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wicked and that ain't so easy
 
"if there were but world enough and time..."

but there isn't.

so......spit it out.
Keywords | Title View | Refer to a Friend |
for Rachel with love
Posted:Aug 12, 2017 12:55 pm
Last Updated:Sep 27, 2017 1:36 pm
15794 Views
The ring she twisted on her finger was so thin that it was n longer round but bent and gnarled to fit the shape of her. It was the only thing she had from then; she had worn it for over 50 years since the day it had been placed there, it had never left her body. Odd to think of that day now when her mind should be focused on the minutes, not the years. The silence of the room was unnerving, perhaps that was what was sending her mind spiraling, or the wet scent of copper.

Two bending the slimmest birch, laughter, sunshine riding the wind and air, tossed high and wide, bushes breaking their fall, scratched, bloody, triumphant. Oh, to wing a birch again would be grand. She smiled, twisting the ring.

Kneeling in the tea colored water, the mud sucking your toes. So many fireflies, you knew faeries were real. Tiniest of hands reaching for the baby frogs, green like no green you’ve ever seen, tipping forward until you fall, covered with the silt, but when you right yourself there are little frogs sitting in your lap like Christmas.

The plump squash flowers her gita would fry. Like eating life. She smiled, twisting the ring, the smell of lavender that followed gita, burnt apples when she was angry, a touch of pepper if she was feeling sassy; sometimes grampa would sneeze his way through a whole dinner….

There is so much beauty in the world. Even pain has its beauty.

The hours spent bringing new life into the world, the years spent remembering those who have passed over, the struggle to reclaim one’s own self.
Twisting the ring, she moved slowly through the room.

It ran through her like a glass of cool water…. the thought that loving and being loved are two utterly separate things.

In the end, that feeling of the water sliding down your throat? That’s what matters. That’s what we all need. She stopped her dithering, opened the door and stepped into the light.

6 Comments
can i come in?
Posted:Aug 9, 2017 4:04 pm
Last Updated:Oct 29, 2017 2:37 pm
16903 Views
If someone said to you that the murder of one individual would save a million lives, but that you would have to hold that responsibility somehow, could you do that? The bargaining begins almost immediately. I don’t want to know the person. I don’t want to preform the act myself. but are these the only questions that should be asked? Are there more people being offered the same deal? If so, is there an overlap, a larger purpose, which million people are being saved and from what? Are they your kind of people? Should that matter? Does it matter? Are there ten million people killing ten million democrats saving 100 million Trump voters?

Oh my, it’s getting complicated. Or is it? what if it was all about money? One person for ten million dollars. No repercussions. You’ll never know who dies. Okay, you say yes and suddenly your sister dies. Did you kill her? You have no idea. But maybe.

So, the real question here isn’t who dies or which scenario is real. It’s more about what your ideals mean to you, how steady your hand is when it comes to do battle, which battle you will choose.

There is a battle coming. Of this I am sure. I have been watching the churches declare war on women and the LGBTQ communities. Seen more images of the KKK in the past 5 months than I did in the past ten years.

We listen to a paranoid demented fool lie to everyone. This is not our country any more. Our country welcomes immigrants. I am an immigrant. Hell, we’re all immigrants. Except for the Apaches, the Commanches, Shawnee, Arapahoe, Blackfeet, Hopi, Chippewa, Mohegan, etc... and we all watched while these mothers and fathers of this land were swept with fire hoses off their own land.

Now a merit system for immigrants in this fine land of ours, a ban on Muslims. Land of the free or just the huddled masses, yearning?

I don’t feel like I’m living anymore, I feel like I’m surviving. Each day brings more stress and less joy. To be honest, I wanted more out of my time, more for the people I love. Hell, more for the ones I don’t give two shits about.
I worked for the people who didn’t have a damn thing for most of my life and now this government is going to take money from THEM and give it to fat cats. Strip away housing, food stamps, healthcare, clean water and air, the protection of those sworn to ensure OUR safety who are now beating the crap out of people of color and poor people every day like it’s a competitive sport.

And the RNC wants to give a 40-million-dollar tax cut to a person with 4 homes and 6 cars while people are living on the streets and don’t have food for their ? I don’t think so. Tell me what God in what religion supports that bullshit? Thinks women matter less than men? Gives one fig if you prefer pussy or dick? Are you nuts? Do not blame God for your foolishness. Religion? Maybe but not God. Men making money off god? Maybe… but not God.

