I passed him in the park. Strange looking fellow. Short, absolutely rotund. And he was moving along--not walking but waddling. You know: Swaying from side to side with every step he took. Looked just like a short, fat duck wearing a man's clothing. I decided to follow him; to see where he might go. Was he putting on an act? trying to draw attention to himself? some kind of mime? He went down toward the lake in the center of the park. I followed him into a grove of cypress trees that grew near the water. There were other trees growing profusely there; he vanished momentarily. Then I saw him stop, tear off his clothing, then waddle naked into the water and swim away. He turned briefly, winked at me, and said, "Quack, quack," and dove beneath the water. I stood there for half an hour or more, but he never came up. I walked over and picked up his clothing and shoes, tucked them under my arm, and left them at the pavilion at the park entrance, in case he might later return and claim them. I also reported seeing him dive into the water; but I did not stick around after the attendant placed a call for the park police. I had an idea the guy would be all right. Or as all right as someone who waddles like a duck can be.
They passed the law at midnight. It's the God anti-defamation law. Those who vilify will be set to blaze. Honestly, I'm glad they passed it, and I personally signed the petition. Enough is enough. The platitudes are killing me. There's nothing new to bring to the table. How many generations of atheists recycling the same God hating rhetoric must we stand? The answer is zero.
Most of my friends are burning to death right now. I can almost smell them from inside this dive bar. My first friend to go was, Christian. How ironic is that? Yeah, he was your typical atheist on a redundant agenda. He even had a death metal band. They weren't anything special, so they won't be missed. Just like any of the bands from the 21st century, they lacked originality. If you took twenty of the top death metal bands from the nineties, and meshed them together you'd get his cliche band. Their gimmick was the anti-God lyrics behind the banal music. Slayer beat them to the punch thirty something years ago. You can kiss that band goodbye too. I happen to volunteer at the food bank monthly, plus I have the credentials to back it up. I'm in the clear. Vilifying God lost its charm ten years ago. I'm a profound thinker and a versatile conversationalist. I'll live until I die from cirrhosis of the liver with the way I drink. It's better than fire though, you atheist scum. I'm keen on my first amendment rights, but I'm willing to be lenient on the acount of monotony. I've been here in Pittsburgh for five decades now, and I've run into the same conversation time and time again. I wanna celebrate Christmas without some asshole trying to shit on my Christmas tree. Hallelujah! I heard a group of five hundred atheists stormed the capital building in Harrisburg only to be shot down without warning. Those picket signs didn't stand a chance. I haven't had bourbon in five years, but I'll gladly drink to that. Jesus saves, all you have to do is embrace the Lord! Diversity can be nice, but like everything else it has its price. These God haters are self serving bastards who breed nothing but negativity. Life is precious. Everyone deserves to live, as long as they live in peace. Atheists are incapable of understanding this. We as a society don't want discord. We want Easter eggs and ham dinner. Not a fucking public protest! If you ask me, it serves them right. They had it coming, it was inevitable! Now that they're taken care of, I can focus on other things, joyful things like the Pittsburgh Steelers and Iron City beer. God bless! When workers at Bolt’s button factory began work last Tuesday, It was just another work-a-day. Shanae, a young receptionist, sat at her desk planning her day. There would be phone calls, visitors to receive and – perhaps – some typing as the typing pool had been scrapped and typists made redundant months ago.
At noon, Mr Bolt summoned staff to the old dining room. He asked female staff to sit, while the men stood. Glancing round the room, he announced a 10% pay rise for all female staff because of the International Women’s Day. The men protested. Speaking fiercely, Bolt said women had always earned 10% less than male staff since the company opened in 1960. Rising hesitantly, Shanae and the other women began to clap. They failed to understand that nothing had really changed. In their euphoria, none bothered to ask, by what percentage men earned more in each department. Relieved, Bolt nodded to the young man accompanying him, a reporter from the local paper, Daily Express. The story would make front page news tomorrow. Bolt and his company would be hailed, but for the many women who worked at the machines, nothing much would change: So much for parity. Looks good, understated and classy – bought as a 50th birthday present to self.
Spent its first 20 years wrapped around the lawyer’s wrist. Conscientiously ticking off the minutes in his upstate NY office. He died, though, and this perpetual timepiece was left to his minister. The minister maybe doesn’t quite realise what he’s got but he wears it anyway. The bracelet breaks after a rough game of 1980’s tennis (more brute strength than finesse), so he replaces with a tacky plastic strap. It cracks and falls into disrepair after a few years, of course. Abandoned on the old sofa, piled with books and papers, the watch still valiantly ticks if disturbed in a rummage for papers. House clearing after another death and it emerges, blinking, into the light and that second hand starts its smooth circuit of first a minute, then an hour, again. The durable Swiss mechanism was built to last. A watchmender’s craft is all it takes to restore the broken crown and some replacement bracelet links make a good liking to its original. It may be a 1957 Rolex vying for space in a world of smart watches but it’s found new life in 2016. An almost sexagenarian with plenty of life and a new wrist to grace. And this new generation covets its lineage – so the future’s secure. Lori opens the door and I enter a grayish smoke-filled house. She greets me with a squishy, flaccid kiss that left a sticky orange imprint on my cheek. I remind myself to wait until she turns her head to rub it off. The rhubarb-red rouge accentuates the doughy pallor of her drooping face. That forever down-turned mouth and those watery-yellowed eyes outlined in black causes the room to darken.
