691 Words Plus A Sentence.

I’m uncertain as to whether I am understanding, and as a result, responding accordingly to a recent Daily Post prompt. But in all honesty, they never pay me any attention over there anyway. So I suppose that it doesn’t matter if I’m spot-on, or off-target to the point of looking much like Mr. Magoo shooting a potato gun backwards into a wind tunnel.

Yeah, you’re trying to envision that now, aren’t ya?

I DO however, know that I’m well within stated regs in regards to Master Class 2013, and I’m also certain that the Professor pays attention to me over there. So much so, that it behooves me to regularly ensure that all my “i’s” are crossed and my “t’s” dotted, before publishing.

Having now done so, following is my response to both prompts. As always, please play along, and also as always, I hope you enjoy!

Copyright: Robert Hunt

Copyright: Robert Hunt

It was only a duck pond, at the back of the farm.

But it hadn’t always been that way, no. It had started its life as a crater; blown out of the earth from a shell that had hoped to slam itself noisily into the building that actually stood several hundred feet from where the missile eventually took root instead.

As these things go, the crater was quickly made useful as it filled with soldiers, huddled together in a cold, wet, quivering mass; all in the hopes that their proximity to each other, combined with their quasi-concealment, would somehow prevent them from taking similar shots – from much smaller, yet equally deadly shells – to their own bodies.

As the scout furtively raised his head over the brim to see if they were alone, the round that blasted arrogantly through his skull quickly provided both him and his comrades with dramatic evidence of the answer that they were hoping to not receive.

Leonard wanted to vomit as Scout’s blood and brain sprayed across the pit, covering the other soldiers faces and mouths. But he found that he’d no more substance to expel, and even less energy required to carry through with the exercise anyway. In fact, he’d done so so often, that Leonard could honestly not see where he should ever need to vomit another day in his entire life, once he got out of this unholy mess.

If he got out of this unholy mess.

“Martin…”

“Yes Lenny?”

“Do you… well, do you ever wish that it was over?”

“The war? Of course I do, you dolt!”

“No, no. Not the war, Marty. Everything.”

“Everything? You mean like, the world, the universe, time itself? What are you doing mate? Going all philosophical, at the very moment Jerry is trying to blow our fool heads off?”

“Well, we might not have any other time to do so, you see…”

“Blimey! We’re trying to get our arses out of here! Not start a debate with the High Lord Above and His Boy over the meaning of life. The ‘meaning of life…’ there is no meaning to it at all, if we can’t get out of here with it still in our pockets!”

Leonard knew that his chum was right of course, and as the clamor of explosions protested closely overhead, he realized once again how true it was, that the next serving of splashing brains could be his to provide, if he found himself unable to get his head out of the damned clouds.

But still. How he wished that it were all over. Over and done, and everyone assigned to their new and eternal dwelling places. Of course, there was still that certain fear that his would be the dwelling place less desired. But war had an odd way of making a man fear hell less than heaven, as it is common to fear the thing you don’t know, over the thing you do.

Leonard’s reflective fog dissipated abruptly as Marty roughly jostled his shoulder while shouting, “Oi! Time to go laddy!”

Taking a fools gamble on a sudden lull in the general chaos, the band of men rose haphazardly from the shell-blown trench, only to be met by an unexpected and fresh swarm of projectiles, buzzing through them in a newly formed river of red, like a metallic wind hell-bent on creating of itself a tornado. Leonard wasn’t the first to fall, but by the time the round that would pierce him did, he’d seen enough of his comrades crumble as to make him aware that this very day he could well be seeing the High Lord Above’s Boy in person. As he lay in the bottom of the crater, his blood pumping ever efficiently through the two new gaping holes torn through his neck, he murkily realized that he had received his wish after all. If nothing else, it really was all over now. Just the Reckoning left, he reckoned, and then he could call it a day forever more. As the blood continued to burble out, he inexplicably smelt the pungent odor of pond water permeating his dying nostrils, while swearing to himself that he could hear the faint murmur of approaching ducks…

•••

From Master Class: “Tara of Thin Spiral Notebook… was asked (some time ago, honestly) to choose the assignment for the next class. I gave her no specific instructions, and she chose…” from Neil Gaiman’s “The Ocean At The End Of The Lane.”

Somewhere.

One walks free. Another runs – either from or to. And a third is locked rigid, never to walk nor run from where they are, right now, forever.

Here are the 100 Friday Fictioneer words that came to mind when the picture was fully taken in; a draft originally slated for my other, “woe is me,” blog that never saw the light of day. Not until now.

I hope you enjoy.

copyright-renee-heath

Copyright -Renee Heath

the thing that ran away, the thing that you don’t want anymore, the thing that is gone…

is it ok to still weep at its passing?

the thing that is to be, the thing that you desire so badly, the thing that is *just* ‘round that corner…

is it ok to sob over its delay in coming?

the thing that is, the thing that weighs heavily upon you right now, the thing that relentlessly encases you…

is it ok to lament that it’s neither the former nor the latter, but rather just a painful, albeit hoped-filled, bridge between the two?

•••

A special thanks to my dear sister and friend Renee for this weeks photo prompt. I’d tell you to go and check out her site, but I am certain that all of you already do…

Arms Aloft (Where To Now?)

You see, Sherman done moved on up.

sherman-hemsleyBut there’s no need to worry about that any longer.

And I think maybe Weezie had done so before him, but I can’t be certain. And that’s not the point at any rate, now is it? No, the point is that Sherman done kicked it in the 21st century, and when he left, he took a piece of my childhood with him. Now to be sure, it was a piece I gave freely, but still, a piece forever gone as a result of his departure.

