Prompt for Thursday, July 31

An ice chest falls falls out of a clear blue sky and lands on open ground.

A Quiet Night in the Country

Cameron arrived at the hotel an hour behind schedule. He sat in the parkway for a long time, staring at his mobile. He hadn't left London in 12 years. The peace and quiet in the little village of Belshire was a corrupting influence. He was so accustomed to the hustle and bustle that the silence was oppressive, disruptive to his already weakened state.

totally not fair, seriously

It was not fair, she thought.  Timmy the beagle should have legs that work, not dangly floppy things hanging off his rear.  And Daddy's surgical tools were all sharp and shiny because they were real doctor's tools, not the fake plastic things that came with her little sister's toysets.   The robot arms from Mommy's lab in the basement had hands on the ends, but they looked almost like dog legs, and anyway Timmy would really like to have hands instead of feet so he could climb onto the big bed by himself instead of waiting to be picked up from the floor, all forlorn looking.  She'd seen the TV shows where someone put a liquid in a syringe and injected someone, and they fell asleep, but the liquid she found that said "anaesthetic" on it didn't make Timmy fall asleep and lay still for very long.  He'd woken up after she got the second useless leg off, and was trying to attach the wires and metal to bones and muscle.  Of course Timmy had panicked and tried to leap out of the tub (the big Jacuzzi one that 4 adults could sit in, not the tiny one in the shower), but fortunately she'd made sure the bathroom door was securely closed. She'd injected him again, and he didn't fall asleep, but did lay still and let her drag him back into the Jacuzzi.

It was totally not fair, Timmy getting all scared and trying to escape when she was trying to help him.  Now she had to clean all this blood off the cream-colored tile *and* finish the bionic dog before her parents got home; they would be so mad about the mess, though they would probably be more mad about the nice Egyptian cotton towels that had blood on them, that she was scrubbing the floor with.  It wasn't working well. All she had was shampoo and hand soap, all the cleaners were downstairs in the closet where the housekeeper kept them.

Timmy's whimper echoed in the big bathroom. The heavy breathing from the tub began to crack and slow.  Oh darn, she thought;  don't die on me, stupid dog.  Don't make me have to take you down to Mommy's lab and bring you back to life after fixing your stupid broken dog legs.

Cleanup

The blood was still dripping from his forehead as he sopped it up off the tile floor. He’d put a pad of folded-over paper towels over the wound and wrapped a bandana around his head, but it had soaked through and was dripping again. The Boy Scout manual open to the first aid section on the floor next to him -- now smeared with bloody fingerprints -- said that scalp wounds bled a lot, and that he should apply direct pressure in order to stop the bleeding.

How was he supposed to apply direct pressure, he wondered, and still get the blood up before his mother got home? He looked up at the clock on the microwave: five twenty-four. He had maybe fifteen or twenty minutes until she came in.

Prompt for Wednesday, July 30

An eleven-year-old child on hands and knees, cleaning blood off of tiles.

Dinner Party

            The winter wind whipped Donna’s scarf away, exposing her neck. She attempted to shift all the grocery bags she was carrying to her left hand so she would have her right hand free to fix it, but in the process one of the bags freed itself from her grasp. A glass jar of honey struck the cement and shattered at her feet.

            “Shit,” she said, staring down at the mess. What would she do now? She needed the honey to make her signature dish, honey orange barbecue chicken. Everyone will be expecting it. She wondered what she might be able to substitute for the honey, but it was no use. Nothing would taste the same. No matter what she did now, everyone will know she failed. She wondered if the broken honey jar wasn’t some omen. Could she cancel the dinner party two hours before it began? No, that would be quite impossible.

            There was also the mess to consider. Less than ten feet from her front door, her guests would be walking on some sticky concrete. Donna had no idea how to even begin to clean up the honey. It was hopeless.

            Donna was growing more and more frustrated the longer she stood there and thought. It’d be best to just go inside and get started. Nothing was going to stop the dinner party now, so she would have to just do the best she could.

            Summoning her courage, Donna prepared an impromptu dry rub of various spices for the chicken. It smelled fantastic, and she knew it would taste wonderful, but what would she say when people asked why she didn’t make her usual?

            But there was too much work to do to dwell on it. Vegetables needed chopping – oh, wait, she had to start the rice now. It was already five minutes too late. She was so absorbed in her preparations that it barely registered when the front door opened and Carl stepped inside.

            “What on earth has gotten on my shoes? Why is there broken glass outside?”

            “Oh, no,” Donna said. “You didn’t drag that honey inside on the bottom of your shoes, did you?” Donna rushed towards the front door to meet Carl.

            “Why was there any honey out there for me to step in?”

            “It fell out of my bags. I forgot all about it until now.”

            “Forgot? How could you forget something like that?”

            “Well, if you haven’t noticed, I’ve been a bit busy getting ready,” she said, gesturing towards the mess in the kitchen.

            “And you don’t consider clearing the walkway for our guests a part of getting ready?”

            “Well, maybe if I had some help from you.”

            “There you go again,” Carl said, rolling his eyes. “I never do enough for you, do I? Working twelve hour days just to keep us afloat, but all you care about is socializing. Well, I didn’t invite them. I don’t even want them to come, but I know better than to leave a mess all over the walkway when we are expecting people. And if you find putting a dinner party together to be too much work for you, stop having them!”

            Carl bent over and reached down, tore each shoe off of his feet, and, for a moment, considered throwing them at Donna. But the moment passed and instead he flung them to the floor in a huff and growled his way up the stairs.

            Donna wrung her hands while examining the damage Carl had done to the entryway floor. How long would it take to clean and how does one even clean honey? Before she could think of an answer, the kitchen timer went off and she went running to shut it off and attend to the food again.

            Time seemed to pass quickly while she was absorbed in her cooking. By the time she had a moment to address the honey, guests were due to arrive in only fifteen minutes. Frantically, she headed outside with a broom and dustpan. She was able to collect the pieces of glass from the broken jar, but the tools proved useless against her most sticky and formidable opponent. In fact, they only seemed to exacerbate the problem, spreading the honey around so that it covered more ground and sticking to the broom’s bristles. She’d ruined the broom.

            Next, instinct compelled her to try hot water. She did seem to be making progress, though not quickly enough. It was not long before she noticed the Maxwell’s Lexus down the block and had to run inside to prepare to greet them. She had not even had a chance to begin cleaning the entryway. She quickly shoved Carl’s shoes into the coat closet, but she had nothing with which to conceal the obvious sticky mess he’d tracked into the house. Oh, well, this is just going to have to do. Her heart pounded. She ran her hands over her hair to smooth it out a bit and tried to catch her breath.

            The doorbell rang. She waited a moment before answering so it wouldn’t seem she had been standing right by the door.

            “Jim. Maryanne. Come in,” she said.

            “Donna, it was so good of you to invite us,” Jim said, grasping her hand warmly.