So, my fine free, sexy friends. Get yourselves ready. The time is coming when someone will say to you, in some form or another, you in or you out? And if you walk away just so you can be safe for a couple more days, months, years…..remember, eventually, unless you are a really fat cat, they will find you.



And when they do….who, my darlings, will you have to turn to? who will you take you in?
16 Comments
Symposium: Normal
Posted:Aug 3, 2017 2:03 pm
Last Updated:Aug 9, 2017 4:54 pm
16550 Views

When you’re growing up, it’s hard to tell if what you’re feeling is what everyone else is feeling or if it’s just particular to you, harder still to ask that question that might set you apart from the rest since it seems your very life depends on being part of the herd. By the time you reach about 10 the feelings are flying out of your skin, your head is so full it’s ready to pop off. You really could fly if only your body remembered how.

The feeling of things is forever etched in your soul from those days.

Walking home on a mid winter’s night with the cold so achingly deep that my breath hurt in my chest, I climbed the last hill to my house. A car pulled alongside of me, the window lowered and a man who could have been my father motioned for me to come closer. He smiled so I smiled. He said, could you help me? I nodded, shifting the bag of books to my other shoulder so I could lean in closer to hear his words.

He twisted, popped the button. “It’s cold, want to sit?” I shook my head no. He asked if I knew where Park Avenue was, the map he had on his lap shifted. I started to point, he was so close to where he needed to be. As I lifted my arm, he pulled it. The map fell to the floor. His pants were open. I stared, not moving. He pulled my arm, hard.

I could feel the warmth from the heater in the car wafting out the window on the side of my face as I stared. I smelled the mint of his breath. I heard my intake of air. I saw the cigarette butts in the ashtray. But oddly I did not hear or see Rosemarie. Rosemarie, who came up behind me, stuck her head in the window, screamed, pulled me back, hands tight around my belly until we fell to the ground.

Rosemarie, I’ve spoken of her here before. She who collected money for the church, she came to our house every week. She would stay and talk with my mom for a good hour each time. She knew everyone in our neighborhood. We all knew her.

The car disappeared itself as I stared at her. She was wiping snow off me with her hat, while she sang mary had a little lamb.

She walked me to home. She patted me gentle, gentle. The whole way. She was the one who told my mama while standing with her arms wrapped around me.

Later mama scrubbed me clean and new, fixed my scratches. Da and Rosemarie sat with the police. mama took my sister and me into bed. My sister fell asleep. I waited for Da. He pulled me up into his lap like a wee one. He said he was sorry for the ugly in the world, but it was there, nothing could change that. Just like nothing could change the good, like Rosemarie. I said, “the all say she isn’t normal Da. What is she?”

He shook his head a little, “tonight Mib, she was your angel and she fought that devil back to hell.” I don’t remember falling asleep but every time I woke up, Da was right there. I remember that.

Normal never seemed like it was something I had to be after that.
11 Comments
want to prove you're a smarty pants?
Posted:Jul 25, 2017 1:36 pm
Last Updated:Aug 3, 2017 3:39 pm
16989 Views
I have a certain amount of time everyday now that I am quote unquote retired that is not taken up with stuff I should be doing, must do, could do. And in those minutes hours every day I have this vicious battle of the soul.

I was raised by a mother who went from dawn until way past dusk, always doing and by a father who worked a job and took care of the yard but reveled in doing nothing. In fact it was the sweetest part of his life. I think it’s why he loved fishing so much. He chose the one leisure activity that is so inactive that it borders on being coma inducing. Now you COULD go after huge ocean fish and do battle for hours, but that’s not what my Da did.

No, instead he would fly fish a river which is very Zen, an occasional flick of the wrist, sit motionless in a boat with a bobber floating on the surface of the water as the boat drifts, stand hip deep in a tranquil lake, the sun rising, silent, without a word, at peace…….

He never napped, he never shirked duties, but when he went fishing, or when he sat down at night, .he was done with the world.



There were times when I thought he was an alien.

I think now it was his way of coping with PTSD. His war had been brutal but he never said a word about it to anyone, not until years later when he had Alzheimer’s and then he would talk to his buddies as if they were there with him. About going home, about the deep need to be anywhere else but where they were.

