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Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 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

2154 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

2154 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

2154 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

2154 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

2154 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

2154 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

2154 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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San Diego
Swinger

508 Posts

Posted - 08/02/2016 :  18:02:37  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Joe, I love reading this. "RIKETY-RIKETY-RAK..." that magic train music before the seamless rail. The NYNH&H ran between Boston and NYC. A huge commuter route as it served Massachusetts and Connecticut before slipping into the tunnels at Grand Central. If you were traveling in daylight it would go black for a few moments and then the lights would come on. The train slowed but still going fast enough to worry. It stopped with a great lurch and the aisles became crowded with passengers and packages and frenetic energy. It was always night underground with subways to everywhere and shops open round-the-clock. Violets and pretzels and Barricini chocolates. Montblanc fountain pens. Everything you needed was there. A parallel world of its own. The Grand Terminal and carbonated blood of midtown Manhattan above. I've been to Barstow and Bakersfield and the Coachella Valley. Most stations on the UP line including the abandoned Kelso depot. Something haunting and patriotic about trains...A shivery longing for America. Love you. Ro.
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Joe Z
Windchimer

USA
1819 Posts

Posted - 08/05/2016 :  06:37:29  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Ro, you paint beautiful pictures, my friend. Love ya.
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San Diego
Swinger

508 Posts

Posted - 08/05/2016 :  08:10:00  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
You too, Joe. I can see that excited little six year old flying across the enchanted desert. Making memories and safer because of his daddy and a kindly conductor. Off to work now. TGIF.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 Posts

Posted - 08/07/2016 :  18:01:00  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Sheltered bus stop with a long-distance payphone where leaves collect like memories under a bench. Evanescent tail lights fading. Who lets the spirits off at that corner with their lifelike laughter and lit cigarettes? They don't behave as you think they would. Talking loudly and waving their jackets in the mortal air as if rooting for some hometown team. And everything happens again in bright blurred light like when the optometrist puts yellow drops in your eyes. "Leap of faith," he says, grabbing her by the hand and heading straight into oncoming traffic. Their bodies passing through cars like a gentle caress.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 Posts

Posted - 08/23/2016 :  17:59:40  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply

A fleeting image could change his direction for the day. A little dirt park beside the chaos freeway all grit and brittle light. Exhaust fumes fever mirage. The couple sitting on the edge of a dry cement fountain drinking coffee from paper cups. The stroller and sleeping child. Stroke after stroke he laid color down. Apparitions alive on canvas. The dead living across the bittersweet Border. Phantom shorebirds wheeling in a Delphic sky. Feral fogs prowling the coastline where a woman in a white dress with a bouquet of wet flowers steps out of the misty sea. His dawn to dusk inventions. The panorama of dreams.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 Posts

Posted - 08/27/2016 :  19:18:12  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply

Cars crowded into parking lots full before 8am. So much sun glinting off metal. Surf boards and paddle boards. Coolers and party piñatas. Tail-gaters barbecuing beside their RV's on crumbling cliff tops. Hickory and oak smoke lifting into a Monet sky. Miles of flat beach to moonlight. One late August weekend sleeping out under stars before everything breaks in September.
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Joe Z
Windchimer

USA
1819 Posts

Posted - 08/30/2016 :  13:42:50  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
I believe "Newburians" are emotionally tuned to the same frequency. That would be Radio Romantic at Heart, or 112.1 MHz just outside the FM dial.

Edited by - Joe Z on 08/30/2016 17:03:51
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San Diego
Swinger

508 Posts

Posted - 09/06/2016 :  19:33:18  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
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Craig
Firefly

Kyrgyzstan
3793 Posts

Posted - 09/08/2016 :  17:46:36  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
*wink*
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 Posts

Posted - 09/12/2016 :  17:55:49  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
A high house with stars in the rafters at the watery edge of town. A kitchen that leans over an ocean where they sit with their warm cups sorting through old photographs. "The spread-open fan of memory..." he says, "...in black and white and color." Kodachrome cloud-swollen skies. Coney Island Atlantic in the background. The photographer grabbed the camera just before the storm came down. Shot of her and the crew holed up for hours in a seedy Boardwalk motel waiting on the weather. Smear of Nathan's mustard on her chin. "Stuck-up," he grins.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2154 Posts

Posted - 09/12/2016 :  18:03:55  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
In Appletown the potion is so quick they fall under its spell immediately. Bluedark sky. Stars in the window. Gold miners and tent city ghosts in frames on the wall. "Shhh... Nothing to fear. Nothing to harm you..." he whispers, waking up and drifting back into sleep. His heart everywhere in the dreaming. Smudge of dawn on the sill until he opens his eyes. Suddenly sun and the Fall-fragrant world spinning around them.
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