            “Oh, don’t be silly. It was good of you to come,” Donna said, smiling.

            “Donna, darling,” Maryanne said as Jim moved out of the way. They shared a small hug. “It’s dreadful outside, and I think I’ve gotten something on my shoe.” Maryanne began to look down to inspect the shoe.

            Donna needed to distract her quickly. “How is Bill enjoying his first year of college?”

            It worked. Maryanne forgot all about her shoe and gushed as Donna took their coats and ushered them into the living room.

            More guests arrived and the night wore on. Donna grew more and more anxious someone would spot the mess in the entryway, but no one did. With each successful entrance, she only worried more and more that the next guest was sure to notice.

            The evening only grew more dreadful as they sat down to their meal and not one guest bothered to ask about the chicken. They praised her dish extensively. Each compliment made Donna sick to the stomach. Each moment that passed without being exposed made her fear the inevitable exposure even more.

            Someone must comment on it before she explodes. Donna tried to will her guests onto the subject, at one point even reminding Maryanne what she’d said about her shoe, but Maryanne simply shrugged it off and turned back to the conversation she had been engaged in before Donna’s interruption.

            Eventually, the evening came to a conclusion as guests began to leave. Donna played the hostess and reunited each guest with his or her coat, though she was furious with them all. Once the final guest left, she felt she could finally relax, finally declare the evening a success. Relief.

            Then, she heard it, a loud crash, someone screeching for help. She flung open the door and hurried outside.

            One of her last guests had tripped. “Mark’s shoe got stuck on something,” Susan said. “He just fell right in the snow.”

            Donna could tell Mark got stuck right where she’d dropped the honey.

            Carl appeared behind her. “Donna, help him up,” he said, brushing past her. “What is wrong with you? Why are you just standing there?”

            Donna lifted her arms. For a moment, it looked like she was trying to embrace Carl. Instead, she pushed him hard and he went hurtling into the snow himself. She stared at the drops of blood by Carl in the snow, counted them, thirteen blood-colored spheres sitting in the snow, and she laughed.

13 Verses

There's a multiverse in my backyard. 13 individual everythings, sitting in the snow, each with their own unique physical laws. Most of them have galaxies and star systems and planets just like mine. There are - in all probability - millions of intelligent civilizations, living in little colored bubbles in my backyard.

Time travels much faster for these verses. They will evolve and expand and die before the snow melts. The yellow one is the hot one. It's just cold to keep the snow intact around it though. The black one is the smallest. The purple one has the most exciting physics of all. The stars are all very close together and frequently trade planets while maintaining relative stability. It's the little red one I like the most though. Causality works both ways inside it, and it's amazing how delightfully functional the little red one is.

They will all be done before the snow melts. Which makes me wonder if there isn't some Great Winter outside my universe, and we're all just waiting for the snow to melt.

Prompt for Tuesday, July 29

Thirteen colored spheres, sitting in the snow.

Guns blazing

So, according to Ian, I’m expected to come in and post something spectacular. This is it, folks. This is all I have. I feel awful about it, but my creativity and my gumption have both been nil of late. Blame the medication, or the underlying condition for which I take it, but the result is the same.  I just don’t have the words in me.

So I’m sitting here, willing words to happen, and this is what I am finding. I finding that I may just not be a writer anymore.

 

Indecisiveness

Indecisiveness is a symptom of depression. As a kid whenever my mom took my sister and me to the grocery store, she would let us pick out a candy bar. My sister picked hers quickly and never looked back. I could stand there forever trying to make up my mind. It felt to me as if the weight of the world hinged on that decision. The earth would quake and mountains would topple if I chose incorrectly.

In reality, the candy bar did not matter. What did matter, however, was every trivial thing besides it. Put the remote back in the wrong place and Dad gets mad. Talk back to him and Dad will hit you.

I used to think my actions had consequences, but it wasn't true. My dad would have gotten mad about something eventually because he had to get mad. He would have hit me over something eventually because he had to terrorize children. That’s just my dad, and nothing I ever did or said could have changed him. What candy bar I chose did not matter because it wasn't going to win me my dad’s approval.

He cannot be pleased. He was born miserable, lived miserable, and will die miserable. When I decided to stop trying to please him, I stopped being quite as miserable as he is.

Memorabilia

“Mr. Rourke, this is an incredible discovery, but it presents us with a difficult decision.”

Rourke waved a languid hand, looking seeming everywhere except at the man across from him. He shifted in his seat, leaning forward slightly. “Well,” he said, “I don’t know, man, that’s why I brought it to you, right?”

Arthur Wittmann was one of the more reputable collectors of Hollywood memorobillia. His office was decorated -- maybe a better word would have been ‘encrusted’ -- with posters, art, and framed and mounted props from various films.

Prompt for Thursday, July 24th

Today's Prompts are:

Multiple Prompts! Choose One!

"A moment of your life where you had to make a really hard decision."
"A day in the life of Mickey Rourke."
"An Incredible Discovery"

Do whatever you want with what you pick! Enjoy!

New World Government

This line is secure.

/Rerouting seg.0001-63862

It is now.

Good.

What's the news?

Acting balanced

I struggle. I am depressed and know that I have to permit myself to feel depressed, but I also have to guard against wallowing. At what point do I stop saying "this is expected and acceptable behavior and I shouldn't beat myself up over it," and start telling myself to do the goddamned dishes?

Balance

Six stories up above the cheering crowd,

among the pigeons and the plastic bags

I set my feet upon the wire and bowed

and shuffled out among the urban crags.

These twenty years I’ve learned to love the act

of balance, pitting speed and skill and nerve

against the fear of falling and the fact

of pavement lurking deep beneath the curve

of my balance pole, the only tool allowed

to me in my attempt to touch a cloud.

Prompt for Wednesday, July 23rd

Trying out a new format for doing prompts. New prompts will be posted to the blog, not the Facebook page. Today's prompt is:

"A tight-rope walk."

Do whatever you want with it!

Ship in a Bottle

Diego worked tirelessly building ships in bottles. It was his favorite way to piss the days of eternity away. He had tried so many other hobbies, but none were so fulfilling as this. The naked woman chained to the bench beside him was getting weaker from the fumes in the model glue, so she wasn't nearly as annoying as before.

Hell is the absence of...

Lucifer sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Evil,” he said. “It’s just... so subjective.” He drummed his fingers on the surface of the desk, looking out the window. He looked... annoyed, distracted. Like he’d been reminded of a vexing problem.

“Hell isn’t some vast torture chamber,” he said. “I mean, I’m aware of how we’ve been portrayed in art and literature over the years, but I assure you that... well. There’s nothing here that wasn’t brought here by the people who dwell here.”

This Guy I Know

No plot twists here. No fiction. The guy I know, he's me. Or rather, I hope he is.

