Peculiar Time

I’ve been absent. I’m sorry.

I’ll probably be absent again. I’ll most likely be sorry then as well, but it’ll similarly most likely happen anyway.

I’m here today because my dear friend Tara called me out on The 100 Word Challenge, and as she was nice enough to believe in me, I feel as if I owe her a response. And here it is.

As always, I hope you enjoy…

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The faded photo tittered unsteadily in aged hands, maudlin vibrations causing battered corners to softly crumble.

Within the picture, white teeth bursting through long-ago smiles had since bled unbeknownst, merging with yellowing faces now almost unrecognizable.

Drawing an unsure digit against each countenance, he confidently said aloud the name of his children in turn, sniffle-coughs blubbering occasionally interrupting.

The nurse, concerned over his heaving chest, attempted to remove the instigator from his grasp, beginning a struggle she just couldn’t win.

Victorious, he returned to his slack-jawed reverie, wistfully gazing. The photo was peculiar; the photo was all he had left.

 

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Dreams Past

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I fell into a dream.

A dream that decided to make unto itself a nightmare for both herself and I.

But like all nightmares, it has proven to be simply an inconsequential mental exercise which simply serves to make of me a better me. A thing to learn and grow from, and to never return to afterwards.

And as all nightmares go, this one too can not last forever.

I fell into a dream, but now the daylight beckons, the nightmare is almost complete.

And I will be able to dream again, once it is finally over

Briefly… My Last 100 Words

Is this my last post? I can’t really tell, but I do know that I couldn’t leave without visiting – at least just once more – the beautiful skies of our 100 Word Song:

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M’desk is standing-height. I wanna crawl underneath it, to hide from Him.

I wanna crawl underneath, but it’s too high, providin’ no space small enough to feel safe.

I wanna crawl underneath, despite His sayin’ that everything’s finally becoming as it shoulda always been… as it never coulda been till now.

I crave to crawl underneath, as His reassurances only cause to pain me more.

My wings’re becoming unbound. Stretchin’, flexin’, impatient to be tried. Not on m’own account, but simply cuz the time is Now.

I wanna crawl underneath. But doing so’s pointless, tain’t nothing can hamper my Flight now…

•••

Windows…

He sits there, drink in one hand, small unseen food product in the other.

I know it’s food, because he holds it gingerly, like it means something more than the size of it would normally let on. He sits in his chair, chewing. Possibly peanuts. Not to be confused with a food-chewing analytical expert, but to me his mouth definitely did seem to swish in the sort of fashion that you’d think it would, had he been chewing on nuts.

Anyway. He sits, eyes casually glued to what turns out to be a television screen. And he does so while she leaves, seemingly unnoticed, from the room. Walking briskly away in her white blouse and black slacks. A look very similar to what you’d expect Bebe Neuwirth to wear on the set of “Frasier,” though this specimen is NO Bebe Neuwirth. No bother, neither am I. Neither are any of us, really.

Mmmm, Bebe.

But alas, I digress.

So he sits and chews, as she sashay’s from the room. And though the poetician in me wants to say that the two were in perfect sync and beat with each other, for whatever reason they were not. And that, my friends, is all the story that there is to tell. Are they happy? Are they sad? Are they in love with each other? In love with someone(s) else? I’ve no idea. I only spy them through their front bay window and make a mental note as I pass along.

Another bay looms into view as I stroll along. It’s a very Polish town, Buffalo, and many of the post-war “cookie cutters” reside here, all storeys single, all front windows bay. Maybe for ambiance, maybe for budget. Maybe just for passersby to have a tale to tell. But this second window provides none. The lights are all lit, but oddly. That weird sort of odd, where the owner was trying to leave just enough on to connect one room to the other, in an effort to traverse them when sauced. But not so many on as to blow their National Grid bill while they were out, getting sufficiently loaded for the experience.

The third looks similar, but buried deep within the kitchen – oh yes, in these houses, every room is viewable from the bay – is a woman hurriedly speaking on the phone. I don’t know if it’s a sign of the times, but I do notice that something is wrong with the phone. Wrong, but right. And then I see it – she’s wrapping her finger round the phone’s cord.

A cord!

Have I stumbled upon the Smithsonian? No, just a person who knows better than to believe every advertiser who says that your way is dead and the next way is king. She’s wringing the cord like she’s nervous as she speaks anxious-eyed into the phone. Is she? I’ll never know, as I’ve already passed her by.

The final window I look into shows no communication, no companionship whatsoever. I suppose you could say, the sort of window I fear of one day owning myself. In it, is just one elderly woman, sitting alone in a televisonless, phoneless, and decidedly Bebe Neuwirthless room. Spilling over her comfy chair almost as if she and it are slowly morphing into one. I would normally compare her to a sloth, but honestly, I can’t think of a single sloth that has ever looked so forlorn. So alone. She sits, looking into her lap at something. Looking into her lap at nothing. If not rejoicing over avoiding It so long, hoping that Death would hurry up and come already. And in either case, dreading what she’ll offer It to drink when It finally arrives. The bleak scene deadens me as well.