His jokes were funny but said sotto voce, often lost in the tangle of four , family chaos. I came to a place where I would listen for them, a wink received when I laughed. I was a wild that flew so fast the birds skittered out of my way. But I could curl in Da’s lap for hours, the smell of cherry tobacco, the rise and fall of his breathing, watching sun through pine trees chase shadows on the lake.

We watched Old Yeller one rainy Sunday afternoon. Midway all the others grew bored but not Da and me. When it ended, he held on to me tight and let me cry. I patted his face to thank him. It was wet too. Now, being older, I wonder if he was crying for the boy in the movie or the in his lap or maybe for the boy who went to war and never made it home, least not in one piece. Or maybe he was just lonely.

so take a day to do nothing......it's an art form.
8 Comments
a mischief of rats
Posted:Jul 23, 2017 11:31 am
Last Updated:Jul 25, 2017 3:04 pm
16827 Views
A mischief of rats filled the now draining run off culvert. Rays of sun split the heavy skies, treetops bent with the winds, leaves still showing their silvered backs. A few stray people ran for their cars. Most were not so trusting, bodies still pressed back against buildings, against the windows of storefronts.

The rain had come fast, not so much starting as being dumped like a storm midway through. The clouds darkening in seconds, noon became dusk, roads tuned to rivers. Voices that had been held, as though no one dared to breathe, let loose now whispers of wonder, dismay.

It was then that the woman was spotted. She stood on the far side of the parking lot. An old woman, white hair, long almost to her knees, blowing about in the wind, not even damp.

A little girl ran to open the door, her mother’s hand, snatching her back, not really sure why she was stopping her.

The men, uneasy in a way they did not understand, moved forward. One of them tested the lock on the door. The others did not object. The small group in the store went silent.

From the place next to them, a ran out. This ran with a smile, ran fast, arms spread until she reached the old woman who knelt, smoothing her pigtails, looking over her head towards the line of stores. Staring at the stores as if to see where the had come from.

Another jumped from a car, ran to the woman. A small boy with red hair, barefoot. His mother ran behind him, “Jimmy, Jimmy”.

The Woman spoke to the mother, her hand on the young boy’s head. The mother silently gestured to her car. The old woman limped using Jimmy’s mother as a cane until she could lean on the car. Jimmy, the old woman, the mother, the pigtailed little girl, once settled in the car, drove off.



A wee girl had been taken. No one dared look at anyone else. They slipped out the doors, a mischief of rats, into the gutters until they were at last all gone.

The police received several anonymous calls about an elderly woman kidnapping a young girl during the storm but no was ever reported missing.

come(all you mischief-
hatchers hatch
mischief) all you-

guilty
scamper(………….sic e.e.cummings
7 Comments
mortal sins
Posted:Jul 20, 2017 2:59 pm
Last Updated:Aug 9, 2017 4:49 pm
17077 Views
When you think about sin, if in fact you do, what do you think about? Do you hearken back to your childhood roots where mayhap you were raised with the Almighty sitting at the table with you? Some just on Sunday, some every night…no every minute of every day.

Do you conceive of sin in a biblical sense or a more personal way? The 7 deadliest or your own moral code? The 10 commandments or just feeling good about what you do? Ever wake up in the middle of the night, heart pounding and wonder if you went just a little too far? Or maybe not far enough? Sides of the same coin.

Once, I was at a dinner party with a bunch of flaming liberals. Politics, religion, music, poetry a million fuck yous from everybody except the Dom. Finally as though it is of minor import, He asks, “what is the most morally reprehensible thing you have ever done?”

Immediately the gainsaying begins with “define morality”.

His response because he is a fucking Dom was, “one assumes you have done so at some point and so based on that, answer it or pass the stick.” (note: because we are all avid talkers, we use a talking stick sometimes to minimize chaos).



Thinking that he was being retaliatory, the gainsayer handed the stick to the Dom, smirking

The Dom said quietly, “I did not stop when my submissive used her safe word”. While there were only a few at the table that recognized the implications of such a statement, it was clear by His tone that not only had this act been deeply wrong but that it had seriously injured his own self-worth.

He passed the stick back to the gainsayer.

Who passed it to a woman, who passed it on, and so it went until it found the Dom’s hands again, who held it tightly, with a look of gratitude.

