The border between night and day dissipates like an illusion, as if it didn't even exist. The sunrise sets it aside and lays before me, like a red carpet at an important ceremony, the freedom of a fresh day. I bite into it with lust, as if it wold be a ripe fruit. F R E E D O M means more than seven letters of the alphabet; it means development, assumed choices, unleashed ideas written... spoken. I take freedom and shake her well from all the complicated philosophical meanings. I`m going, holding her hand, to live each other's lives.
Crouching in a desert of red rocks, I smell the beyond-this-world aroma of chocolate chip cookies and nearly fall over. I’m a child on Earth again. Late-night television, street lights, dinner, fogged-up glass. The illusion of importance. All humans were children then, huddled together on one small planet in the infinite, cold vastness of space. We lived in Eden.
As the Anukai crawl toward me, I try to shake off my memories and focus on the here-and-now. I grip my gun, adjust my stance. But then I remember: the aliens have a poison that smells just like chocolate chip cookies. The clock radio clicked on. The classical station was playing Vivaldi’s “Spring.” Just like they did the first day of spring every year.
“Yes, spring will start today!” the announcer said. “Thank goodness,” Laura muttered, as she started getting up. It had a been a long, cold winter. There had been snow storm after snow storm. She felt like she might become like the man from Minnesota in a joke: she would move to Florida and never open her refrigerator for fear of seeing ice again. “Today’s weather: snow.” Laura groaned. “At least it’s a spring snow!” Marty’s fist caught me full in the face during 4th-grade recess, leaving me flat on my back with a bloody nose.
“You think you’re smart,” he sneered. Getting singled out for praise by our teacher had made me a target for Marty’s anger. I stood slowly, holding my nose. “So, what are you going to do about it, wimp?” “Your dad works at Compton’s Hardware, right?” “What of it?” “My dad owns the store,” I answered with a smile. Editor's Choice Another day in the writing trenches, another submission. Bum in chair. Open the keyboard. Type the words. Make the corrections. Drink the coffee. Wait. Open the email. Read the rejections. Crickets. Lather, rinse, repeat.
A bricklayer doesn’t lament the lack of recognition for her craftsmanship. The edifice she builds houses lives, stories and memories. It has meaning and it pays her well. We write, sending words into the void, hoping they will find their home in someone’s, anyone’s, psyche. And then one day, “We are pleased to inform you…” We fail, unless we try. We are unlucky, till we aren’t. Frost melts from our backyard under the old mulberry tree; staining our tiny sneakers, hands and mouths purple. Low hanging fruit, dark and delicious. The soil burrows beneath our feet, regurges the sweet frost water gifted to it that morning. She, pulls a honeysuckle in bloom from the old bush, through our rusty gate. Places it between her lips and sucks spring into her not unlike the ground itself. I plunge my tiny hand into the dirt, uncover a pool of tadpoles with salamanders the color of water ice and springtime sunsets cowering over them.
“Can I keep one?” “No.” He was having a hard time convincing her.
“Come with me, babe. That way you can pick what flavour you want.” “Any mint choc chip is fine.” She sighed, rolling her eyes, but he got her in the car. “This isn’t the way to Morrison’s,” she snapped. “Surprise!” Everyone shouted as he guided her into the Community Hut. Her Mum was holding a large, black balloon with ‘boy or girl’ printed on it. He grinned at her, holding out a novelty, oversized nappy pin. As pink confetti rained down, he heard her say, “She’s not yours.” The first snowmelt revealed plenty: an empty pint of whiskey, a red plastic ball, a child’s mitten, a discarded cigarette pack.
There also was a dead blue jay, corpse still frozen, its legs pointing up toward the gray sky. Startled, we hesitated on the path for a closer look. “Poor thing,” Patty said. “Should we move it?” The only logical place to move it was under some wet leaves, which we did with the tentativeness of children. Satisfied, we walked away, yet the emotion remained. We observed the suet feeder when we got home, grateful to see any living thing. The doctors tell me I have three months. Three months!
