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My contest entries 1/13/2011 thru 1/28/2011 |
  My entries for the January 13 - January 28 round. |
| inside of me lives a mare a sleek beast with a need for speed she yearns to gallop along Life's beach race salt-misted wind intensified with her momentum i feel her muscles ripple and stretch, as if they are of my body they are. Where did we come from? God? Poseidon? one in the same, or neither at all i'm not meant to know not yet what i do know is reigning in my soul-mare is against all order of my universe corralling with concern of what others will think or fear learning her top speed is slower than I imagine will destroy her destroy me and so though i exist in the world land-locked constrained by countless limitations outside my control i release my inner mare she is free to run in the roiling surf the wind lifting her mane, tossing her tail and her exhilaration, her zeal for possibilities, unfathomable to mere mortals, i embrace and embody. I am the Mare. |
| Juno hit the dented chisel with swift, assertive taps of the hand-hewn mallet. Made of smooth Jatoba wood, it'd been hefted by one hand in each of countless generations before him. It was an honor to use it, and Juno concentrated so each chip left just the mark he intended. His bust was almost complete. It didn't look exactly like him, but that wasn't the goal. During the long year he'd sculpted it, he'd listened to the Elder, Marcopo, council the villagers. Tonight, Marcopo held audience to a young woman, nearing the end of her confinement and ripe with child. She was terrified of the impending delivery, frightened of the prospect of raising a tribe member. Her husband was eight months deceased. As Juno listened to Marcopo advise, the gentle cadence of his voice lifted on the air as silky and calming as candle smoke, his mallet paused. Glancing right, he beheld Marcopo's bust on the table next to his. While his bust was raw wood, being formed into art, Marcopo's bust was nearly covered with shapes and designs in brilliant colored paint. Every centimeter, almost, added to its decoration: individually beautiful while contributing to the stunning and intricate grand design. The woman rose, leaned close the Marcopo and kissed his cheek in thanks. Quietly, she exited the hut. Marcopo then rose, with the pain in his joints evident in his face, and shuffled over to Juno. He took up a brush, dipped it into a jar of ruby red paint, and filled in the last remaining bare centimeter of his bust. "Is it finished?" asked Juno. "Possibly." Marcopo looked over at Juno's work. "And look here," he said with pride, "your training seems near complete as well." He began to cough, from deep in his chest. When the fit passed, Juno spoke. "Teacher, you have lived your life in great service to our people. I'm so proud to be under your tutelage. Thank you, again, for everything." Marcopo looked down, something like sorrow in his eyes. "I am like the woman who just left. As a parent, as a teacher, we never know if we've done enough. We never know when to let our children trust in themselves." Juno looked shocked. "Teacher! You are an amazing man. Just being in your presence makes me a better person. You have to look inside your heart, and know you have done all you can. All you should have. Trust in your heart, to know when I'm ready. " Marcopo nodded, slowly. And a smile spread across his face. He raised his hand, that shook with age, and handed Juno the brush. Juno touched it with his fingertips, not yet comprehending. Marcopo pointed a feeble finger at the paint and then at Juno's bust. Juno, with great ceremony, dipped into the paint and laid a circle of red on the wooded forehead of his bust. He looked up, and Marcopo's smile grew larger, before another fit of coughing racked his body. Later that night, Marcopo passed peacefully in his sleep. |
| The day he was released from prison, Michael Morgan went straight to the cemetery. No one had told him where the plot was exactly, so he walked up and down acres of grassy aisles. The names of dead folks passed under his searching eyes, like the broken white line in the center of a desert highway disappears beneath a lonely car. It was hot. Hot as hell. Sweat stung his eyes, pasted his only button-down shirt against his back. He finally stopped and looked up. Gray granite dotted the landscape to the horizon in all directions. Michael dragged the back of his hand across his forehead. One tree stood in the sea of tombstones. He made his way to it. There, in its shade, he found it. Found her. His little girl. His Lynette. He swooned, the heat suddenly seeming more intense despite the tree's protection from the sun. The air sweltered before him, shimmered with a light of its own. His heart pounded, caught in a vice of