This guy I know is amazing. He's everything I've ever wanted to be. He's calm, cool, and collected. He's clean, fit, and he never gets bored because he always knows how to make a good time. He eats a lot better than I do, and he actually enjoys it. His tastes are so much different than mine. When he eats, there's this sensuality about food. The taste, the texture, the flavor. He eats for the experience of tasting, as opposed to eating for the gluttonous lust for consumption.

His hobbies include gardening and biking. He's been biking since we were kids, and he's no pro, but he likes to get a good ride in every day. He's got a green thumb, grows herbs and aloe vera, and he works in his flower bed for hours on end because it gives him a chance to just create life and form just for himself. Just for the experience. The look of what he produces is a byproduct.

This guy is really big on some simple acts of kindness that he feels should be universal. Let people in. Merge when you see the sign, not when you run out of lane. Leave a fucking penny. He lives by this code and does everything he can to spread it to others.

Perhaps most of all, this guy always has a sense of calm joy in his heart, and a lust for life. He's attracted to spontaneity, distraction, disruption. He promotes it and tries to loosen other people up to. He lives by example to say "Just don't panic."

I think he's a writer too, but I don't know yet because I feel like I write everything for him. I am everything he is in all the wrong ways. I lust for distraction not for the sake of spontaneity but to numb myself to the pain. I never go to the beach because it reminds me how alone I am, and how much I fear, hate, and love everyone, and instead of a calm joy, inside me is a chaotic body of emotion whose tides overflow and ebb unpredictably, chaotically.

Every now and then, for a brief period, my brain chemistry is just right and I get to be him for a few days, and it's a wonderfully sweet bitterness. Because it's only partial. I only get to spend a few days in his shoes a few times a year, and then I go back to my cave and hide behind my computer. He's my superhero though, and I will never stop believing that someday he will come and rescue me. And I'll get to be him from then on.

I honestly don't know how realistic this expectation is. But I do know that I couldn't go on without it. So I cling to it, desperately. Anyway, I'm off to go work in the flowerbed some more. Until my time as this guy expires.

The Work of a Hero

The guy was just standing there on the street corner, at a sort of parade rest, his hands clasped behind his back, feet shoulder-width. He was looking up and down the street, gazing out on the squalid, torrid mess that was Sixth Street: junkies wandering here and there, down-on-their-luck drug dealers prepared at any moment to duck down an alley and sell someone a sketchy dose of something that might almost have been what they wanted, drunks just sitting on the curb dozing as things happened over the top of them.

A cadre of really spectacularly unattractive women in very skimpy clothes wandered here and there, theoretically for rent but in practice mostly just gossiping about whatever drama was going on this hot night.

The guy was notable for his stance, for the sense that he was just standing there, too alert to be one of the drunks, too still to be a junkie or a dealer.

He was also notable because he was wearing a cape.

Crime of Passion

Gloria Hansen is deceptively beautiful. Supple, smooth skin, perfect form. In the bushes outside her condo, where the lamppost doesn't shine, I can see her putting on her little black dress. I always wondered if her grace was just an act, or if it came naturally to her, and indeed it does; she doesn't look sloppy slipping into that dress as anyone else would, but she sort of slithers into it, like some sort of middle eastern dance. Nothing she ever does looks clumsy, like normal people. She stands above us. Better than us.

No one believes me when I tell them the power she has. How dangerous she is. They say I'm obsessing, that I'm crazy. I don't care. I know what I see and what I see is some kind of jungle animal. Like a great cat. A black panther, who might at a distance appear as a diminutive feline, but up close, you can see her for the beast that she is.

She steps over to the mirror and takes a stick of blood red lipstick, and I swear the way she applies that red paint across her lips, she must know I'm watching. But no, I was careful. I quickly dart around to make sure my cover hasn't been compromised, and then I look back through the window, and I see her reaching into her closet and pulling out a black hat, the kind women used to wear back in the forties, and yuppies think is so fashionably retro. It fits her like a crown.

Now this is interesting. She sits down on the bed and pulls her stockings on, slowly, gracefully pulling them up her leg and lifting her dress as she drags them into position and I can't breathe for a moment. I want to be with her.

I don't want to be outside her condo, watching like some sort of predator, I want to take her, have her for myself. But I can't, not in this lifetime. She owns a law firm that ours has been competing with for clientele. She hates me because she knows that it's me who's been ruining her business. Without me, her competition wouldn't stand a chance. I've probably lost her tens of thousands of dollars this week alone. And so, here I am, her sworn enemy, due to a roll of the die.

She walks over to the dresser and- shit. I duck down as an old woman with blue hair and pastel sweats walks by with her toy dog. The Pomeranian starts sniffing the bush and the woman just drags it away, not bothering to turn her head. I let out a sigh of relief and look through the window and there she is, standing right beside the blinds, her back turned to me. She's on her cell. I press my ear against the windowpane but I can't make out the words. The light goes off and I duck down again, and a minute later she's outside locking up the condo, and walking for her car. I wait until she's left the lot and I dart for my Jaguar.

I'm having a hard time keeping up with her, she's driving like a bat out of hell. So I'm having to drive like an asshole when she turns out of sight, and check my tazer and my camera to make sure both are working properly at the same time. Screwing this up could mean the end of my life as I know it.

Eventually, we make it to my house. I park a few houses down and watch her as she walks casually up to my door. My camera is running now. It's go time. I zoom in on her as she reaches down and picks up the Gothic porch statue I keep my spare key under, and she unlocks the front door. Gracefully. Like she does this every day. I start moving in as fast and quiet as I can manage. I slip around the back, to the back door I left unlocked. I slink inside and watch as she deactivates my alarm. She steps casually, quietly up the stairs, and into my bedroom and I keep the camera focused on her the whole time.

Once in my room, she walks over to the form lying in the bed that she thinks is me, and ever so slowly edges around the bed and delicately, so as not to wake me, sits on the edge of the bed. She reaches into her purse. This is it. My sweating palm wraps around the grip of the tazer, and I almost sink my thumb too hard on the button in my excitement. She pulls out a pack of Pall Malls and lights one up. You've gotta be kidding me. I hold my breath in the deafening silence that follows.

I gently set the camera down on the dresser by the door, facing the bed. Finally, she reaches into her purse, takes out her switchblade and stabs the pillows under the comforter of my bed exactly three times but no more. One for the neck, one for the heart, and one for the gut. Crime of passion. Yeah. Right. This will be an easy conviction. I race forward and stick the tazer to the bitch's neck.

Diagnosis

“It’s a little obsessive, I know,” she said, “But I think it’s a healthy obsession, all things considered.” 

She looked sideways at her fellow psychiatrist. “Music is shown to be good for lowering stress, helping patients to process, increasing creativity...” Her voice became increasingly doubtful as she went on.

The other doctor returned her sideways glance, an eyebrow raised.

“Creativity,” he said. “Hmm.”

The little man on the stool in the corner of the common room didn’t give any indication that he heard them, or anything else. His head was down, and he was totally focused on the task at hand.

