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Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
 Posted - 07/16/2018 : 18:37:13
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| "You're thinkin' two things. Think one," he says. The deck broken-in a little. The flex he likes when the cards fly out of his hands, "Now...?" he says. "Eight of hearts," she says. "Good!" he says, "...better. An'...?" "Six of clubs," she says. He nods. "Red two," she says. He says, "Which red two...?" She says, "...can we start over again...?" Distilled memories. Star wine in the Valle de Guadalupe. "How changed?" I ask Santiago. "No more hill," he says in Spanish. |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 07/22/2018 : 19:32:12
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| Sun-shot days. High-heat afternoons. Aqua horizon. Steep sea lavender path. Reckless in dark glasses getting sunburned like everyone else. Months to burn before December. "...you remember...?" he says. "Like gypsies sleep with their feet escaping..." she laughs. |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 07/25/2018 : 20:06:24
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| Midnight on the deck in a fog thick as lambs wool. "Nantucket... Fishermen's tales," she says. "How the place came out of the glacier. Nor'easters. Hurricanes. Ships lost at sea. Crows on the gravestones. Pitted angels. Green flies in the stinging marsh. The widening crack in my dollhouse. The menace in ordinary things. Those too-high steps to Heaven." Sparks in the dark when he puts his cigarette out. A hush when he rises. |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 07/30/2018 : 17:50:33
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| His endless curiosity. "...ancestors memories...?" he says, "...in us...behind the curtain...?" "Like stars..." she says, "...or handfuls of salt thrown in the oceans. So many ideas down here..." The front legs of his gravity-defying chair come down hard on the kitchen floor. He leans forward, his hands folded between his knees, "...down...?" he says, "You think down...?" |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 07/30/2018 : 17:54:35
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| Ground fog starting to clear. Sun's delirious appearance. Prime light in the Technicolor Garden. "You an' me, ma'am..." Adam says. So much blue in his eyes in slow July. |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 08/05/2018 : 18:16:34
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| Breaking history in a sleepy Border town. "Lemme tell you somethin', lady... Ten... Twenty years from now..." and he makes a wide sweeping gesture, "...you can kiss all this goodbye. All gone. You won't know it." "Historical landmarks," she says, "...it can't happen." He's suddenly quiet. Years later The Sailor and The Mute Fortune Teller on a street called Days Gone By. |
Edited by - Ailinn on 12/03/2018 10:00:44 |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 08/05/2018 : 22:21:45
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| "You remember the first thing you ever wrote?" he says. "Letters To A Dead Man. I don't know why. I was fifteen in the New Paris Café. A beatnik coffee house. Everybody in black turtlenecks. We'd read our stuff and people would stamp their feet if they liked it. Snow plows in the street. Somebody singing fado. I remember that. And the white world outside the window," she says. "...the days flow of color..." he says. He believes colors have size. Red is the biggest. He can take you anywhere with his words. |
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Doug L
Firefly
Canada
5446 Posts |
Posted - 08/10/2018 : 16:58:33
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He was listening to that William Prince fellow
from the Peguis First Nation of Manitoba. A song
called Carny, carnivals being one of the enterprises
that hire indigenous folks. Deep body in that voice.
He was half, orphaned in sort of, grew up around
indigenous people who took him on. Indians they were
called back then. Open air prisons, the reservations.
A sorrow every time he went back, one thing or other,
his step-mom's eyes, the broken glass bits under his
old man's boots, two cars rusting in the sun.
There was a bread man worked out of his station wagon
and what he couldn't sell he'd bring around to the
reserve late in the day. Practically gave it away.
Donuts, buns, melting chocolate long johns. He had
to clear 'em out. The kids loved him.
Quiet guy, that bread man. You could tell he was smarter
than needed for the job, but there he was. It's likely
he was outlasting some setback or habit, and one day
he hoped to get a leg up on something better.
I guess he did.