Seeing as I had mentioned last time that I had pretty much “checked out” musically by the end of the 90’s, in lieu of immediately addressing new acts for the new century, I thought I would take a moment to breathe. Instead, devoting Part One to the those individuals who I entrusted a piece of my youth with, and who then took it with them as they rushed up unannounced to Saint Peter’s gate.

As far as a “mix” goes, this will most likely be shaky at best, but as far as a confession of unadulterated devotion and love goes, this is about as close as I’ll ever get, Again, musically speaking that is…

Joe. I still miss you. I never met you, but still I miss you. Honest to God! You really did help to make me the man (?) I am today, and you showed me that it’s not about “them,” or their actions – it’s about Me. It’s about Me, and what I do with that knowledge that counts…

Alan Meyers, you and the other Spud Boys taught me that it was OK to be “less” and still achieve more. You taught me that even plugs without sockets, still get theirs from time to time. Human Metronome, bang on my brother…

Adam. Dear peaceful Adam – I’ve been told all too often (most usually by a certain someone I used to know) that I was far “too white” to ever truly grasp the genius of rap. Thank you for opening that door to me, all while playing a mean-ass bass, to boot…

Back to post-punk in a second, but I do have to take a moment to say goodbye to Dave. God bless Dave.

Say what you will. Pontificate on any number of given topics, but you must admit, without Jazz, you have no rock and roll. Without jazz, you have no punk. Without jazz, you have no Two Tone. Without jazz, there is no black people playing with white people in harmony. There is no Jew playing with Christian. There is no musician simply looking at another while saying, “Let’s jam, man.” Without jazz, you don’t have modern music. And – in my humble opinion – without Mr. Brubeck, well man, you just don’t has jazz…

OK, so that was that, and this is this. I end Part One of the 00’s with Joey. Because of all the musical family members lost in the 21st century, his was to me the first. And as such, it hurt the worst. His death forever stole from me the idea I had long-held that there could somehow ever be pieces of my youth that would never die, nestled as they were gently in the arms of my Rock Gods.

A lot more would eventually die for me in the 21st century, and a lot more most likely will. But it was these musical nuggets of my past – my serenity while growing up, really – that have eventually proven the hardest to truly say good-bye to.

•••

mixtape-jenkehl1-300x300Jen’s Twisted Mix-Tape Tuesday is Phat with a “P. H.” (I’m in the right decade for that, correct?) and I really wish you would play along to show me your musical memories. Next week we conclude the 00’s to date, and I’ll try to show that I at least have somewhat of a grip on the current goings on…

Briefly… Uncertainty

rescuers

Step.

Shouldn’t I be flying or something? I mean, really? A ladder?

Step.

God… Wait, I can’t just say that anymore, can I? I might actually get a response now…

Step.

Yeah, like He’s gonna be on a ladder.

Step.

Just like Him. Still gotta make ya work, even after you’re R.I.P.ing.

Step.

Wonder if she’ll be there.

Step.

Betcha she flew. Always so saintly, so “touched.” Betcha she’s waiting for me.

Step.

I should go right back down.

Step.

But why? I mean, what’s to be uncertain of now?

Step.

Oh hell, there’s nothing left. No more holding on.

Step.

Stupid ladder.

•••

That last bit, by the way, would have been joyfully included, had either the 100 Word Song or Friday Fictioneers prompts pulled from today, mandated a total word count of 100 and 2.

The only thing that Life guarantees us is an end to it all. What we do from start till finish is then pretty much left up to us. I am still finding my way, and I know that many of you are in the same boat. It’s a good boat to be in – much better than the one filled with the folk who think that they’ve already figured it all out. Grab an oar dears, shall we, and then let’s paddle on!

robot-badge

This week’s song was chosen by Melissa: “Uncertainty” by The Fray

Forever?

The one thing they never told me, see, was that living forever is NOT the same thing as being forever young.

Yeah, that vampire-esque fairy tale of eternal youth and adventure, well it’s all crap. You may *live* forever, but that doesn’t stop you from aging. No. And you’ll be there for the final curtain, all well and good. But you’ll be a bag of bones by then, unable to even applaud, as He makes every last actor on the stage take their bows.

Shoulda read the fine print on that one, I suppose. Stupid-ass demons snowed me, man.

So yeah, now I’m stuck here. In the shadows. Forever. Oh, I know everything, and I could change the world with all the knowledge I’ve got. Stuff that multiple lifetimes of experience have taught me. But instead, I’m a monster. A freak. A side-show gem. I sound like a crazed old man fresh outta meds, and look even worse. Like hell. I think there was a reason Jesus checked out at 33 – it’s cuz people just don’t trust the elderly, not even a lick.

And that’s what I’m gonna be. Forever.

I know that at some point my body will break. Just like all the rest. Hell, I saw my love die in the same way – I saw my Love die! Do you get that? Do you understand the pain of watching her disintegrate before me? Soon, my body will, well, it’s also gonna crumble under its own weight; just like hers did. But I’ll be present and accounted for, for every last snap, yes sir. And I’ll be breathing afterwards still.

Stupid-ass demons snowed me. I shoulda read the fine print.

So I’m writing this down, see? Just for you. Just in case. Should ever a pretty little thing come along and ask you if you want eternal life, you just look her straight in her devilish fairy tale eyes, and you tell that bitch, “Hell no! Who wants to live forever?”

You tell her that, see? You tell her, and then you just keep on walking. You keep right on walking, and you die happy. For me.OK?

•••

This special “Sunday edition”post is brought to you by the good folks over at Daily Prompt, and by my occasional desire to just “check out.”