He had a straw in his mouth; it was sheathed in another straw, and he moved the outer straw out and back rapidly. Something had been done to the end of the straw that was in his mouth; as he blew, it made a sound like a small, angry clarinet. Moving the outer straw adjusted the tone and pitch.

Overboard

As the icy water engulfed her the breath she's been so desperately holding onto as the literal lifeline it was forced its way from her lungs and into the open sea. She watched the bubble float toward the glowing ball of the sun and the panic began to set in.

She'd known sneaking onto the ship would be risky but she'd known that staying put was the greater risk. All her life she'd been enamored with the sea. As a child she'd spent as much time as she possibly could swimming. Her parents had never had a problem with it since she'd been too young to be of any use to them and she'd used that freedom to explore the cove near their home endlessly. She'd daydream about sprouting gills and fins and scales so she'd never have to leave. She'd made herself a home of sorts in the rocks decorated with sea weed and sea shells and bits of sea glass and driftwood she'd come across in her travels. It was an idyllic time, one she constantly found herself looking back on as she'd grown older.

And grow older she did. Of course this wasn't a surprise, she knew everyone and everything did, she just hadn't expected it to be so terrible. As soon as she'd been old enough to be put to work she was. Since she had no siblings her parents had her help with everything. Her mother put her into the vegetable garden and the kitchen, her father put her into the shed mending nets and on the boat helping him fish. It was a simple life but it was endlessly demanding and she ached for the salty independence of her girlhood. 

And then there came to be talk of her marrying and she saw her own life going down the path of her parents' and it was terrifying. She started having nightmares about being crushed, suffocated, tied up, trapped; every night it was some version of the same thing. She deteriorated, drawing into a deep depression, having panic attacks during the day seemingly out of nowhere, she began having intrusive thoughts about ending it all while cleaning the dishes and organizing the fish hooks. It was all just more than she could bear and thus she decided to run away.

She ran through a number of potential plans. She could take the boat but it was so small she'd just end up dashed along the rocks somewhere plus her parents didn't deserve to have their only source of income taken from them. Then while in town selling the day's catch she noticed a merchant ship that was on it's way out in a few days and it seemed like a gift from above. She got herself some men's clothes and boots, practiced a man's gait, worked on deepening her voice, practiced binding her breasts and keeping herself covered while getting dressed and undressed, and finally went to see about getting herself hired on as a cabin boy or some such thing.

Never had she been more grateful for her parents than she was those first few weeks on the ship. The work she'd been put to at home had in many ways been every bit as demanding as her work on the ship and she actually felt like she'd been well prepared for a life at sea. It was liberating and felt glorious to be so competent, especially when many of the other new hires seemed to be struggling. This really was the life for her and she began to dream in earnest about maybe one day owning her own merchant ship, travelling the world, exploring and making a life for herself and others who shared her love of the water and the adventurous life. For now she had no idea how she'd amass enough money to make such a plan come to fruition but she'd made this happen so maybe she'd be able to make that happen too.

Everything was going along swimmingly until she got caught... It was such a ridiculous accident, she couldn't believe that something so small had ended her life. She'd been cleaning the deck when someone slipped and bumped into her and she'd fallen overboard. When they fished her out there was just no hiding her figure. The baggy clothes that had allowed the subterfuge were now plastered to her body in a most indecent way and her womanly form was obvious to everyone with at least one good eye. 

Nothing could have been more disastrous. Once the moment of shock passed they swarmed her, and angry mob in a frenzy. She was trussed up and thrown overboard, purposefully this time, amid shouts of her being a jinx and a palpable fear from the men around her. Women brought bad luck and at sea luck was everything.

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

So here she was, drowning in the middle of the ocean, miles from shore, an outcome she'd not seen coming even though she'd always known it was a possibility. She struggled futilely with her bonds know there was no hope of even loosening the now sodden ropes that immobilized her arms and legs but the will to live was strong and she could not give up. She knew that if only she could free two limbs she'd have a fighting chance. Her body still remembered a childhood spent in water and swimming would not be an issue but it was impossible smothered in sodden rope!

As her lungs began to burn and she knew she was close to losing the battle and succumbing to the deep a strange thing happened. First she noticed that the water no longer felt cold which seemed odd but was a welcome relief. Then she noticed there was something odd happening to her legs. Her feet appeared to be getting bigger, longer somehow while her skin was... well... vibrating was the best way she could describe it and that didn't seem to make any sense. Before her eyes her legs were clearly changing, metamorphosing. Her feet weren't just getting bigger they were becoming fins! Her skin wasn't just feeling funny it was becoming scales! She was seeing it herself and she still couldn't believe it. This was everything she'd ever dreamed of and it was happening if her vision was to be believed.

Maybe she'd already died, maybe this was her version of the afterlife. That was a comforting thought, pleasing, there were certainly worse ways to spend eternity than the fulfillment of childhood wishes. Or maybe she was hallucinating. She remembered having heard somewhere that oxygen deprivation can cause strange things to happen with the brain. Maybe she was just off her rocker. Again, there were worse things. At least she'd get to die happy. Real or not she decided she'd enjoy it as long as she was able to. When she'd finished pondering the oddness of her legs becoming a fish tail she noticed that her lungs no longer burned. In fact, she had the sensation of breathing somehow, it made even less sense than the scales and fins!

While she was trying to figure out how she could possibly be "breathing" underwater with no air about her (could it be called "breathing" if there was no breath?) she noticed some movement about her. It was subtle at first, far off in the darkened undersea world. As the movement drew closer she was able to make out distinct forms. There appeared to be at least a dozen of whatever was coming for her and she hoped that they weren't looking for a snack...

When they rose to her level and came into the few wisps of sunlight filtering this far down she discovered that they too had fish tails where on a human legs would be, each one a different brilliant jewel tone. Still wondering if this was all a hallucination she noticed that they all had what appeared to be gills on their throats. Maybe that was how she was "breathing" she mused.

Three of the women swam forward and untied her bonds. With her hands free she immediately searched her neck for gills and discovered that she had somehow sprouted those along with scales and fins. Whatever magic this was she was thrilled beyond words. She felt along her new tail, marveling at how very smooth the scales were and how strong the fins seemed to be. She swam a few test circles and was impressed with how quickly she adapted to this new method of locomotion. It seemed little different from the swimming she'd done when she'd had legs.

When she'd finished exploring her new body, at least for the time being, one who appeared to be the leader of the group swam forward and addressed her. "I am Curie, are you hurt?"

Taken aback she hesitated, "No, at least, I don't think so. I am called Ilunen. What's happened to me?"

"When the sailors so ruthlessly discard women from their ships we rescue them. You have been transformed into a creature of the sea, a mermaid. Sadly, we are many. You will always have a home with us, a community, a sisterhood. You will be safe as long as you wish it. Your life is your own now forever more."

