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Ailinn
Windchimer

2196 Posts

Posted - 01/04/2017 :  18:44:50  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
He reaches for her hand in the twilit park. Arcane time of evening. Her eyes blink open. The ground shifts a little under her feet. The Carousel horses shiver and stamp. The first sparse stars appear. "Watch your step now..." he says when the calliope music whistles and the platform starts to move.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2196 Posts

Posted - 01/08/2017 :  18:00:45  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
They had arches and alcoves in a handmade house. A surfeit of sun-spangled windows. Sparks along the adobe wall where they slept in a nautilus shell dream. Beyond the Border their other lives were happening out in the street. "Don't let it get in the way," he said.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2196 Posts

Posted - 01/11/2017 :  15:37:33  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
In thrall. The stalled mornings. Creases of angels wings folding the sheets into tight corners. No frailty shot through the nights. The storyteller's life coalescing before a woodland fire. Green trees. Dim light in a faraway window that may be home.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2196 Posts

Posted - 01/11/2017 :  15:41:24  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Smog in the valley. Saffron sky. Sepia colored evening. The road rolling on through dangerous foothills where the mountains ground down to sand. She reached out and touched his cheek. He leaned into her palm and the last scrap of sunlight looping over his profile.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2196 Posts

Posted - 01/18/2017 :  17:16:28  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
They realize how shocking it is. How it stuns you. Knocks you down hard on the floor. That long train ride. The streaming moon crossing America. The tunnel of rain and fatal swerve at Dead Man's Curve. The seasons of two sets of footprints. Traffic magic. Rushing headlong into twilight's high beams.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2196 Posts

Posted - 01/18/2017 :  17:25:09  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
I grew up listening to the litany of Sweepstakes and Revolution. Men in lightly starched shirts drinking whiskey and occasionally breaking into song. I'll Take You Home Again Kathleen was an anthem. White linen tablecloths. A riot of flowers. Ice cubes clinking in a glass. Women in gauzy dresses that floated shelter around them. When that chapter ended I knew how to check into a hotel. "Don't stop talking," he says. Some common miracle flickering just outside the frame. A move back in time in citron light. Scheherazade or a seanchai tale alive for one more night.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2196 Posts

Posted - 01/23/2017 :  18:27:17  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Another wedding with birds and fresh flowers. Folding chairs trekked through the deergrass across the bluff top. "A trucked-in affair this mornin'," he says contentedly peering out through the kitchen window. The idyllic view. The sun spilling out of the sky. The calm clouds and white capped water. The guitars and plastic cups for champagne. The two white doves, Bill and Coo, in a gilded cage shivering beside the bride's mother. Just enough time for the guests to be seated. Then a cloud of dust behind the Sheriff in his big SUV. AMERICA'S FINEST - TO PROTECT AND SERVE. The Minister tries to intervene but he's no match for the bellowing brothers. The Sheriff's grown tired of this weekend charade but the bachelor landowners keep shouting about taxes. So the vows are exchanged in the headlands parking lot to the delight of Holiday Tours.

"I been thinkin'..." he says staring out the window later that day. Knitted brows. A dangerous sign.

Edited by - Ailinn on 07/09/2017 19:54:43
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2196 Posts

Posted - 01/28/2017 :  17:21:44  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
He opens the blinds and dispatches the night. Gone in a blink with hot coffee. The ocean pulls under the pier. The sun wakes up in the kitchen. He sits down at the table with his newspaper and calendar to study the porosity of time. The revolving doors in deep-harbor cities. The allotment of breaths and heart-skipping beats in great and small moments. The memories that take years to distill. "...the days flow of color..." he says. She suspects he alters the flow when he can. Undoing the dark with his splash of distraction. Suddenly a riot of birds at the window. Waves of poppies ablaze on the hill. Their slender thread-like stems and eye-catching black-pepper faces. His paint-stained fingers. His allegiant art. His myriad layers of invention.
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Joe Z
Windchimer

USA
1819 Posts

Posted - 01/31/2017 :  13:43:02  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
"Waves of poppies ablaze on the hill."

Beautiful.
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San Diego
Swinger

509 Posts

Posted - 02/01/2017 :  20:33:33  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Thank you, Joe. You are most kind. How about a story from those Bakersfield days and Maracaibo nights.
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Joe Z
Windchimer

USA
1819 Posts

Posted - 02/04/2017 :  08:58:42  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
We spilled out of the car like The Monkeys. Our manager and designated driver, Léon, had booked two gigs this night, five kilometers apart. We would play six songs at the Club Bella Vista, then run to our Ford station wagon with tambourine, guitars and drum sticks in hand. The sixties were a blur for Los Hippies, partly due to Léon’s driving.