What can I achieve in that time? Make my peace with everyone I’ve damaged? Compensate the people I stole from? Tell the truth to the voters? Apologise to the families of those I had killed? Never! I only did those things because people were stupid enough to let me — their fault, not mine. Nearly everyone is stupid and weak, and they deserve nothing but contempt. I want to be remembered as a strong man. Perhaps I could start a war. Pontius Gordonous just announced the season’s first competition, but in three different categories. Longtime FFF-ers were busy crafting their arts, but now the reality hit them. Based on their experiences, they began to worry how the Pontius going to handle multitude of missing “comma” and “by” in the titles and other submission-form busting mistakes, thus succumbing him to possible “Gordonous PTSD”.
Fortunately, scientists, researching on street drugs LSD and Ecstasy, discovered a way to dissociate their hallucinating property from beneficial brain activity, thus offering returning vets with severe PTSD a new game-changing paradigm. But, will it work on “Gordonous PTSD”? Tomas smiled seeing the first robins of spring land on his crocus-dotted lawn. He smiled watching his wife put away their winter outerwear.
Sporting shorts and flip flops, he stepped outdoors for breakfast on the deck. “What a splendid start to spring,” he beamed, observing squirrels chasing each other on the back fence. He closed his eyes to catch a happy dream. Upon wakening he noticed goosebumps coating his arms. Snowflakes descended while he entered the house. Radio on, a poignant announcement aired: “Red alert, spring snowstorm.” “Where are my winter clothes ?” Tomas asked. He was no longer smiling. James, the class teacher, had to check each bag. Peter had complained about the theft of his watch from his bag.
He continued to search even after finding it in Roy's bag. The poorest and the brightest boy in the class. "I've found it. We've two options: shame the culprit before all or forgive him, giving him another chance." Peter was the first to raise his hand. "I forgive him." When Roy stood first in the year-end examination, James met him alone and presented him a new wristwatch. "I'll keep my vow never to steal," he whispered in James' ear. Milly possessed a hangover and her brain was spinning with woe as she decided on fresh air.
She passed a building site which used to be a gorgeous meadow, shaking her head sadly before entering the park and sitting on a bench, eyes lowered. She glanced up and viewed a beautiful cherry blossom tree, petals swaying in the breeze and several descending as if pink snowflakes. Birds sang and a squirrel scurried up a tree. Suddenly her dark mood lifted and she knew life could be so much worse. The Tribe celebrated in style, hunting down a woolly mammoth and cooking it over the flames. The inferno was specially prepared by one individual, the first human in history to master the technique of harnessing fire. He wandered around the group, tipsy on fermented apples, telling everyone who’d listen what a stroke of genius his invention was. Ironically, his obnoxiousness ensured that he was the second animal in history to be cooked on a man-made fire. As he was roasted alive, he also came up with the first proverb in history - Never make enemies of hungry cannibals.
Conchita’s Mexican Bar & Grill, my hard-earned restaurant, was flourishing.
‘I’m entitled to half the action.’ José my long-departed other half turned up again, blonde bimbo, Elena, in tow. ‘Ni modo, mi esposo.’ He and bimbo were soon sorted. Semi-retired, I bought myself a beach wine-bar and burger shack down Acapulco way. Some nights I’d lie awake, recalling the final addition to Conchita’s grill menu - flame cooked pork medallions drizzled with rich ranchera sauce. ‘Succulent flavour,’ diners complimented. On-shore waves pounded the beach; a lone gull screeched its long call… …a soothing reminiscence of José and Elena’s farewell screams. You are evil! You ogle me with lascivious intent, try to entice me to return your gaze. I avert my eyes; if I don’t you will exert your power over me.
My heart thumps, my breath quickens. I am tempted to steal a glance. So tempted. Your scent grows stronger. Pheromones? Hard to resist. I take a deep breath, summon all my will power. We’ve been together so long but I, and my too tight jeans, need to re-assess our relationship. Chocolate, I will not succumb to you. I will not break my diet. I close the pantry firmly. Sweat began rolling down my forehead the moment I stepped outside. I thought I'd get used to it. I didn't.