Elevators

Elevators.  Elevators, when you think about it, if you drop half of your wits, and forget about the up and the down, are pretty fucking magical.  You walk in the doors, they close, you make a choice with the press of a button, the doors open, and voila, you're somewhere new.  I ride a lot of elevators.

Credibility

“That... is the last place in the world I expected to see a cement truck.”

The bearded reporter took a drag off his cigarette. Jon looked sideways at him; although the guy was an annoyance, he was right. It was pretty unlikely.

They stood on the rim of a very large crater, surrounded as far as the eye could see in every direction by thick three-canopy rain forest. There was not a road for at least five miles.

The truck was right in the middle of a sort of lot they’d cleared quickly the day before with chainsaws and fire. It had just enough room to turn around and back up to the opening so that it could tilt its drum up and pour out its load. It was doing that right now.

“So,” said the reporter, “What can you tell me about what’s in there?”

“Not one thing,” said Jon. “I’m not even sure how you managed to get here. The last thing we need is publicity.”

“I walked,” said the bearded guy. “Followed the helicopter with a cement truck dangling from it.” He dropped the cigarette on the forest floor, ground it out under a boot. “Listen, like it or not, I’m here, which means that it’s going to get some play. It’s up to you whether the story is ‘Secret US Government Cement Pouring Mission In The Jungle’ or...” He waved at the hole. “Whatever that is.”

Jon gave the man a cool look. Five miles of the most rugged, dangerous jungle in the world, full of poisonous spiders and man-eating jaguars and uncontacted blowgun-wielding tribesmen and not one of them had seen fit to happen to this guy. It seemed unfair.

“So unless you’re planning to lock me away in some black-site hole, you might as well give me your side of the story.”

Jon raised one eyebrow. The black-site idea was exactly what he’d been thinking about. He wondered how you managed to arrange that sort of thing. He sighed. He’d probably used up all the juice he had with the United States Government arranging for the cement truck.

Then he suddenly grinned. The reason it had been so hard to drum up the response was... well. What the fuck, he’d tell the guy, and then see what writing it did to his credibility as a journalist.

He turned to face the man full on, his face a manic mix of the exhaustion he felt after the last couple of days and the sudden realization that he was about to wreck the career of someone who deeply irritated him.

“Aliens,” he said. 

The New Gig

                It was a typical Saturday night in the Ruby Room. Cigar smoke hung thick in the air over the tables while Scarlet did what she does best on stage. She was a looker, for sure. The flowing red dress and big crimson lips alone could melt any man into a puddle, but what really did it was her voice. The dolly had pipes like you wouldn’t believe. 5 minutes with her on stage and every eye and ear in the joint was fixed on her, except for a pair of each glued on to a greaser walking towards my table.

                He pulled a chair back and sat down like he owned the place. He didn’t fit in at all with the Ruby Room crowd and I could tell he felt out of place. “You Ace?” he asked while unrolling the pack of smokes from his sleeve. “Might be. Depends on who’s asking.” He lit a smoke with his zippo, snapped it closed and put his elbow up on the table while he took a long drag. “Well, might be I have something for you. A job.” I always tried to keep a low profile, a private dick in this city can get called on by the wrong kind of guy and the next thing you know, ten years in the can. “You interested?”

                I was down on my luck. My last job left me busted. I got burned by a fast talker in a double breasted suit. I’ve always been a good judge of character and this guy seemed like he had an 18 karat heart, but when I woke up under a street light with blood coming out of my nose, I realized I was wrong.

                I couldn’t play it cool anymore, I needed the cash. “Yeah, I’m interested. What’s the job?” He slid an envelope across the table towards me, stood up and left. I didn’t bother calling after him. I knew he knew as much about the job as I did. Bosses tend to keep guys like him on a need to know type of arrangement and by the looks of him, he wasn’t bright enough to know much anyway.

                I opened the envelope and pulled out the contents just as Scarlet was wrapping up her performance to a standing ovation. All that was inside was a picture of an average looking woman in a dress. I flipped the picture over to find an address, time, phone number and instructions scribbled on the back. “She’ll be there. Follow her and call the number when she gets where she’s going.”

                Simple enough. We didn’t talk money, but I was ready to take whatever I could get. I dropped some cash on the table for the tab and walked out. I stood on the curb and waved for a taxi back to my place. I was beat.

                A few days later, I headed downtown to the address on the picture with a spyglass in my pocket and a .38 tucked into the waistband of my slacks. There was a construction yard for a new high rise across the street where I found a good spot to hide while I waited for my girl. A few hours passed before she walked out the front door and hopped into the back of a car. I stood up to put my spyglass away and felt a loud crack on the back of my head, then everything went black.

                I came to just a few feet away from where I was spying on the girl, bound and gagged. 5 or 6 gangster types in suites were 10 feet or so away smoking and talking while a few guys in overalls were shoveling something out of a wheelbarrow. I groaned and one of the gangsters noticed. They all walked towards where I was laying, tossing their cigarettes away. The one in front knelt down by me and said “What are you doing, spying on the boss’s lady?” He removed the gag from my mouth and I knew it was time to spill the beans. I could tell now that the guys in overalls were shoveling concrete into a hole for the foundation of the new high rise and I had no intentions of becoming a permanent part of the city skyline.

                “Some greaseball in the Ruby Room gave me an envelope with the lady’s picture in it and told me to follow her. There’s a number on the picture, it’s in my pocket. That’s all I know, honest!” I felt like a dirtbag for ratting out my employer but a guy’s got to do what he has to. He pulled the picture out of my pocket, glanced at the back, smiled, folded the picture up and put it in his pocket. “That nosebleed Skaggs put his home number on the picture.” All of the gangsters started laughing. “We’ll put him in right next to this one.” One of the other gangsters said, pointing at me.

                A siren blared and cop cars surrounded the construction site. All of the gangsters scattered. A couple of the cops walked over to me. “Hey, O’Malley! This guy pissed all over himself!” one of the fat ones yelled. All of the cops laughed. One of them grabbed a megaphone and yelled into it. “Hey, Frank, you gotta see this! Joey’s boys made this guy piss his pants!” The one I assumed was Frank walked towards the megaphone guy escorting a gangster in cuffs. “Flip him over, did he shit himself too?” He asked to a chorus of laughter.

                The cops rounded up all of the gangsters. The guys in overalls were card carrying union guys working on the high rise, they couldn’t prove they were up to anything. I sat in an interrogation room reeking of urine for hours on end, answering questions. They knew I didn’t have anything for them, they just enjoyed kicking me around. I could hear them outside laughing every time they left the room.

                I lowered another basket of fries into the hot oil and adjusted my paper hat. “Wow, so that’s how it happened?” Billy asked, stifling a laugh. “You got it.” I said. “That’s why I’m at the drive in. I’m a really crummy detective.”

