thinking about times like these when he composed #17. Maybe. By the time I emerged from the old W.C., my pants fit better, my step was lighter, my future seemed brighter.

Ok, I've made my point. If you're experiencing blockage, try writing about... experiencing blockage. There are so many different euphemisms for poop! Revel in them! Write about them. You'll be surprised at how easily you can crap out a masterpiece without really even trying. Then, all you have to do is change topics.

... and wash your hands.