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San Diego
Swinger
508 Posts |
 Posted - 02/21/2015 : 18:42:04
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| A valentines day wedding on the beach. Congratulations Robber and Garret. Live in love. |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 02/25/2015 : 19:45:00
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Stories from the porous border. On the tiny Juliette balcony he pauses with his brush mid-air. Steps away from the canvas and the blue harbor fading in sunlight. Not all at once but in patches. God's Eyes and Guadalupe Virgins. Nodding in Mercado windows when a
trio of Mariachis stroll by. There's his half-mast eyes and lit cigarette. His granite-heavy hair. His gaze so grave. Her smile so free and brazen. Palm trees exploding above the Boulevard's neon pop and sizzle. A crowd of wings on the wire waiting for the light to turn green. |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 02/25/2015 : 19:52:06
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| There's a sea scent that drifts through these rooms in the evening. A fragrant wind solo. A perfume the pillows hold onto. And the star-bright sheets they sleep on. Further down the coast the water slides out and slides in. |
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Joe Z
Windchimer
USA
1819 Posts |
Posted - 02/26/2015 : 12:48:37
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| This life comes with a death sentence. Only one way out of it... |
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San Diego
Swinger
508 Posts |
Posted - 02/26/2015 : 16:25:02
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No worries, Joe.
"You can't kill a Christian." MSN
Love you, Ro. |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 02/26/2015 : 16:28:30
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| He wakes up with the sheets on fire. Adam. So reliably alive. Feeding the script through the shredder. Page by coffee-stained page. |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 02/26/2015 : 16:30:47
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| There's the photograph where his eyes follow her around the room in another city with a landmark bridge and a luminous fog to step into. Another Embarcadero. |
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Joe Z
Windchimer
USA
1819 Posts |
Posted - 02/26/2015 : 16:35:02
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Right-O, Ro! That is the only way out of it.
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 03/03/2015 : 19:29:21
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| A season of Sunday weather. White adobe and blue dazzled walls. An open double Dutch door. A freshly painted aquamarine glider where they sit in the evenings overlooking the valley's misty irrigation. Shoulders touching in the starry dark. The friction of their answering hands. |
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Joe Z
Windchimer
USA
1819 Posts |
Posted - 03/07/2015 : 11:52:31
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"What a glorious gift of God music is... It drives away the devil and makes people happy."
Martin Luther |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 03/13/2015 : 18:37:41
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| Scissors, slices, shadows. The tree-propped sky appearing over the haunted San Jacinto's. You turn onto the blue gravel road. Pine blur of trees where the sun never falls all the way to the needled ground. How quiet our footsteps. How safe we are there. "...between two worlds..." |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 03/13/2015 : 18:45:15
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| It was your idea. Pretend we're invited guests, you said. Charming the grave grandmother in the corner. The overseer. The one with the authentic evil eye. What did you say/tell her that she gave you a fine linen napkin filled with tiny wedding cookies? |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 03/15/2015 : 17:40:09
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Late Surfliner. Union Station. "...her face and hands were porcelain bisque. The rest of her body was...something not around anymore. She had long dark hair and lashes. Brown glass eyes that closed. She wore high-button shoes and a blue-ticking sailor dress. She slept between the Harlequin Jester and the Gypsy doll with exaggerated long legs. When I was five I jumped on my high iron bed trying to touch the ceiling. She hit the floor and fractured her peaches and cream face. At the doll hospital many dolls were recovering in cradles and cribs. Doll nurses in uniform aprons. Big red crosses on their chests. I sat on the floor beside her bed until Mr. Rosenthal turned out the lights..."
The hypnotic rocking of the train. The picture of him, weary. A wince in his heart. His reflection in the midnight window pinching the bridge of his nose. An Edward Hopper melancholia.
After all that dark... "Tell me all of it!" he said. |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 03/16/2015 : 18:53:31
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| A woman tells stories to a man. His expression never changes. Nor do his profiles. Small moles on either side of his face in different places. And his eyes. Grey clouds coming in. Clear blue skies. There again, stormy weather. |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 03/22/2015 : 16:56:08
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| Late days. Ensenada. Benito Juarez stalking the honey market. Crepe paper streamers and ten dollar painted guitars. Every cruise ship tourist tethered to a papier-mâché piñata. The harbor with its wavery reflections. Aqua marine. Bands of blue. "Wet pictures," you said, brushing shortbread sugar from the front of your shining white shirt. |
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Joe Z
Windchimer
USA
1819 Posts |
Posted - 03/26/2015 : 11:21:39
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| The magic works like this: You feel bad. You listen to Newbury. You feel better. |
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Joey L.
Swinger
USA
1383 Posts |
Posted - 03/27/2015 : 09:06:16
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And if you feel good ... you go play golf. Is that how it works?
Inquiring minds knead da dough, y'know! cuz ... 'the Future's Not' ... |
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Joe Z
Windchimer
USA
1819 Posts |
Posted - 03/27/2015 : 11:39:27
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Whatever rings the bell.
Kayaking is my second choice... |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 03/28/2015 : 18:10:26
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| Life in the filtered light of days gone by. "I like to be surprised," he says, his elbow out the window freckling up. His reflection in the rearview mirror. The Badlands casting their mutinous shadows across the desert floor. The sky, star-flecked and quiet. Furious Summer's bramble miles. Heat lightning. Razor-sharp at the edge. Waiting for a break in the weather. |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 03/28/2015 : 18:25:38
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| He's sleeping. A brief time. A few moments at the most. A series of revolving doors when he wakes with a start, "...still out there..." he says, and she knows where he is. Out on the vast Mojave where they discovered the slabs that night. Asymmetrical. City blocks wide. A high thin vibrating sound. A whine almost a color. "Like landing strips for space ships," she'd said, and he'd said, "Ours...?" They couldn't find the road the next morning. Too much mirage on the windshield. Everything tilted and slipping away. All needles and thorns. Brittle branches. No sweet stems to wrap in a wet paper towel and set in a safe kitchen window. |
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Topic |
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The Nightly Vigil