Garden Haiku

A serene garden
Calming water trickling by
'Round a cement truck

Foggy I've Been Watching Too Much Next Gen Lately

The car sputtered and in that moment he mentally kicked himself for not remembering to stop for gas before schlepping out to the docks in the middle of the night. As his unfueled vehicle rolled to a leisurely stop he considered his options. It seemed like a midnight stroll was in order and there are certainly worse things. He'd always enjoyed the damp after all, reminded him of home. The fog was beginning to clear somewhat and he noticed an odd, solitary heap on the side of the road about a hundred feet ahead. Dixon Hill stepped out onto the pavement and moved towards it, always the investigator.

As he drew nearer he realized with a world weary sinking in his gut that there was a shoe attached to the heap. He'd seen enough murders to last anyone 10 lifetimes but at least for now he wasn't a target which was a nice change of pace. Dix sighed and leaned over the body, assessing it's characteristics. Well dressed, good quality suit, nice leather shoes, looked like they hadn't been worn much, clean hands and fingernails, recent shave and haircut, nothing in the pockets. And so another mystery had begun. Standing up he wondered if he'd end up getting paid for this...

to be continued when i've had more sleep :)

Running through the fog

I’m in a difficult to describe mood today. I suppose the best way I can explain it is frustration turned to anger turned to depression and it’s getting worse as every minute passes on this slow march towards 4PM when I leave this place. As a big fan of music, I read a lot about artists writing their best material when they’re depressed but I find it impossible to create anything when I feel this way so I’ll go the route of the tormented musician, pour myself out onto a page and hope for the best.

It’s interesting that I chose a car breaking down on a foggy road as today’s topic because it’s an appropriate metaphor for how my mind feels today. I feel like no matter what I think about, no matter what I try to focus on, I’m absolutely unable to think clearly through this fog in my head. I can’t talk myself through this, I’ve tried all day reminding myself how great my life is and how I’m on a fantastic career path with growth potential that should satisfy me until retirement but I absolutely cannot shake this overwhelming feeling of helplessness.

I feel like I’m running through a fog, through woods, trying desperately to get somewhere clear so I can see but I keep ending up back at my broken down car, frustrated. It’s a cycle. When I’m depressed and I try to use logic to shake it, the frustration from not being able to come out of the fog makes me feel helpless.

I think a lot of this has to do with frustration at my job. I was passed over for a director position that my agency hired externally for because I’m “not quite ready yet.” The new director is absolutely incompetent. I feel worse than being picked last at dodgeball, I feel like there are uneven teams and I’m the odd man out while everyone awkwardly shrugs their shoulders as I turn to walk home.

I’m another name on the miles long list of people who can’t stand their boss. I tell myself that, but it doesn’t work. It’s another vain attempt at running blindly through the fog. Sometime in the middle of writing this, I ran straight into a tree and now I’m lying on the ground in the middle of the foggy woods, eerily complacent with the mood I’m in but no happier about it.

There’s something lurking in this fog, something sinister. My greatest fear is that if I can’t get out of the fog, it will get me. I don’t know what ‘it’ is, but it terrifies me. I think I’m most vulnerable to it when I’m lying down among the leaves because I’ve given up. I’m trying my best to get on my feet but I don’t have the will to. I’ll go home, taken an ambien, block the light from the bedroom windows, go to bed early and try again tomorrow like I always do when I feel like this. That normally works.

It comes down to this

Panic.  Fear.  Breathless.

Watching the clock with one eye, she stuffs whatever she can grab into a bag.  Clothes, toothbrush, wallet, spare change, everything is thrown in together with none of the order and none of the precision that has ruled her life for the last six months.  Has it been six months?  Her mind drifts back to that first meeting along the boardwalk, the first date night of drinks and dancing, and that first weekend away where this same green bag had held happier times.

Kisses.  Gifts.  Bliss. 

The romance of it all, how quickly they fell in love.  For the first time in her life she had felt like a princess, like all the Disney movies and childhood story books really could come true.  As fast as they had met, they moved in together and were married soon after.  The surprise picnics and perfect days seemed to go on forever.  On and on, until she wore her hair the wrong way.  Her fault of course, she knew he didn't like ponytails.  Happiness and dancing, dinners out and sitting close at the movies; except that there was dust on the TV stand.  She had dusted everything else, but forgot the TV stand getting distracted by the neighbors impromptu visit.  

Trembling.  Wary.  Scared.

The change was so slow, she hardly noticed it at first.  You always hear about these girls and wonder how this happens.  Apparently, the answer is slow; the answer is gradual.  Clothes must be washed and folded, everything cleaned, everything dusted.  She must be showered with hair and make up done and all times.  Each mistake is a bruise, every opinion a slap.  With just a look he can let her know she will surely get it when they get home.  Leaving never worked out the way she planned, she could still feel the stiffness in her legs and back from when he locked her in the closet for two days.  This time will be different though, this time she can make it...

Determined.  Shaking.  Hopeful.

She knows she only has thirteen more minutes before he is due to get home, but as the engine turns over she is sure that this time she will make it.  Flying down the road she lets the windows down she notices it is colder than normal, but the chill feels good on her flushed skin.  Flying around the curves trying to gain as much of a head start as possible, the fog started rolling in.  Flipping on her fog lights she presses the gas down harder, not being able to shake the feeling of being followed.  Exits fly by as the daylight fades, the distance helping her to breathe a little easier.  She stays in the right lane only going five over the limit, she cannot risk being pulled over without the license she was never allowed to have.  Cars come and go, passing and exiting and entering.  All these normal people with their normal lives, never knowing the terror in her heart.  

Finished.  Done.  Over

It is almost two in the morning now, somewhere in the mountains of Virginia she drives.  There has been scattered headlights here and there, but not many cars have been out for the last hour or so.  There is one set though that has been blinking in and out of sight behind her.  Never to close and never too far, these lights make her skin crawl.  She planned to pull over for the night as soon as those lights disappeared, but they never seemed to go away.  Deciding to try to take the next exit around a curve to possibly lose those headlights, she speeds up a bit more.  The pedal pushes further and further down, but the car makes no move to respond.  Instead of increasing in speed, the car is slowing down.  Chugging a little, the car quietly dies as she steers to the side of the road.  Her breathing all but stops in her closing throat as her broken down car on that foggy Virginia mountain road is flooded with the lights from her husbands car.

The Second Plague

It was after midnight, and I was driving fast in the Tule fog. My headlights created a wall of light in front of me, not so much illuminating the road as making it painful to look for. I’d been thinking about turning them off. I was driving more or less by feel, Botts’ Dots keeping me between the center divider and the shoulder, and watching the odometer so I’d know when I was close to the 46 turnoff.

Unreliable Narrator: The Neighbor Girl

Lately we've had this issue with a young (no more than 5, likely younger) neighbor girl just walking across the street and into our house like she owns the place.  It's odd but mostly fine until a few weeks ago she came over on a Saturday morning while we weren't home and she ended up letting the dog out (who thankfully didn't run away).  We were very confused as to how the dog got out when we got home and were puzzling over it all day when our little visitor made another appearance at 9pm after she was supposed to be in bed (she snuck out of her house and came over to ours because she "wanted to play").