He sped us to our second show, a young lady’s Quinceañera celebration, where another set of warm Fender amps awaited. Our lead guitarist, Carlitos, plugged in and attacked the opening riff to The Beatles rocker, “Roll Over Beethoven.” As we belted out, Gonna write a little letter / Gonna mail it to my local DJ, those joyful Maracuchos danced like their lives depended on it.
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San Diego
Swinger

509 Posts

Posted - 02/04/2017 :  21:57:04  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
I love it! That Bakersfield boy is full of surprises.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2196 Posts

Posted - 02/05/2017 :  19:53:19  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply

Nights when his art pulls him from sleep he stands at the easel with a blanket over his shoulders. He sees the colors before he picks up the brush. The canvas composing itself ahead of his conscious mind. When dawn arrives he paints the driftwood emerging from the mists. Their Dali-esque figures beckoning from the shore. The sharp pleasure of sunlight breaking the ice. The deck wet under his feet. She comes to stand beside him. He's out of the ether now. She can tell...so close to his real eyes.
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Joe Z
Windchimer

USA
1819 Posts

Posted - 02/08/2017 :  10:15:42  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Lucille arrived shortly after the third hour. Leaving her pocketbook on the kitchen table, she went to the back room. The boy emerged from the shadows and removed an Abraham. He hid the bill in a bag of tasty caramels. The doe-eyed dilettante denied the deed. Three times he would deny the truth. Without the five-spot, Lucille was unable to gas up her Mercury Montclair. Mercury began rising.
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San Diego
Swinger

509 Posts

Posted - 02/10/2017 :  01:10:01  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
, Mr. Z.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2196 Posts

Posted - 02/11/2017 :  17:51:00  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
She hid in the haunted Elfin Forest near the dry honeycomb dam. Another drought year the dam wasn't spilling. No rushing sound to drowned out her footsteps. The lake fog helped. And the spectral-green knee-high mists. But one day the sun came to where he was standing. He took her deeper into the wood and removed the blindfold. "Run," he said, "I can find you anywhere." His laugh echoed through the fretwork branches. It was dark where the trees met the sky. She couldn't interpret the constellations. He picked up the pen and started charting the stars. They both knew what was happening then.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2196 Posts

Posted - 02/11/2017 :  17:55:24  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
They wanted a quiet house with a clock that chimed only the odd hours. Or didn't chime at all on some days. A clock they would carry with them. But the movers were on strike and the utility company forgot to turn on the electric. So cold in that first kitchen they shivered at the stove. A box of wooden matches and a blanket. When heat finally rushed through the grates they sat on the floor with their backs to the wall in a room that jutted into the sky.
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BarbraG
Windchimer

1825 Posts

Posted - 02/24/2017 :  12:23:58  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
He stands about 7 inches high, but he's growing. Honest, he's growing. He is black with a silver face and the biggest black loving eyes you have ever seen .. He wants to be in the big Show, but he is not going to be perfect in that way... maybe a pound over the 10 pound limit...but, hey !!! ... anywhere he goes, he will make someone smile, and maybe even laugh out loud...He is going to be a joy in this world... actually, he already is..
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2196 Posts

Posted - 03/05/2017 :  18:20:59  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
He watches her arranging books on a shelf, "I see you put up the spices alphabetically too..." She blushes. "Oh hey......." he says. High-stepping nights in the dirt floor cantina. A fine dust settling on their clothes. Food in foil or on sticks on the corner. Shimmering light in a vineyard town. A white wicker rocker. A rusty metal glider. A can of WD-40 on the porch rail.
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Doug L
Firefly

Canada
5446 Posts

Posted - 03/10/2017 :  20:31:52  Show Profile  Visit Doug L's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Trick Farlow owned a little record store in the 1970s. He managed to survive selling folk and blues mainly. His second-floor walk-up apartment was walls of records and a stereo. He had a cat named Furry Lewis. That old apartment was an endless source of wisdom and wonder when I visited the big city, with Trick as head librarian. I got an education there.

Trick played me a lot of records. Once in a while a whole side, more often a few selected songs. Coffee going. Always the coffee going. Window open, sound of the street below. Furry Lewis his cat on the sill looking down. Trick would be standing up, moving around. Knew every inch of that room and never stubbed a toe. The way he'd handle the album jacket, the sleeve, the disc - a dance sequence he could perform in the dark, so practiced and perfect. He'd go to the turntable and lift the needle to a different song, shifting the order of things. I got to know his favorites that way. Sometimes he'd skip the songs he treasured most, I noticed. When I asked him why he did that, he'd say because he loved them so much. You see, he never wanted them to grow old.

The city street below Trick's window was alive all hours. I don't know how he slept up there. Guess you get used to it after a while, the waves of sound, water your bed is a boat afloat on. Trick could sing pretty well. Deep voice, whiskey dredged. He'd sing along with Fred Neil and it was eerie, like Fred doing a duet with himself. "Where's the Jim Crow section on your merry-go-round? I just can't find the back..." He memorized, you know, every sound, every pop and hiss. Familiar. Not just a record any more but his record. His by touch and wear and love. The way you know all the tiny marks and stories on your lover's body.

Trick was social. Had to be, running a small record shop. The apartment was a meeting place, too, but also a sanctuary. People would come over, stop below the window and holler up. He advised friends to do that, said it gave him first right of refusal. There were times he wanted to be alone. Had to respect that. Who'd I see at his apartment? Let me think. Patrick Sky. Buffy. Old John Hurt came hobbling up those stairs once with Paxton. Oh, and Harry Smith. Strange guy, Harry, but a talent, and a vault of American musical history. When Harry was broke he took the gems of his flea market 78 rpm sides to Moe to sell them. Moe Asch, Folkway Records. They hired Harry to make that big LP anthology of folk music, the bible really. You know who transferred and produced that set? Péter Bartók, the composer's son.

Trick Farlow's old apartment and the records that he played. Never left there thinkin' other than I wish I could have stayed. Like striking gold in a world of tin, some riches never fade. Trick Farlow's old apartment and the records that he played.

DL

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