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Ailinn
Windchimer

2196 Posts

Posted - 03/20/2016 :  18:26:26  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
He works on several paintings at once. Laying color down in bold rapid strokes. His slight of hand ahead of his consciousness. His innate quirky magic breaking free. Other times he steps back and stares. Sets the brushes and the palette aside. Grabs the pole and the bucket and the battered straw hat. Walks out to a watery edge.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2196 Posts

Posted - 03/29/2016 :  17:22:40  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply

"We're under the river now," she says. "One way in and one way out." Above them the perilous skyscrapers. Twilight traffic. Chilly stars. He's quiet for several moments, then, "Once upon a time... Takes years," he says, "keep talkin'." "Three Hail Mary's wipe the slate clean," she says. He laughs, "No glass between us on visiting day, hahaha. Do you know what I'm sayin'?" he says. "Go ahead, preach to me," she says.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2196 Posts

Posted - 04/02/2016 :  18:04:10  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
They flew through the jet-scarred sky. She was afraid to fly. She sat on her suitcase clenching her fists and biting her bottom lip. He sat with his duffle between his knees clean-shaven in his shining white shirt. He'd lean in close to her ear. His mouth of invention inventing a soft landing beside a tinsel-strewn vineyard, a blossom-blurred almond grove.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2196 Posts

Posted - 04/11/2016 :  18:28:16  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
No careless mystery under his brush. A smudge of turquoise against verdant hills. A weathered cottage in the vineyard's green. Violet twilight in a steeple-topped village. Melancholy time in the clock tower. Random stars. A rendezvous. A midnight panorama. Votives flickering in the windows and on the porch rail. Candles burning the house down in Mexico. "...just a little accordion embroidery..." he said.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2196 Posts

Posted - 04/21/2016 :  19:06:02  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply

Old frames unspooling on the memory boulevard. Rain rushing the gutter of their high-curb corner. Delicate petals trembling in galvanized watering cans. The flower vendor waiting out the storm in her van while Pick Up Sticks lightning charge the plum-lit sky. He's rushing across the avenue through a maze of rain-streaked windshields. Side-stepping puddles. Folded newspaper over his head.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2196 Posts

Posted - 04/24/2016 :  08:40:22  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Life on India Street a block from the Star somnolently rocking in the harbor. Small boats riding at anchor in sunset's sequined light. Glow in the galley when his scrolled maps unroll. When the Mute Fortune Teller talks to The Sailor in Sign. Little divots where they touch each other's hands.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2196 Posts

Posted - 04/30/2016 :  22:39:46  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
On Saturday nights they cruise the Street Bazaar. Aisles so narrow they brush against the stalls on either side as they pass. A maze of choices to enchant them. Alebrije dragons and catrina dolls. Braided lariats and hand tooled boots. Sweets in red cellophane and spices in twists of brown paper. A small pine shelf he chooses. A carved eagle with wings in flight.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2196 Posts

Posted - 05/02/2016 :  18:25:47  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
In the city of hills they wake up under a higher sky. Salty clouds crowd the window and dapple the counterpane. There's a bay view to look out to. Ships in the harbor. A flotilla of sun-crowned sails. His fine-china cup mind on the edge of the counter when the number 15 trolley rides by. He's talking about flying, "...not in a plane or a dream..." he says. His voice in the kitchen amplified by steam.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2196 Posts

Posted - 05/06/2016 :  17:36:00  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Harbor Sunset. Container cranes like prehistoric skeletons. And their miniature children, the stilted herons stalking the edge of a tilted world. Beyond the bridge a small squall. A pocket rain. A ruby at the top of a mast passing under. Some evenings he'd measure it all with his arms spread wide on the balcony. His silhouette in the burnished light a Rosebud mystery.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2196 Posts

Posted - 05/10/2016 :  19:41:37  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply

He'd trace his brow. He'd place a thought there. His mouth full of smoke. His words on fire. Coal nights when the stars came down. Where they sat knee to knee with their stories and cold shoulders. The moon rocking in its sky-locked cradle.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2196 Posts

Posted - 05/24/2016 :  16:04:48  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply

Vines climbing up through the floor boards. Boats moored beneath the bed. A blue bonnet meadow. A tin man tower. A leap of faith through the looking glass. Ink-stained sheets and dog-eared pages. A handmade patchwork quilt. Day to day miles of chipped and fractured light on the shoulder of a glass-edged freeway. Time running on with its limited amount of breaths. "Do this for me," he said.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2196 Posts

Posted - 06/03/2016 :  16:54:39  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Coffee Shop on the corner with its tiny curbside tables. Landing gear coming down. American and Alaska Air stair-stepped over Interstate 5 when Southwest hits the edge of the North Harbor runway. Their sunburned hands and caffeine-lit faces. Their acute curiosity so dangerously alive.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2196 Posts