While we were asking her questions to figure out what was going on before taking her back home she told us "I like your dog but he was scary when I opened the door and she jumped at me" which told us how the dog got into the front yard.  Then she continued the story with "And then my dad saw him [the dog] in the kitchen and he got scared too and we had to get him out of the house and I didn't know what to do" which was likely untrue...  Then she noticed the shark shaped blow up pool we have in the living room (the baby plays in it) and she asked what it is. I told her it's a baby pool, and she said "But it's a shark!" as though these two things cannot go together. She then proceeded to tell us a story about how she went swimming one time and saw a shark and the shark came up and bit her one the toe "right here" and it was very scary and hurt a lot.

Little kids are the best unreliable narrators in the whole entire world. I could listen to them spin tall tales forever.

Paranoia

You cannot know what this was like. You had to be there.

It was the end of the world. I mean, we all knew it, but nobody said it. Mom and Dad were going about their business, without a word to one another, or me, except to bark at orders at me, when they wanted me to go outside so they could fight about what could be done.

The skies were ominous and dark, and there was a kind of tension in the air as I went outside. None of my usual playmates were on the street that day, so I sat on the porch and occasionally played with some toys I had left there the day before, nervously awaiting their decision.

It was coming, that much was obvious, and for a while, I thought about running. I didn't know where I would go, but maybe someone would take pity on me and give me a ride out of town, where it would be safer. Anywhere but here. But then I pictured myself out there, alone, wet and cold and unable to acquire food on my own. I put my toys down and cried softly. I couldn't let Mom and Dad see me like this so I had to be quiet; they always yelled at me if they caught me crying. It's a terrible position to be in, but I was used to it, and I played it cool when Mom opened the door, the look on her face signalling my worst fears; that they had decided to stay and rough it.

When I got inside they sat down, watching television, like everything was normal, but everything was not normal. Everything was about to be terrible, and we all knew it, and there was nothing that could be done about it. I laid down flat and tried to squeeze under the couch, but my head had gotten too big for that now, and my mother quickly scolded me for bumping the furniture. Then I heard the most terrible noise I have ever heard before or since. These long shrieks like a giant monster's roar as it decimated the city and I couldn't stand it. I cried out and ran and crawled under my bed. I just needed to feel safe, but any moment now the violence outside would find it's way in. The plan was I was supposed to go to the bathroom. It was in the center of the house and that's safer I guess, but I was petrified. That noise just kept getting louder.

That day we got lucky. Really lucky. Which might be a curse because what if it happens again? What if Mom and Dad grow so complacent that they decide no matter how bad it gets, we should just stay and deal with it? I often wonder if we're just postponing the inevitable. Eventually, the wet will fall from the sky again and the sound will return, that terrible violence which is out there, doing terrible awful things somewhere. The cat acts so smug, but she'll see when it finally happens, and she'll be out in the middle of the living room somewhere and no one will be able to save her.

They'll all see someday. I'm not crazy. This threat is real. And trust me, I'd give all the flea collars in the world to be wrong. You wouldn't understand. You weren't there.

Them

                I entered the numbers slowly, glancing from the road to my phone and back, 9-1-1. My thumb hovered hesitantly over the green button on the screen. “She told me not to call” I said out loud to myself before clicking the lock button and slipping my phone back into my pocket. I pressed the accelerator down further as I felt the car downshift and speed faster down the freeway. Only two exits away. It was late, so there wasn’t any traffic. I kept an eye out for police; I wouldn’t be hard to spot at this speed on an empty four lane road.

I trust my wife, we’ve been together for 10 years, and we’ve been through a lot together. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling from the pit of my stomach that I was making a mistake by not calling the cops. What did she expect me to do? If she was in trouble, the police station is 5 minutes away. It would take me at least half an hour to get home. I turned my blinker on instinctively pulling over onto the exit ramp as if the police would forgive my violation of the various other traffic laws I’d broken on my way home by following this one.

                All the house lights were on. As I pulled into the driveway, I felt something. Not a sound or a vibration in the traditional sense of the word but just… something. I slid my key into the back door lock and twisted the handle. The deadbolt was locked. She never locks the deadbolt. I unlocked it and leaned into the door. It swung open slightly, and the chain lock snapped tight. I backed up a step and lunged forward into the door with my shoulder, breaking the lock free from the doorjamb.

                I scanned the kitchen frantically for any sign of Melissa, not finding her. “Honey!” I shouted into the interior of the house. “Where are you?” I walked down the hall to the living room and up the stairs. She was sitting in front of the linen closet door in pajamas with her knees pulled tightly into her chest.

                “Honey”, I said softly as I walked slowly towards her, checking the lit bedrooms to my right and left with peripheral vision. “What’s going on?” Her wide eyes darted right and left quickly but her breathing was strangely calm and controlled.  I knelt down beside her and placed my hand on her shoulder “it’s OK, just tell me what happened.”

                “It was a light… or a shadow… I’m not sure. It covered the bedroom and they came out of it.” In my ten years of marriage to Melissa, I’d never seen her like this. She was never one to give in to irrational panic. “Honey, I don’t understand. Who are ‘they’? Are they in the house?” “No” she said, visibly relieved as she said the words, but only slightly. “They left. I don’t remember waking up. I couldn’t move. The wind stopped. They were cold. They took my clothes. It was so cold.” I grabbed the fabric on her shoulder between my thumb and forefinger, “Honey, you’re wearing your pajamas. Are you sure you didn’t have a dream?”

                “Yes, it was a dream. They made me see it. I didn’t want to see it but they made me.” Her eyes stopped moving and focused on me. She calmly stood up and turned towards the master bedroom. She walked to the window next to our bed and looked out towards the back yard. “I saw it but I didn’t want to. They made me see it. I didn’t want to see it.”

                I stood up and began to follow her. “Honey, Melissa, please. You’re scaring me. What did you see? Who are they?” I felt the same feeling I felt when I pulled in to the driveway. It was as if I was being overcome by some gravity. The lights in the house dimmed. Melissa turned calmly towards me, locking her gaze to mine. “I don’t know but they’re back. They want you to see too.” I felt a weight on the floorboards behind me as I heard them creak. Their breath was cold.     

Heredity

He wasn’t the most reliable of narrators. I listened from across the table with a growing sense of unease and skepticism as the story, and his telling of it, grew more and more unbelievable.

“I don’t know how I did it,” he said, “But I made it across the barn, hand over hand through the rafters, while the hay burned below me. I swear, I thought I was going to...”

On and on. He had the humble brag down cold, and was using it like a mechanic who’d just learned about wrenches; I smiled and nodded, taking regular sips of my drink, listening to a new perspective on a story I must have heard a thousand times.