Silence is often comforting eh? Forming a soft mantle of understanding,

constructing a space that allows the most powerful of energies to flow unimpeded.
Without words, hands met hands around the table until we were all joined. I knelt before him, my hands on his heart chakra, his hands hovering above my head (the crown chakra), I took the hands of the guests on either side; placed one to His belly, one to my throat and began to chant.

The room filled with light.

Surrendering to healing, absorbing all the energy of all these souls, moving it to purpose. This is my truest thing.

Knowing what it is to be broken, I wailed the dirty yellow green up from his belly, until his throat opened and he sobbed. The deepest blues, the most verdant greens, began to rise to flow up and down his spine as he straightened. Glorious purple filled my head, shot into the air.

We all fell out laughing. For who were we? Godless sinners of this world.

I drank deeply of my wine, leaning my head into His thigh. The gainsayer picked up the stick.
7 Comments
you can't always get what you want........
Posted:Jul 16, 2017 12:47 pm
Last Updated:Nov 17, 2017 12:37 pm
15681 Views
It’s so close today. The air dense. Spread on the bed under the ceiling fan, hands above my head. Your long fingers around my throat, pushing my head back, your knees spreading my legs further apart, so far apart that I cry out. Your other hand, fingers pinching my nipples, pulling, twisting, when I moan, you release my throat and slap my face. “Not a sound easygirl"

The pull on the nipples as intense as you shake my breasts. I watch your face. The beast is near. The collar is thick and tight, the chains cold on my flesh as you tighten the clamps over my swollen nipples.

Sitting back on my thighs, your cock resting on my belly, one hand pulling it slowly so that I can see, so that I need, want. I wet my lips. I would beg for it in my mouth if I were allowed to speak. Instead I pant, open my mouth. Plead with my eyes. You slap the clamps back and forth, pull the chains together and place your cock in the tunnel between my swollen tits. I push forward with my head to try to lick the head as it nears my mouth. You slap my face.

“Easygirl…..whose breasts are these?” A warning in his voice.

“Your’s Sir, for Your pleasure” my god i am so wet.

Your cock on my face beating down. The smell of your cock.

“Open”

On my lips, but gone so fast, I feel your fingers on my belly drifting.

“I said, not a sound.” I did not realize I had made one

I nod, I open my mouth, my eyes begging. Your cock hovers at my lips then plunges deep. my body spasms under you, but I make no sound just suck as tightly as I can, hold your cock deep in my throat. You pinch my nose closed. A hand around my throat, thrusting deeper, oh god, the feel of you.

As you pull out I inhale, your cock on my cheek, tears running down my face, gagging.

Your cock is dripping with my spit. You run your hand up and down the shaft. I watch in envy. You lean back and push your balls over my mouth, watching me lick, watching me struggle to reach them. my tongue stretching to catch one so I can suck it into my mouth......

Your fingers drifting, I feel them everywhere. Spreading my lips open. Teasing my tight asshole. But all I see is your cock. You turn. Now, with your back to me, I am free to devour your balls to suckle them, to lick and prod, run my tongue along your taint, to push my face deep and spread your cheeks, to prod your ass with my tongue.

You stand. I am bereft. no, no, come back.

My legs are twitching, jerking with the need to come. The deep ache in my pussy is like a weight.

You grab the largest of your plugs. The steel one. You slip it in and out of my pussy, slicking it, flip me over and pull me up by my belly onto my knees, press, twist it into my ass in one long motion. I groan and my hands fist. (don’t come, don’t come)

“Count, easy”

I cannot see what you have selected.



""One. (The crop and I relax)
"Two" (the belt?)

“15 easy….i saw that, He said with humor, and thank me after each one. “

And I do. Oh Sir, I thank you. And on the last lash, pushing a dildo in and out, you place your thumb on my clit. my legs are spasming.

"cum easy,"

Of course, because my Sir tells me to, I do.

It’s then, then when you pull out the dildo, then, that you put the velvet head of your rock hard cock at the opening of my soaking slit. I can feel myself pushing clenching. I pull the head in, I watch your eyes close, your thigh muscles stiffen. I feel your cock go deeper as my cunt suctions him in. Your hands fall forward, grab onto my hips. Your nails dig into them, such glorious pain.