pain pressing his chest. Pin-pricks of light burst before his eyes, swirling and sparkling, then gathered, gathered, gathered together. A form began to take shape. Michael stared, wide-eyed, breathless. Before him, the form of a lovely young woman bobbed before him. She was dark-haired, like Lynette had been. Her eyes remained closed, like she was asleep, but delicate paper-thin wings beat a slow tempo. Michael squinted. The shape of her face...the pout of her lips...he knew them. And if Lynette were still here, she would have been about the same age. Then the wings beat faster, and the woman spun, slowly at first, then faster. Her long brown hair wrapped around her, cloaked her, and she started to shrink. Her legs, arms, torso, diminished, aged-in-reverse, back to her childhood. And then he recognized her for sure. Lynette, healthy. Before. Before ... The child's eyes shot open. Her face pulled into a grimace, baring sharp teeth. Michael yelled out. He tried to step back, but lost his footing. Twisting, he fell hard, slamming his head against the tombstone. Blood from a gash on his head splattered the inscription: Lynette Morgan 1984-1988. Brought to rest at the merciful hand of her father. |
| It'd seemed like the deal of a lifetime. Now, sitting on this shimmering, ruby and diamond-encrusted rock, contemplating the visible planets in my universe, the irony of my pun-thought struck me. I thought about that day, so long ago, all the time. It could have only been a month ago, a day ago. But it was probably more like a thousand. A million. What did it matter if I couldn't be sure? Pinning down the time I'd done of this sentence, this penance, wouldn't change a thing. If given the chance to do it all over again, I wouldn't have made the deal. Never would have uttered those words. But in all fairness, (I always indulge in this part of the self-conversation. The part where I cut myself some slack.), how could I have known the Guy was for real? Life as I knew if wasn't ripe with fairies and goblins. Magic and unicorns were things in storybooks. Childhood fantasy stuff. God and the Devil lived in my parent's church. The church I stopped going to as soon as I realized I could assert myself. So in He walked, the Guy. He looked like any guy. No creepy vibes disturbed my mood. He was pleasant enough. Of course, I was stinking drunk at the time. (I always include this reprimand, every day-year, when I have this conversation.) Popping off. Claiming I was smarter/stronger/richer/better-hung than the rest. The Guy saw through it all, sniffed out my deepest insecurities, made me the proposition I couldn't resist. You want to be on top of the world? Surrounded by unimaginable riches? Forever? Hell, yeah! Sign me up. I really would have done anything. I really did do anything. And here I sit, forever. |
| You've gotten us lost, you stupid alpaca I should have known better than follow a slacker These mountainside paths are pure hell on my hooves And how I got stuck with these bags only proves The humans lucked out when they stopped for some beers While I got the shaft forced to stare at your rear. I'm a llama, you twit, not an alpaca Sharp as a tack, I'm a talented tracker O'er rocky terrain is where I prefer move Stop your complaining, it you would behoove 'Cause drunken humans ringing in the New Year Would kick whiny you to new complaintive frontiers |
| "Yes, sir. I'm at the plane now sir." "Well there's a change in plans. The Chicago team aren't feeling confident in their pitch. I want you to go there, toss your weight around. Help Tridome Pharmaceuticals understand we're the best company to boost their sales." There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Or we'll take them down." Jack kicked the toe of his alligator shoe into the tarmac. The hard surface sent shock waves up his leg. But his voice remained cool, even. "Right, sir. Um, the problem is I have Jack Jr. with me." Jack glanced at the wall of windows in the posh terminal building reserved for the private jet airstrip. He could see little Jack playing a game on his iPad. "I'm taking him to the mountain house, remember? To teach him to fish?" "Jesus, Jack! Come on! This is a fire only a CEO can put out. The kid will understand." A tense sigh hissed through the line. "You're old enough to know this by now. Business trumps family, every time!" Jack pulled his shoulders square. His jaw went rigid. "Yes sir. I know that, sir. I'll phone when I get there. And hey, Dad? Have a wonderful evening." He disconnected with a jab to the touch screen. Inside the terminal, little Jack threw his iPad down on the leather couch as he jumped to his feet. "Are we fueled up, Dad? Can we go now?" His eyes danced. Jack ran a hand over his shiny, hairless head. "Here's the thing, son," he began. He had just enough