To Tell the Truth

So, the One True Sentence prompt was from last time we attempted to form this group over Facebook. I never got to explain it at the time and since I find myself awake, tragically, at 4:30 AM (They come in AM?) I figured I would explain it.

"The writer's job is to tell the truth. I would stand and look out over the roofs of Paris and think, 'Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.'"

This is from Ernest Hemingway's memoirs, The Moveable Feast. It was his anthem, his brilliant mantra for overcoming writer's block. I have come a long way since the moment I read those words. Next time you feel Writer's Block creeping up on you, close your eyes and incant, "Write truest sentence that you know." It's done wonders for me.

Perhaps it could even help with writing the prompts here too.

One True Sentence

When you find where it is you're supposed to be all the effort becomes oddly easy.

Strange Muse: The Journal

I once had this journal that I fell in love with at first sight. I lusted after it. I was so enamored that I destroyed my budget to make it mine and make it mine I did, consequences be damned. It was a deep forest green leather smothered in intricate knot work branding and filled with the creamiest lined pages I'd ever felt. To be near it was a sensual experience, it was erotic, it was everything I'd ever desired in a writing partner.

It took me months to figure out what to write in it. I'd have an idea and then once I pulled the journal from its special resting place (for it was far too great to slum with the ordinary writing tools of everyday use) the wrds in my mind would fall flat as I realized they were unworthy. I ached to join my mind's creations with that journal yet nothing ever felt right.

The amazing thing about all this frustrated yearning was that it fueled my creative abilities in ways nothing ever had before. In always seeking for anything to fill the pages of that book I created more works in those months than I had at any previous time. It was a glorious era of frenzied passion and for that I have always been grateful to the unexpected muse I found in that notebook.

Dreaming

The other night I had the strangest dream.  I found myself standing in a house that somehow I knew was supposed to be my house and yet I had never seen anything in this house before.  I felt so out of place and uncomfortable in a space that was supposed to be mine, and as I walked from room to room trying to find something familiar I realized that no matter how many rooms I found there were always more rooms.  Never a front door or back door or any exit to speak of, just room after endless room.

I was alone.  No one answered any calls and I could find no one.  At this point I am starting to panic since I cannot handle being alone, and the more I run, the more turns I make, I can find no windows, no doors and no people.

Only One

Last night I had the strangest dream. I was sitting in a bar, and this guy kept saying, “So no shit, there I was...” but then stopping. Or maybe he was telling a series of very short stories that I couldn’t hear because I was too far away. In the end, I decided that I should go over there, so I could either tell him to knock it off or hear what he had to say.

My Strange Muse

It was one of those slow, lazy summer days, where the sunlight almost has weight. It was too hot to work on anything, and I was restless, but to torpid from the heat focus. My partner, being the intuitive man that he is, decided to drag me out of my funk, and take me for a float  down our lovely, local river. The perfect remedy to a muggy day. 

He is terrible for spoiling me, so soon I found myself arrayed comfortably on a pile of cushions, being rocked to relaxation on our little boat. With a cold drink in hand, and munchies within reach, I was all set for an afternoon of sun drowsed lethargy and relaxation.

We were only about half an hour into a 3 hour float to our next landing, when the clouds started to gather. Soon, the sky had turned from sunlit to grey, and there was only one patch of clear sky, directly overhead.

There was a hawk darting in and out of view. He had been following us for some time, possibly in hopes of a handout. I watched him for a while, hovering on the very edge of sleep... that languid state of mind where you hover between conscious, and dreaming. 

I thought to the hawk…”I wish I could fly with you…then we could break through the clouds together, and soar up to the sunlight,”  and I found myself drifting…drifting into flight , looking out at the world from a height, and through a strangely distorted lens. I willed myself upwards, and rose, breaking through the clouds into dazzling light. I looked down, and saw, through a break in the clouds, a bright ribbon of water, with both shadows and shapes moving over it. I watched with delight, for a timeless interlude.

A crack of thunder brought me bolt upright in the boat. We were pulling up onto the bank, just in time to avoid the downpour. My wonderful man had left me to my reverie, and meanwhile brought us safely to shore. 

Once we were landed and comfy, he asked me where I has been. Evidently, I hadn’t been sleeping….and as I stared to describe my journey he stopped me, and said, wait; you need to write this down. I knew he was right, so I did. When I read what I had written, I realized it was the lyrics to a new song…I immediately sent it to one of my band mates, who, just a effortlessly found the music. The music I hadn’t been sure could be written for it. It became one of our most powerful pieces, and one of my favorites. 

Who knew that my elusive muse would find me drifting down the river, and carry me into the light of inspiration on the wings of a hawk…

My Strange Muse

It's been a really long time. I hadn't spoken to you in ages and the moment your beautiful face appeared in my mind I felt a familiar void opening up in my chest. Everything I've ever done, everything I've ever created, I've done it out of longing for you, out of a reverence for a creature who only exists when my eyes are closed.

I haven't spoken to you in a long time, nor made any offerings at your altar. You have always been everything I've ever wanted of you, when you've been anything at all. I never see you anymore though. It has always felt as if the older I get, the less present you become, and sometimes I wonder if all you ever were was a fiction. The thought makes me wretch. But every time I grant forgiveness for the unforgivable, and every time I choose pragmatism over ideals, I feel like I'm slipping farther and farther away from you.

But that can't be right. Every single vice and virtue I have ever accumulated I did for you. As an offering. The kind of offering one gives one's deity. A "sacrifice" offered up, not for your consumption but for your appeasement. I want your gifts and your love and your affection and your protection but I know damn well that I will never have that like I had it once and it infuriates me like a child. I want to thrash and scream and destroy, but in the end I am completely helpless, naked and alone in a dangerous world you swore you would always protect me from.

You are no longer a first hand experience for me. I have to close my eyes. To imagine you. To remember you. And every time I get a little high but never like the first. Never like the early days. I can't replicate the absolute and overwhelming ecstasy and joy you made me feel. The intoxicating allure of your reality. When I think of that feeling, it's the only thing that exists in the entire universe and I want to drown in it. I want to flood the entire universe and snuff out life itself with it.

I know you were a crutch. I know that I have all the ability you inspired in me and I can recreate it when called upon to do so. But sometimes I wonder if it's not just the desperation of a junkie that makes me try for it, if all I'm ever inspired to do is just in the futile hope of relighting the essence that I once imagined was you.

But every now and then, in the throes of creation I can feel you inside me and around me. The sensation no longer lingers. It flashes and I close my eyes to savor it but before I can draw another breath it's gone. Just enough to keep me coming back for more. I will always need just a little more.

My addiction; My drug; My goddess; My anima; My strange muse. I will always hold tightly to the idea of you. No matter what else happens, no matter how many promises I break, no matter how many identities I defile, you will always exist in my core in whatever concentration I can maintain and I will never let go of you. This blog is for you.