Your cock hits my g spot and rubs it into a massive tortured nerve pulling my body into itself, my legs go up over your back, forcing you deeper with each plunging thrust. There’s so little room with the plug in my ass...oh god so tight, so full, i will explode, flooding the bed.

i feel your cock grow, i feel the vein, i feel the head hit my cervix, the colors in my head, the sounds, the ache, the need, this place of infinite rightnow, and the feel of your cum as it moves, oh god, oh god..................

“now”

YES.

Yeah, it was something like that
12 Comments
something wicked this way comes
Posted:Jul 12, 2017 3:27 pm
Last Updated:Jul 25, 2017 2:59 pm
15037 Views
I remember one time this boy took me to the carnival. It was so hot that day that my hair had gone all curly and wild and I was thinking I wouldn’t go. When he came to the door, his older brother driving the car, he said, Hey, I like your hair like that.

We spent a little while playing games. He won a couple of leis that he slipped over my head. I remember the smell like it was yesterday. His hand would sort of drift around my back but never quite land. It made me smile.

When we went to climb into the Ferris wheel seats he took my hand to help me up. He kept on holding it as we rose into the air. I hate the Ferris wheel. I always close my eyes at the top, my heart stops if they stop the ride then…..it scares me half to death. I must have squeezed his hand because he leaned over, patted my shoulder, started to sing. I closed my eyes tight while his boy voice sang this little light of mine and we swayed high above the ground. As the ride jerked into motion, I felt his lips on mine.

Soft, so soft.

His hand lifting my hair, pushing it away from my face. I opened my eyes to see him staring at me. We swept down and then up. At the top, his mouth found mine again. Just a few seconds, a brushing, then sweeping down and up. Waiting for my reward at the top, I don’t remember breathing at all. I don’t remember anything but his eyes and his mouth. The feel of the rise and fall, the moment of deliverance at the peak, when his mouth claimed mine.

Too soon, the ride ended.



Now, as we walked, his hand rode easily on my hip, my body slightly turned into his. In minutes, the world had changed.

We stood in line for the octopus. Climbing in, he slung one arm over my shoulder, pulling me in tight. I waved to a friend in line, sank back against him. As the ride began, I let the force press me tight into his body.

I slept that night with the leis by my face on the pillow, the smell pushing me into my dreams. I know that smell to this day.
8 Comments
Hers to fix.
Posted:Jul 9, 2017 3:49 pm
Last Updated:Jul 9, 2017 3:56 pm
15270 Views
They scrambled up the rise, flinging themselves over the top, grabbing for handholds. Eyes wide, the they stared at each at each other, trembling, desperately trying to quiet the sound of their gasping. The faint odor of copper, dirt rubbed over the blood, smearing it, cutting the scent.

Their mother had pushed them out the back, whispered run for the berries. They could see two horses roaming near the barn. They ran. The sun was low. It was near time. they had to be fast.

The dogs stopped so sudden he fell forward, cursing. He pulled his rifle, settled into his hips, waited in silence. Whatever it was, was making noise, not aware of them. Fleeing? Hurt? He stepped in front of his animals to protect them. In the dimming light , the shadows were backlit, moving fast but not with grace.

“Best to stop there.”

“Pa, Pa.”

His heart stopped and flew forward, no longer inside him, a good thousand feet up the trail, wrapped round and round his . When his body followed it, the dogs followed him


“The horses are gone.”

“They’ll be around somewhere, lessn’ they took off home. “

“shit, that’s a thought.”

“Think she’s up to cookin'?”

“If’n she can stand.” They laughed, wandering off to find their mounts.


The dogs were let loose at the rise. The set in the sled. 4 dogs slid to the right, 4 to the left. The Mountain Man took the cut in the middle, letting himself in the back. She was standing all right. Stew on the stove. Her eyes so wild, he didn’t dare touch her.

“What are you doing my heart?”

“Making stew for the men. You need to step out.”

“I’m back now.”

“This is MINE to fix, husband.” He nodded.



He heard footsteps on the porch, moved silently into the shadows, watching as she placed bowls on the table. Filled cups with coffee, cut bread.

The men, set down like kings. They ignored the woman. They ate the stew; she refilled their bowls. It was just about halfway through the second bowl that the first man looked at her, really looked at her.

She moved back quick as a cat. Her husband stepped out then, rifle raised.
“If’n you want to live, you’ll let my husband take you to town. ‘Course you’ll be tried for thieving. Penalty is worse. Or you can die sittin’ right here. It’ll take a while, but I’d find it pleasurable to watch.”