"Well come on in", the words fall like gravel from her mouth as she directs me towards the living room with her left hand. "How are you doing, Mom?" I ask in a flat voice, trying not t cough as I pass her, taking in a whiff of her over-dosed spray of perfume. "Oh, ok, I guess," she replies talking to the door as she closes it. I quickly swipe my fingertips across my cheek, and then rub the lipstick off on my pants. "Go sit on the couch and start looking at those bills on the coffee table. Do you want something to drink?" she asks. "Yes, a glass of wine would do," I reply as I sit down in my usual corner of the couch and glance towards the bills, then look up at the sun light on the lawn outside and wish I could be fishing instead. As she hands me the wine glass she states, "Looks like you gained more weight". The room goes black as my brain implodes silently. I walked up to the gate and leaned on it, looking over into the yard. The old house was sagging toward the south; it needed repairs badly. The yard was a sea of weeds and grass. But she sat there unconcerned under the shade of the old oak tree. A ragged rope hung down, holding a worn, tattered automobile tire. We used to play on that tire when we were much younger.
"'Lo, Emma," I said. I'd been saying it for years, ever since I came along that morning long ago and found her sleeping the Eternal Sleep in her rocker underneath the oak. She didn't speak, of course, but that didn't put me off. I'd loved her for as long as I could recall; and now I loved what was left of her, which wasn't much after so many years out in the weather. I should have buried her, but could never bring myself to do that. She lived way back in Darkly Hollow, and no one but me ever came out this way. So I continued to lean on the fence while I paid her another brief visit, then I went into the yard, kissed the top of her bonnet, and returned to my pickup truck and left. Someday the wind will blow hard and scatter what remains of Emma, and I won't go back anymore. I'll not have any reason to. She won't be there anymore. But in the meantime, I'll keep on going back for the brief visits, just to let her know I still care.` Looks good, understated and classy – bought as a 50th birthday present to self.
Spent its first 20 years wrapped around the lawyer’s wrist. Conscientiously ticking off the minutes in his upstate NY office. He died, though, and this perpetual timepiece was left to his minister. The minister maybe doesn’t quite realise what he’s got but he wears it anyway. The bracelet breaks after a rough game of 1980’s tennis (more brute strength than finesse), so he replaces with a tacky plastic strap. It cracks and falls into disrepair after a few years, of course. Abandoned on the old sofa, piled with books and papers, the watch still valiantly ticks if disturbed in a rummage for papers. House clearing after another death and it emerges, blinking, into the light and that second hand starts its smooth circuit of first a minute, then an hour, again. The durable Swiss mechanism was built to last. A watchmender’s craft is all it takes to restore the broken crown and some replacement bracelet links make a good liking to its original. It may be a 1957 Rolex vying for space in a world of smart watches but it’s found new life in 2016. An almost sexagenarian with plenty of life and a new wrist to grace. And this new generation covets its lineage – so the future’s secure. The siren seemed to be sounding, although there was no siren. The light from the searchlight still was aimed too high, since no escape had been detected as yet, and, as long as he stayed at the water’s edge, it missed him by at least twenty feet.
It was a hot night. He let his bare and bleeding feet be washed by the river, laughing at himself as he looked out across the water. And there was the river, a foot in front of him. And there, on the other side of it, was the federal penitentiary. His home to be for seven more years, if the law was to have its way. The law would not have its way, of course. At least not the federal law. The law of the streets would, though. Because of the work of Big Jake and the Southside Boys his escape had been neatly planned. A guard bribed, a drain pipe made accessible. And the boat hired that would pick him up in two minutes. Of course it was not all done yet. The Northside Boys had their presence in the prison, and everywhere there were eyes and ears. The note he had found this morning under his pillow saying: “Hope your boat don’t blow up.” But that was nonsense. They could not have known, not all the details. So he dreamed about the life that would begin for him in a few hours; his life of freedom. The boat appeared, chugging along dutifully. He got to his feet. “Hey, over…” And the boat blew up. Flash. Particles of metal and flesh began to rain around him. “Fiction,” he mused. That life he was going to lead. Flash. Fiction. And the siren began to wail. The night has always been comforting to her, often her darker thoughts occurred then; allowing her to look into her darkness without scaring her demons with the light shining in from the outside, just a flicker of candlelight as she stepped further.
The subtle beating of her heart had become stronger; it has been a while as she had shut down, in her attempt to be more robotic in order to keep the pace with her current work. Returning to the darkness within her, rekindling the spirits and demons that once drove her, throwing fuel on the dimmed fire, her heart found its best. Blood roared through her veins, pulsing, pulsing - a warmth returned across her, melting her iron corset clinging onto her thinning waist. The shackles breaking, collapsing into her knees, she was breaking away from those that held her captive. “It was only a matter of time,” she whispered, “You’re home.” “Almost,” she replied, “Almost…” Her eyes locked on the moon, flickering through the clouds, energizing her, ideas flooding through her mind, encapsulating her in a trance where she sits down to draw. Charcoal scratching at the paper, the dust staining her hands, blackening her skin, pausing for a moment to take a cigarette. Click. The smoke filling her lungs, slowly eating her from the inside out, she continued to draw biting into the cigarette butt, the ash dropping onto her work, she merely smudged it into the shadows of the woman she found herself drawing again and again. I'm so glad, Simeon said as he kissed her shoulder before taking the cigarette from her mouth and having a toke. Her lips remained sealed, the only noise was their almost synchronized breathing, the music caught in the wind, and the flickering candle and the charcoal scratching the textured paper. |
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