time to see the light douse in his kid's eyes when the doors from the parking lot banged open. A couple, dressed in drab clothing and dragging beat up Sampsonite suitcases, rushed to the ticket counter. "We,re the Smythe's. We're supposed to meet a Mac McPhereson to take us to Houston." The woman clicked on her keyboard. "I'm so sorry. Mr. McPereson contacted us an hour ago. He's been detained in Sacremento. He expects to arrive here tomorrow morning." The woman heaved a tragic sigh, laying her head against her husband's shoulder. "No, miss. That won't do!" the husband cried. "We need to get to Houston right now. Our little boy is going into surgery in the big children's hospital there. We have to be there this afternoon. We have to!" Jack watched the couple. Saw the palpable anguish swirling around them. He turned to his son. "Jackie, I know you're really excited about fishing. It's not any of our business...but, we can help these people. What do you say?" Jack nodded with vigor. "Their little boy is sick. If I was sick, you'd do anything for me, right Dad." Jack smiled, hugged his boy. "Come on, I knew you were old enough to know this. Family trumps business, every time." |
| Joy reached up and slipped her petal soft hand into mine. "I love you, Mama." "I love you too, angel." We wandered farther away from our picnic spot, following the old stone wall as we strolled through the grass. I explained to Joy that the wall was a relic from the Civil War. Actual battles had taken place right where we walked. I glanced down at her. "What's wrong?" "Nothing." She concentrated on her sandals, that made a swish sound in the grass with each skater's glide step she made. "Something," I insisted. "You didn't ask me what 'relic' means or say it's cool that a war happened here. Not like you." I squeezed her hand. "Out with it. What's going on with you." She turned her cerub face up to me. "Well, okay, there is something." Her solemn expression surprised me. Usually she's a bubbling nine-year-old who you'd swore ate Mexican Jumping beans for breakfast. I stopped and leaned against the warm rock of the wall, tugging her hand so she'd be closer. "So, when we get home, I'm going to ask you if Sara can spend the night." Sara lived next door, and was Joy's BFF. A sleepover was a weekly event. "Great," I said. Joy kicked at the base of the wall. Without looking up, she said, "I want you to say it's not okay. OKay?" "What? Why?" She sighed. "It's just, Sara keeps telling me she wants to sleep over, and, well, I'm kind of sick of her." This was news to me. I stayed quiet, urging her with another squeeze of the hand to go on. "She's bossy, Mama. We always have to play what she wants to play. And she always wants to play dumb make-believe games like Hannah Montana. Only she always gets to be Hannah, and I always have to be one of her backup singers." "Sweetheart, you have to talk to her about this. Friends need to say when something isn't gong okay, or else you'll grow to resent each other." But Mama, when I say something, Sara gets really mad and won't talk to me. Seriously! She just mopes around and turns her back if I try to talk." A shadow crossed Joy's face. "It's just easier to go along with her." "Yes, that is easier. But it doesn't work forever." I turned her chin up so she could look at me. "You are a special person, just like Sara is. You are just as important. Find your voice and tell her, from your heart, how you are feeling. And, Joy, if she won't listen, if she gets mad and broods, then she isn't as good a friend as you thought." Sunshine returned to Joy's eyes. She hugged my waist. "Thank you,mama! You always make me feel so much better." Just then a grasshopper jumped to the top of the wall next to us. Joy tried to catch it between her hands, but it hopped of on the other side. At a break in the wall, Joy crossed to the other side and chased after it, giggling, her bouncing hair catching golden rays of sunlight. |
| On the lip of the cliff, with the plains of KwaZulu-Natal sweeping below to meet the African sky at the horizon, Blade savored the rush of blood pounding through his veins. He was a junkie. And like all addicts, he stomped down that truth with steel-toed boot force. He could control himself. He chose his activities with free will. Sure, he could take them or leave them; of course he could. But why leave them? Why not go for it, live life large? The argument on the plane with Jennifer replayed over and over in his mind, threatening his moment. He focused on the exhilaration, but her voice echoed in his head, fought to be heard. Damn her! Okay, yes. Maybe he took unnecessary risks. But life was full of risks, the part of life worth living, that is. He lifted his chin, jutted it toward the abyss. She should be here, right now, supporting him. Hell, she