She opened the doors and the dogs entered, all teeth and claws. She slipped their guns from them, handing them to the Mountain Man their hands entwined for several moments before she straightened hers, walked out the door to find her , the lead on her heels.
7 Comments
much ado about nothing
Posted:Jul 7, 2017 1:53 pm
Last Updated:Jul 9, 2017 3:56 pm
14876 Views

Does anyone watch The Preacher? I don’t have a single friend that will watch it and I really dig this show. I know it’s violent. And weird as hell. Sighs. I need a Preacher buddy.

Same with I love Dick. Which I found hilarious. No one else thought it was funny at all. Am I losing my mind? I don’t even like Kevin Bacon and I watched it.

What about The ? Anyone?

American Gods?

It’s like I’m in some new kind of TV hell where I’m watching shows that NO ONE IS WATCHING BUT ME. How can I talk about them if no one is watching them, eh? Someone told me to watch SHAZAM, so I go thinking it’s some super power thing and it’s a bloody game show. A GAME SHOW. I do NOT do game shows. I will do yoga before I sink that low.

So, right now, I am listening to the chorus on my street, set off by Hershey, the Doberman who’s mama left him home alone, picked up by Cyrus, whose mama is also out and Junk who lives upstairs from Cyrus who starts whenever Cyrus starts, plus Sadiethelady who chimed in because who wouldn’t and my Charlie who just loves to hear himself talk. A man walking bye shouted, shut up…….HA…..which kicked them into high gear.

Maybe it’s just the rain that’s making me blah. My tenant gets her groceries and seemingly everything else delivered by amazon. Delivery trucks are constant to my house.

Blahblahblah.

Sorry about this blog. It sucks
11 Comments
sitting on the dock Symposium Summer vacation
Posted:Jul 1, 2017 3:11 pm
Last Updated:Jul 11, 2017 3:33 pm
14705 Views
My family would rent a cabin on a small lake in Bridgeton Maine for two weeks every summer. Dad could fish the lake every day, we could run around half nekkid, eat blueberries straight from the bushes, swing in a stinky old canvas hammock under the sun as it filtered through the treetops, swim, eat outside, kiss the moose head on its nose before we went to bed. It was heaven.

We pumped drinking water from a big old steel thingy on the road that served three places, carried it back to the cabin in a big tin jug. I remember letting the first flush it the ground to clear the pipe, the second pump we let run straight over one of our heads, so cold it took your breath from you. When we were little, it took two of us to carry the water back. It was our job to provide it. It was important, serious.



Sometimes, at night, my Da would sit on the dock, smoking his pipe. He’d seat me between his knees poked up, me holding his ankles just to be sure so I could bend over, watch the life in the water. My sister the saint, she’d be reading, my baby brother already down. Sometimes mama’d slide in behind him and play with his hair. He’d lay his pipe down, lean back a bit, humming Peg o’ my heart.

So one night, just like that, I fell off the end. Didn’t even make a splash. Came up, saw them kissing. I didn’t want them to stop so I grabbed on to the dock, pulled myself along until I got to the back end but there was nothing to yank up with.

I heard Mama scream then. Da jumped in the water with all his clothes on. My sister came running out of the cabin.

I said “Mama” and she screamed again.

So anyway, the kissing ended. But we made popcorn.
12 Comments
your prison is walking through this world all alone.
Posted:Jun 29, 2017 12:23 pm
Last Updated:Jul 10, 2017 2:32 pm
14890 Views
He walked into the town, into the diner, ordered the special, a regular coffee, letting his feet dangle, giving them a rest. He ate, but not quickly, watching the people as they looked him over, weighing the odds. On his second cup, the Man slid onto the stool beside him. Coffee appeared like magic. Minutes later so did pancakes.

The chatter had gone down a peg or two. He reckoned this man for the sheriff or someone of import. As the waitress topped off his cup, he nodded politely. The last bit of pancake disappeared as the Man turned his head.

“New to town?’

“You?”

“Nope. Seen you walk in from the desert. Car trouble”

“No”

“What can I do you for?”

“Not a thing.”

“Try the pancakes next time.”