A runner sprung forth. Another passerby played with her dogs. Looking up to the sky, I wondered how I'd survive on this island the rest of the year. How did these people survive the heat and humidity without staying in the shadow? Clothes began sticking to my body as I got out of the sea. Maybe long sleeves weren't the best idea. Maybe the locals knew better with their short sleeves and white clothes. As thoughtless, mindless consumers of the planet we accepted a role as pawns of time and nature, when we could have been a king and queen ourselves—seeing the big picture, not being stupid.
Our ‘chess’ opponent is Nature, with its King representing ‘Father Time,’ while the Queen personifies ‘Mother Nature,’ and has the most moves on the Chess Board. As anyone familiar with chess would affirm, pawns are only given certain moves within the game. Had humans been true stewards of this planet, and played the game mindfully, they might, just might have avoided their impending checkmate. We met in the rain.
Not the soaking rain that chills you to the bone and sends you scurrying for any scrap of shelter and warmth. This rain sprung from blue sky. Rainbows dancing through fresh mist. The kind of rain that rejuvenates your soul as it does the earth. We were drawn as magnets, inexorably closer, two hearts on a collision course. Our sudden attraction defied reason, a fated match of old. We came together, frenzied. But our love was cut short. A pull on the lead. Your whine an echo of my own. “Settle down Rex, home now.” He’s a new arrival to the neighborhood. He sits at the corner, holding a cardboard sign with Homeless printed on it.
A sense of guilt rises in me when I see him. It’s a strange feeling, as if I am responsible for his plight. Like Cain, I ask, Am I my brother’s keeper? I hurry down the sidewalk and convince myself I am neither Cain nor the righteous Abel. Still, the sense of guilt persists. Tomorrow, if he is on the corner I will turn around and walk the other way. How many brothers does God expect me to keep? Under a gibbous moon in the still of night, he’s watching the house as though expecting it to explode. Lived at number 37 on the opposite side of the road five years now. And he’s never said a word to them. Not so much as a nod. She is Ukrainian. He’s English. Two young daughters.
A child’s car seat on a mound of rubble. Never seen anything so bleak. An image from the rolling news that wouldn’t leave him alone. Never felt so hopelessly detached. Barely feels his wife’s hand on his shoulder. “Did I wake you?” he asks. There’s nothing left, or so it seems. After several days running uncontrollably, the fire has finally burnt itself out. Almost everything has been destroyed: homes, shops, football fields, farms, forests.
And the fire crew is exhausted beyond words after their losing battle. Usually they only deal with small flare-ups. They get to be saviours, the rescuers. Not this time. They couldn’t control this one. People have died. In days to come, nothing will erase these scenes, their sense of failure. There’s only time for a small group consolation. They light up a cigarette each and inhale deeply. Pure delight. I dreamed I was rubbing the ears of a bunny. They were so warm, soft, and velvety. And the bunny didn’t seem to mind, at least it didn’t pull away, just let me keep rubbing, and rubbing, and rubbing.
But then I realized, there were three of them! Wait a minute, I thought, bunnies don't have three ears. Opening my eyes, I saw I’d been fondling my husband's fingers. When he sleeps on his side he sometimes tucks his hand under his pillow. At breakfast I told him my dream. "Yeah," he said, "I was wondering what that was about." I don’t care what they said, I didn’t rest.
My legs twitched with puffs of energy that sent my skirts billowing like clouds as I searched endlessly for… What was I looking for? I could not recall. Once, my objective was clear. But now, I was forced to trace my steps over and over in the hopes of finding…something. I heard a cry. My heart swung like a compass arrow to its true north. I had found what I was looking for! Soft as smoke, I wrapped myself around her in her sleep and she smiled. At last, I rested. Nestled in the desirable Molly Bloom Estate, this four-bedroom family home comes to market in spectacular condition, with brand new maple flooring and recently installed white oak kitchen. Upstairs, built-in pine wardrobes enhance each bedroom. With a well maintained exterior, it boasts an immaculate hardwood shed and cedar decking to the secluded rear.
Adjacent to Boylan Carpentry, with easy access to Play-Away fun centre, this beauty is priced to sell. With a highly active neighbourhood watch committee, viewing is essential. Upgrading blinds recommended. |
"Classic"
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