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Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 Posts

Posted - 10/04/2015 :  17:25:45  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
I saw you last night. Walking down the long hall barefoot. Your ankle bones shining.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 Posts

Posted - 10/06/2015 :  20:33:08  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
The drift fences did little to hold back the sand constantly sifting under the door. Little cyclones of grit on the floor. The inviolate San Jacintos. He shook his head at that mountain every morning. He stood back and let it be. "OK. OK. You can't stop the tide from rollin' in. You can't stop the rain from fallin'." The children left their shoes upside-down on the stairs. The youngest on a stool at the stove flipping peanut butter pancakes.
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Doug L
Firefly

Canada
5446 Posts

Posted - 10/11/2015 :  04:21:02  Show Profile  Visit Doug L's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
That valley, old as the Ice Age, its rolling coteau depths formed by warming and the erosive caresses of water, has been home to indigenous people for thousands of years. Every time I have passed through the Qu'appelle, I have felt the ancient spells, wisdoms I am not wise enough to know. I remember that one October, before the snows came, when the trees along the hillsides fought, wearing rough-house colors, to be most beautiful. The fishermen, the hunters, those who carted pemmican north to the Hudson Bay Company store to sell. All gone. The trail is still there, has survived generations. And the old Cree ball player, Hubert Grey Eyes, in his seventies now, remembers me from three summers before when we met in the cafe not far from his shack. That old league is no more, and the stadium his club played in has paper bags and tumbleweeds flattened against its backstop now. But Hubert Grey Eyes has a memory as long as the Qu'appelle River, as wide as the surrounding plains, as sharp as the knife he uses to whittle and carve. His ball glove is still on a hook behind the door, cracked, open. The wind bends the grass. The train comes through once each day. The ball games are played in Los Angeles, in St. Louis, and in Texas this October. Old Grey Eyes knows, leads me outside to the porch, where the red sky turns darker, where the air keeps us awake. Three summers. Still he keeps my name.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 Posts

Posted - 10/13/2015 :  21:13:28  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply

...like the APL Panama languidly misplaced in the Harbor. Walk out at low tide and touch her. One American dollar, Senor.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 Posts

Posted - 10/14/2015 :  17:30:50  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
It's 5:00pm Christmas Day in Ensenada and where is the Captain?

It was the Port Pilot's job to meet every ship while it was still in deep waters and help the Captain guide her safely in. This ship needed 50 feet of water in order to stay afloat. Port Pilot, Ramirez
said he was leaving port to meet her when he spotted the monstrous vessel heading across the entrance channel and aiming straight for the shore. "I saw the lights and I just couldn't believe it! I just couldn't believe it! I told the tugboats, 'Leave the port! The ship is about to run aground!'" Minutes later the APL Panama drove headlong onto the beach burying her bow 20 feet deep in sand.

It was a time when I was still traveling back and forth from Ensenada. I always thought this would make a great movie because of all the characters intertwined. Those on the ship and in the Harbor, folks waiting for their flat screens and silk underwear to arrive. The tourists and Mardi-Gras-like atmosphere on the beach, the enterprising locals. The salvage took 75 days. The photographs are amazing.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 Posts

Posted - 11/02/2015 :  19:33:42  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
In a sea-leaning house on the watery edge of North America a feral fog prowls the coastline. On a street so steep there are stairs built into the sidewalk tiny glass beads flash in transom windows. His easels draped and undraped burn color along the damp high-ceiling walls. What he wants to show her. Like children they sit cross-legged on the floor leaning in and away from their stories. Sometimes he reaches out and grabs both her hands. Melancholy right eye when he smiles. An act that allows gravity back in the room.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 Posts

Posted - 11/06/2015 :  18:30:28  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
He painted her barefoot with fields of blue flowers coming up through the hardwood floor. An invented wind tangling her hair. She'd stare at the canvas with a hot cup in her hand until the coffee grew cold. "What...?" he'd say from the doorway and she'd say, "Where...?" He often hid things in his paintings. Like the hidden objects in Highlights picture puzzles he loved when he was a child. He'd come up and rest his hands on her shoulders. His temperature ran a degree or so higher than hers. His skin against hers felt like sunshine.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 Posts

Posted - 11/15/2015 :  17:57:33  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply

Remember that Border chicken town where we played Weatherman? Well they put up a factory of sorts and business is booming. "Vintage" suitcases. The kind with leather straps and metal corners you used to love. Lined with upholstery fabric (a limited selection...or you may provide your own.) Cost is the same. 1300 pesos at the factory. Across the Border at the Outlet Stores $129. Barneys BH and The Grove $400. "I make you a very fair deal," Roman says, finishing the last of his red pork tamale. His gold tooth sparkles. 76 and 67. Back to you, Blaine.
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BarbraG
Windchimer