So I continue on.

I continue on, but decide that my window-gazing is done for the night. Their stories will be forever unknown to me anyway, and I’m a mere shadow to them. A whitened-shave legged aging ghost walking in an effort to stay attractive to no one in particular at the moment. A wanderer who knows the path all to well from taking it almost every single night, though finding something new on each and every pass. A nobody who is only noticed – if at all – by the cloud-covered moon hovering brightly above. A moon that most likely sees – should he be paying attention – only a spindly armed pot-bellied dreamer peeking into worlds that he really shouldn’t be visiting in the first.

I continue on and am able to avoid what – had I still been window-gazing, would have surely stepped upon – a colony of ants. I spy them as they all toil furiously, together and in earnest. In one big and shameless heap of achievement. And I wonder, are they like that because they are not as smart as us, or are they like that because a long time ago, they in their wisdom decided to refuse to build windows?

Windows that would have kept the outside world outside, windows that would have kept them trapped?

Windows that would have allowed each to look into – ever-so slightly – each other’s souls?

•••

A Mother’s Love…

Troy,

I read your “As Long As I’m Singing.” It really moved me (as all your writings do.) You truly have a God-given gift to share your thoughts in a mind-provoking way!

I hope you continue to write and share with the world. It would be nice if you could get your works published. Please don’t pooh-pooh the idea. Give it lots of thought.

Love & very proud,

Mom

•••

I’ve been delinquent with this blog as of late. And I apologize. I’ve been delinquent even with responding to comments – a much larger sin than the first, if you ask me – and I am sorry for that as well.

My life – after a long dry spell of being emotionally bullied, financially destitute, and legalistically put-upon, is at long last coming ’round that damned dark corner and back into the Light. I need to start sharing that, and I need to do so here.

Sans pooh-poohing, of course.

Thanks for your patience. I love you all more than you maybe know,

t

A Similar Morning Routine

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As always, it started with a smile.

The sort of broad and surprised smile that created ever-so slight crease lines around her mouth and under her eyes. The sort of lines that alerted you gently to the fact that this was a woman who knew joy. Or at least knew what it was supposed to be.

And she smiled it demurely, for me. Sure, the world out there might have thought that her contentment came from, and/or was intended for them. I mean, the world out there always does. But I knew different. I knew that that smile, those lines, and the peace that I saw glowing within her eyes – in that moment – was intended solely for me alone.

I knew, because I was lucky enough to share a life with her. I knew, because this morning, as always, she followed a similar routine. A routine I liked to call “Bliss.”

As with most mornings, she started by first filling me with her desire, holding me both lovingly and gingerly, in her hands. She then brought my face close to hers, touching the center of my labret delicately with just the very tip of her tongue, before pressing her lip firmly against mine in a lovers embrace. Draining me of my love dry, she filled herself with my heat as I willingly emptied myself at the same time.

She stroked my lip greedily with her tongue again. Leaving me shivering, cold, and somehow still full though empty, as she turned my world upside down, pulling into her very soul, my last drop and trace of sweetness.

Caressing me warmly just once more, she uttered something to the effect of “boy, now that was exactly what I needed,” before placing me delicately into the sink, my handle just touching the side of the glass tumbler that had held her Captain Morgan & Coke captive the night previous.

Both tumbler and I stared belligerently at each other for a moment. Knowing in our hearts that as we’d each fulfilled our purpose, we’d then been summarily dismissed. Knowing that neither of us would ever do so well as him. He who was able to drink her as she drank him. He, who was able to inebriate her, at the same time that she was energizing him. And knowing this, both tumbler and I wished that for even just one moment we could swap places with him. Wishing that just for once, that broad and surprised smile would truly be ours alone – mine alone – for all moments, and for always.

•••

In The Mood For A Dance.

As m’dad used to always say, “Follow where the pirates they lead you.”

Well, I suppose that’s a bit of an exaggeration, as what he actually used to say was quite a bit more dismissive, of both pirates, and people in general. But for this week, and as I continue to take prompt advice from my favorite Word Pirate (this time leading me over to the kids at Write Tribe), I’m pretending that the words written above, did at one point come from his mouth. As to my own mouth, I’ll simply continue saying that I hope that you enjoy this bit of fictional fluff…

6743bc0c-f84c-4b75-b2aa-82bafb353f8e_zps485e2995How do you do that?

How do I do what, honey?

How do you dance like that?

I don’t know sugar,  I suppose I just do it.

Just “do it?”

Just do it. Easy breezy.

But, you’re so graceful. Your hips are so swirly – your twirls, almost majestic!

Awww, thank you sweetie!

And those heels! Why, they have to be at least six inches….

Four.

They have to be at least four inches tall. How do you pirouette so flawlessly?

I don’t know sugar. Honestly, I don’t.

C’mon dad, seriously – how do you do that?

I don’t know honey, I suppose I just do.

•••