Posted - 06/03/2016 :  16:58:44  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply

A woman tells stories to a man in Sign. He listens with his eyes closed. His dusty eyelashes flutter. His breath leaves petals of frost on the air. Birds perch on wires like notes on the sky. A lemon-lime breeze stirs the chimes. Arcane Eden. So foreign. So familiar. Grass-green blades leave thin red lines on her hands.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2196 Posts

Posted - 06/15/2016 :  20:56:50  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Death Valley Junction. Amargosa ghosts. She painted her audience as she wished them to appear. The Juggler and the Fan Lady. Afternoon tea with the Knight. Cats and ballerinas. Rooftop dwellers and court jesters and harlequin masks. And soaring above all...the ceiling musicians. In her feather boa and enchanted ivory shoes Marta Becket danced.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2196 Posts

Posted - 06/15/2016 :  21:01:33  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
They're shooting green bottles off a broken stone wall 280 feet below sea level. All brittle light and harsh beauty somewhere near Badwater Basin. The ocotillo flickers at flashpoint. The air crackles like cellophane around them. Their static-charged hands and faces are pins and needles. His lightning-fast draw. His peppery grin. His conspiratorial wink. A natural disturbance. A crease in the universe. A fate-sealed moment in time.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2196 Posts

Posted - 06/18/2016 :  20:16:57  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Twenty-plus switch-back miles strung over the wind-whirled Santa Monica's. Hidden peak trail off Mulholland to some future he remembers just beyond the dust of the past. A single-file path. A ridgeline through fire bloom and low glowing clover. An acrobat's balancing act. A script that's constantly changing. (Conversations of contrails and pixels. Stories to tell still untold. A stop to collect the mail that's constantly forwarded. A donut run and coffee.) His shadow crosses the floor. His profile that never changes. The house goes on so quietly around them.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2196 Posts

Posted - 07/23/2016 :  19:49:01  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
In a village of church bells and chickens he painted the singing widows under a Madonna-blue sky. Their hands reaching deep in dark soil. A profusion of mingling voices. A chorus giddy with tribute and tattle. A tangle of vines. A riot of blooming headstones. Grassy hours. Summer's slow unfold.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2196 Posts

Posted - 07/30/2016 :  21:05:16  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
A woman in a black leather coat and flat heeled boots. "So she can run!" the child says. A man in a suede bomber jacket smoking short cigarettes. His shoes, "Like the cowboys wear," the child says. Dark car idling on the fire road beyond a veil of eucalyptus. Full tank of gas. Stack of folded road maps on the dashboard. Checkpoint in the rear view mirror. Two sides to every Border story.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2196 Posts

Posted - 07/30/2016 :  21:09:35  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
The Saturday night limos glide by on Sunset. Make their complicated break for the hills. Picture-perfect palm trees explode over postcard Mount Lee. Bougainvillea's hot colors slowly fade in daylights last rays. Above the Boulevard the stippled stars appear. Below, illuminated grid of the angelic city where every act is a leap of faith.
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Joe Z
Windchimer

USA
1819 Posts

Posted - 08/02/2016 :  08:33:39  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
The Train

When I was a boy in Bakersfield, my parents would take me to the train station to put me on the Santa Fe Special. I loved those summer journeys to visit my grandparents in Barstow, a sleepy town in the Mojave Desert. As I traveled alone, Dad would slip the conductor a ten-spot to keep an eye on me. The conductor was an old black gentleman who looked like John Coffey from the movie, “The Green Mile.” He called me “Master Joe.” Running up and down the octave scale, the giant would greet me in a glorious voice, and his greeting sounded like a gospel song: “Master Joe, welcome on my train. It’s real good to see you, son. I got a special seat just for you.”

God, it was exciting. The train was just so big and powerful and noisy. To a small boy of six, boarding the train was like jumping into the mouth of a mystical creature. And when the iron horse was ready to roll, he would start snorting. Slowly at first. And then hissing. Calmly. Mightily. As he worked up a full head of steam, the steel stallion would begin to snort faster. I feared he might explode. I mean nobody’s heart can beat that fast! And when he got to running flat out, Lord my God Almighty… RIKETY-RIKETY-RAK, RIKETY-RIKETY-RAK… He would blow his stack and the steam would go a mile high. And then he would scream!

And I loved it. Flying down the tracks… going a million miles per hour… nothing could stop the train! CHOOOOOOO! CHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!! Folks could hear the monster whistle for miles, an incredible sound, something of a cross between a dinosaur's yell and a chorus of pan pipes.

Everybody heard the whistle and it told them there was a way out. Nothing could stop the train.
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