1824 Posts

Posted - 11/17/2015 :  21:58:03  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
It sure is cold out tonight, Sir. Where did you say you were headed? Nashville? Don't bother. They won't know you there. It's just too cold to walk the streets with that old country sound you have. You'll freeze to death in that town, waiting for a break. Trust me ! Mickey? Newbury? That's your name? Well, why didn't you say so right off the bat? I've heard about you! On second thought, you just might run into a singer who can sing your songs. Better yet, sing them yourself. Sure would be nice to hear something different.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 Posts

Posted - 11/21/2015 :  16:57:32  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
He had a habit of grabbing her by the hand and steering her through ribbons of twilit traffic. A telescope view on that high-curb corner watching tail lights speed by. The buoyant moon balloon-high above them. The sky filling with starry pictures. "I like to be surprised," he said, "...how 'bout you?" Arches and alcoves and transom windows. Mornings with his breath on the mirror. His DNA on a deck of Bicycle cards.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 Posts

Posted - 11/25/2015 :  17:39:28  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply

...how many nights did he watch the amber lantern moving through the trees? The moonlit waves. The wind chasing the racing clouds across the sky? "Show me the pictures from that time," he said. On the other side of the mirror. Miles of white sand. Slow rolling trains beside that long stretch of Interstate 10. Snow on the bureau. A souvenir globe. The couple inside perpetually dancing.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 Posts

Posted - 11/29/2015 :  19:51:46  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
They lived in the sky and under the sea. They lived on the east and west oceans. Star-long nights over broken stone villages where the sky unspooled its flood of mystery. The lamps low glow when Druids drank and tossed their hammered cups into the sea.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 Posts

Posted - 12/06/2015 :  20:35:28  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Fog? Epic fog crowding the windows. Adobe walls weeping like frescoes. "...a small thing...time..." he said, intensely watchful. Her India Ink and Hunt nibs. Her X-Acto blades and permanently stained fingerprints. She falls asleep on his chest confusing his heart with an ocean. In the middle of the night he kicks the covers free and they sleep with their feet escaping. Candles burning the house down in Mexico.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 Posts

Posted - 12/13/2015 :  19:05:49  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply

They lived in the hills above the city's wild heart on a fairytale trail above the mythic Pacific. A ribbon candy road in the shadow of the sign and the cross. A house for sale many months because of the short bridge between the driveway and the front door. (Slide area. Road narrows. Watch downhill speed.) "Well, most of the streets up here are like that," the anxious realtor said.

Guadalupe Virgins stalk Olvera Street. His hand rests at the small of her back. "Keep talkin'," he says. His gaze so grave. His ferocious concentration. In the beginning she believed he had a photographic memory.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 Posts

Posted - 12/21/2015 :  17:01:17  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
When he reached for her across the lingering abalone-blue twilight she forgot who she was. She became the names he gave her when he opened and closed his eyes. Beguiled, she said, "I dedicate my art, heart and life to you." He said, "Well, now...let's get started."

"Aye, those days, girl..." he said remembering the thimble-size kitchen where they prevailed though the winds were harsh and the seas were salt and pepper. A pinch of kindling. A bit of broth. A sprig of heather on the pillow.

"Leap of Faith..." he said.

One more minute of daylight tomorrow.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 Posts

Posted - 12/31/2015 :  07:14:38  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply

He lifts the lid on the box of names, "...for today..." he says, and hands her a scrap of paper.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 Posts

Posted - 01/12/2016 :  16:29:22  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
An old Dunn Edwards paint chart. His choices X'd on the colored squares. Warm Apple for the hallways. For the bedroom Buttered Light. "Because it just flows," he said.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 Posts

Posted - 01/12/2016 :  16:34:19  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
He brushes the clouds from around his ankles. "Mornin'," he says and bows. He's fallen through that hole in the sky clearly in a good mood. Reliably alive stepping over cracks in the sidewalk. Whistling a tune that makes her laugh and lean against him. Wide-angle shot. Diffusion filter. Cue music. Pan out to ships at sea.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 Posts

Posted - 01/31/2016 :  18:39:20  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply

"...an' all that water out there..."

"No bluffin' in this game," he says, and pulls her into the first darkened doorway. Near her ear he begins a story. Mysterious cargos slip under the bridge. The waves choppy and silver-capped.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 Posts

Posted - 02/03/2016 :  20:44:12  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply

Their journey was fraught with tremors. Restless roads. Tectonic plates grinding under their shoes. A chore to stay upright. Neon shelters off glass-edged freeways. Unfailing desk clerk asleep in the lobby. Ice machine down the hallway. Pale-moon wafer of mother-of-pearl in rooms with quilts drawn up to their shoulders. Feet sticking out from under the covers plotting the perfect escape.
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