The men nodded, neither sure that the conversation had been useful but both sure it wasn’t going any further. The Man left. Voices rose back up, nothing to see here…

In the library he spent a few hours on the microfiche machine, the librarian was flustered but he showed her how it worked and she thanked him kindly, leaving him alone since this was summer, and the without camp were swarming like bees. He noted her kindness and attention, as he sat back soothed by the cool air, the smell of books, finding what he needed. His eyes were ready to close when lilies of the valley snapped him awake, like a dog, he followed the scent.

She was sitting on the steps outside, her long silver braid catching sun, glinting. Her skin was a deep coffee with a touch of cream, her eyes so dark, although one had something gold floating in it.

Burrowing in a bag made of a million colors from which she pulled, of all things an apple so red, so shiny it stole his breath away. He felt that if he didn’t have a bite of that apple, he would never know what good tasted like.

“I could peel it for you” sitting down next to her.

“Not a chance. You have to bite an apple through the skin to really taste it. Feel your teeth sink in. Hear the sound, get juice spit on your nose.”

He laughed out loud, the sound surprising him, how long had it been since he’d heard his own laughter?

She took a generous bite as he watched mesmerized. It was like watching happy. He laughed again as she handed it to him. He bit deep. The apple was gone right quick.



The doors of the library opened, flushed out, doors locked, still they sat. The moon rose up, he offered his hand, she took it.

As they walked, a song drifted through his mind…

Desperado
Why don't you come to your senses
Been out ridin' fences, for so long now
Oh, you're a hard one
But I know that you've got your reasons
These things that are pleasin' you
Can hurt you somehow

Don't you draw the queen of diamonds boy
She'll beat you if she's able
You know the queen of hearts is always your best bet
But it seems to me some fine things have been laid upon your table
But you only want the ones you can't get

Desperado
Oh, you ain't gettin' no younger
Your pain and your hunger, they're drivin' you home
And freedom, oh freedom, well that's just some people talkin'
Your prison is walkin' through this world all alone

Don't your feet get cold in the wintertime
The sky won't snow and the sun won't shine
It's hard to tell the nighttime from the day
And you're losin' all your highs and lows
Ain't it funny how the feelin' goes away

He held the door to the diner for her. They settled in a booth. The Man was on a stool, nodded to him. He excused imself, standing over the toilet, he flushed the notes he’d made, washed up, pulled his fingers through his hair.

Walking back across the room, her smile pulling him, he wondered if the Man knew somewhere he could lay his head tonight. He stopped to ask.

8 Comments
For Pocogato and the Total Eclipse of the Sun
Posted:Jun 26, 2017 4:49 pm
Last Updated:Jun 29, 2017 1:37 pm
15336 Views


The women were up first, following them as the fires were built. The sounds of voices drifting with the smoke as the older ones fetched water, younger ones running like puppies between their legs, the rippling of the stream over the rock, the bird song. The pink orange sky lightening to a pale blue as the men emerged, taking their time, greeting each other. Some swarmed by , others solitary, the women watched them come. A certain sense of pride filled them. The way they walked. It made the women feel safe.

His hand, so large, rough, fell on her shoulder, her breath catching as she raised her eyes to his. He touched her cheek, crouching next to her. She could feel the heat from his body, smell him. A question in his eyes, she pointed towards the stream where his was filling skins. As he stood, his hand ran up her back. The shiver made her twitch, made him smile, she leaned lightly against his thigh. He honored her in all of his actions.

As they ate, the men set the plan for the day’s hunt.

A small was first to notice. She pointed. It was as if something had taken a small bite, a nibble from the side. The women pulled their to them, covered them with their bodies. The men formed a circle, prepared to fight.

As the minutes passed, more and more of it disappeared. Women herded their families into the hogans. A woman stood at each opening. The day dimming, the shadows elongating. The birds stopped singing. It was so still.

When the sun was dark, cool air swept over the village. The shaman began to chant in a low tone, begging the sun to return. In measured step, the men danced around him.

The women, leaving the doorways, ran to circle to dance. The sound of their voices rose and fell like a rolling thunder far in the distance, growing stronger as more joined. The , pushed into the middle. Holding each other, their voices sweet, clear, like birds suddenly awake.

Slowly, slowly, the feel of the sun on their backs. They sang, they danced until the dark was gone, until they won the sun back. Then tumbled together in a pile, praising their gods, joyous in their triumph.

Today, they had fought well.
7 Comments

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