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 08/13/2018 : 21:01:16
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| Tumbled granite boulders across the Valle de Guadalupe. Shining weather. Maverick wine. Olives and orange groves beside a grassy plank table. His broken stone oven that bakes better bread. Handwoven napkins from the bullfighters widow. A basket of lavender and limes. "...just a little accordion embroidery..." he grins. |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 08/13/2018 : 21:05:47
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| Old world cameo town. White pillowcases twist on the line like heirloom christening gowns. Window covered with rustic shutters far from any sea. Goats and sheep. Vineyards and tomatoes. Sky-met narrow dirt roads. Sunburned evenings cramped slant letters. Blisters on his fingers. Coyotes forlorn songs. |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 08/17/2018 : 17:18:37
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| "Ya know what I'm sayin'," he says. And she does. He's complicated. He's easy. He likes to surprise and be surprised. That morning's clever disguise. What the locals call May Grey. How far out can you go before you're too far? And this is the ocean. Blackboard-dark sky when the front comes down and the barometric pressure falters. Yeasty clouds. Heavy air. Torn sheets of rain. Small craft warnings. Fore and aft frantic angels. Waves teeth sharp and hungry and waiting. "Well, now..." he says, and he hands her the pen, "...write it all down for me..." |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 08/17/2018 : 17:25:55
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| His mouth of invention making her laugh and lean against him. 35 millimeter tears in their eyes. "Things happen..." he says, "but not accidentally..." Heart-driven years. Coffee-stained pages. A crowd of muses on the other side of the aisle waiting for him to pick up the brush. |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 08/17/2018 : 17:28:36
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| Ensenada. Cinderella of the Pacific. Electrical wires looped on the pole. Cat's Cradle crisscrossing the sky. Life in the margins on Baja Time. History's conspiracy. The pulse in his throat she can see. |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 08/17/2018 : 17:30:51
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| "You come for the Grand Opening," Santiago says. The past faithful. Brave again. |
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San Diego
Swinger
508 Posts |
Posted - 08/19/2018 : 18:16:56
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| On Saturday nine foot tall puppets of Twain and Poe chatted and strolled around Old Town. Twain all in white. Poe in blackblack. Part of Write Out Loud's sponsored TwainFest. Frog jumping contest included. Trevor's also nine feet tall. Forever in bronze mid-windup out beyond the bullpens at Petco Park. Air 76, water 76. Mostly sunny. Back to you, Blaine... |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 08/25/2018 : 17:09:41
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| Stained glass transom. Vertigo street. A chink in the blinds lets the days in. Sweet summer-stalled mornings scanning the chapters. Unwavering climb into his mind. Arcane hours. Earthbound flowers when June fills the rooms. Three-dimensional petal-blooms on the floor. Contradictory myths. A peripheral ocean. |
Edited by - Ailinn on 08/27/2018 17:28:31 |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 08/25/2018 : 17:16:05
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| This summer the mountain burned. Idyllwild in the San Jacintos. Tinder ground. Trees going up like parchment scroll proclamations. High-risk rescues. Sparks on the air. Grit in the ponderosa. Blankets of Foscheck in dirt road Dark Canyon. A place to make angels in winter snow. |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 08/27/2018 : 17:35:31
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| In sleep's blue room. ...And Adam names everything in the new kindled air. Briars and burrs in their hair. Flowers in thrall around them. Snarl of ferns catching their ankles. Mists lifting. Rushing wings. Mossy banks. Bubbles of light on the water. The future approaching layered green. Her hand inside his hand. Safe sun pouring down. Little niches they can't see around. Almost a fictive place but for grace and confirmation. The night coming on. The clamor of stars, "...when stars were still loud..." he says leaning up on one elbow. |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 08/31/2018 : 18:13:48
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My sons are local men. Proposing to their wives on the Padre score board or Lifeguard Tower 21. They fish from the jetties. Surf New Years Day. Observe tradition. Our children go back to school. Fire, Earthquake, Active Shooter drills. Literature describing Run, Hide, Fight, and Lockdown precaution. My sons don't show their dismay. We buy shoes and number 2 pencils. Leak-proof lunchboxes. ID bracelets. Dear old Golden Rule days.
Save the children, save the children...
Heaven help the children find their way... |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2154 Posts |
Posted - 08/31/2018 : 18:20:15
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| ...who goes with him through the nights with her wide broom sweeping stars. "Don't stop," he says closing his eyes, "...the garden...? "Oh, many..." she says, "Some sudden. Some slow. Some anchored to clouds. All manner of color and scent to explore. What more do you need to know?" Quick-angle flight of the dragonfly... No. More languorous. More detail. More glow. |
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The Nightly Vigil