made the trip from Los Angeles. But she'd tried to "reason" with him for the whole twenty hour flight. She brought up the diving mishap, and the extreme snow boarding accident. Then it'd gotten ugly. Maybe it was good she wasn't here now. Fuck her. "Let's do this thing!" he called over his shoulder. Three men from the paragliding company approached him. Two lifted him, clumsily. The third pulled the wheelchair back and out of the way. "Okay, sir. The wind is good today. We place you on ramp, and when wind is good, very good, we let you slide down. You fly. Okay?" "Yeah, yeah. Come on. It's go time!" As the wind caught his sail and Blade floated above the abyss, one man turned to the other. "How is he going to land?" The second man shrugged. "He just pay double and tell me he'd work it out." |
| On the lip of the cliff, with the plains of KwaZulu-Natal sweeping below to meet the African sky at the horizon, Blade savored the rush of blood pounding through his veins. He was a junkie. And like all addicts, he stomped down that truth with steel-toed boot force. He could control himself. He chose his activities with free will. Sure, he could take them or leave them; of course he could. But why leave them? Why not go for it, live life large? The argument on the plane with Jennifer replayed over and over in his mind, threatening his moment. He focused on the exhilaration, but her voice echoed in his head, fought to be heard. Damn her! Okay, yes. Maybe he took unnecessary risks. But life was full of risks, the part of life worth living, that is. He lifted his chin, jutted it toward the abyss. She should be here, right now, supporting him. Hell, she made the trip from Los Angeles. But she'd tried to "reason" with him for the whole twenty hour flight. She brought up the diving mishap, and the extreme snow boarding accident. Then it'd gotten ugly. Maybe it was good she wasn't here now. Fuck her. "Let's do this thing!" he called over his shoulder. Three men from the paragliding company approached him. Two lifted him, clumsily. The third pulled the wheelchair back and out of the way. "Okay, sir. The wind is good today. We place you on ramp, and when wind is good, very good, we let you slide down. You fly. Okay?" "Yeah, yeah. Come on. It's go time!" As the wind caught his sail and Blade floated above the abyss, one man turned to the other. "How is he going to land?" The second man shrugged. "He just pay double and tell me he'd work it out." |
| "Very funny, Rachel.” From the doorway, Jonathon’s voice sounded harsh, hollow. The sound hung in the air like smoke on a frigid day. Light from the hallway rushed over and around him; casting a crisp shadow that streaked across the hardwood floor from the toes of his loafers, bent and snaked up the end of the bed, and slashed across Rachel’s naked, still body. A twinge of guilt vibrated inside him. Any man would look at Rachel and wonder how Jonathon could have cheated on such a goddess. But they didn’t know her. Beauty doesn’t count – doesn’t exist -- in a life riddled with anxiety. Rachel couldn’t cope with anything. He wasn’t talking about a spider in the corner or a stranger knocking at the door. Those were the little things that rattled normal people. But Rachel, she leaned on him for everything. She couldn’t cook because she was afraid she’d burn something. She couldn’t drive because even if she was careful, someone else could run her off the road. She couldn’t talk out loud, because, what? Someone would hear her? HE would hear her? Guilt turned to anger, justifying his latest actions. “Nice bandages, Rachel. Perfect. All the better not to see me with.” So she’d walked in on him and Kimmy? Boo-hoo, Rachel. He was at the end of his rope with her anyhow. Ready to walk out the door, just unable to bring himself to that conversation, where he’d have to tell her it was over, that she was going to be gone from his life. Gone. And Kimmy, though no supermodel, drove her own car, talked his ear off. Hell, she’d even killed a wolf spider the other day. Those things get big! She just pulled off her shoe and whacked it. Didn’t ask for his help at all. Maybe he should have boinked Kimmy at a hotel, instead of on their couch. But, Rachel never came back downstairs after retiring for the evening. Why the hell had she come down the other night? He took a couple steps closer. He sneered at the white bandages wrapped around her eyes and secured under her chin. She’d painted her lips with exquisite care. Blood red. Sexy. Her skin gleamed like polished marble. Hating himself for it, he felt himself stir. “All right, Rachel. You’ve made your point. Get up now. We need to talk.” He took another step, to the side of the bed. Reaching down, he grasped her forearm. It was deathly cold. |
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