Tag Archive: writing


Up thoughts

Alice in Wonderland all rights to Disney


She stood on tiptoe her nose barely reaching over the edge of the table. The treats were so tempting sitting in their cut crystal bowl screaming “eat me”, but still she wavered. Some small animalistic lobe of the brain alerting her to the danger of too perfect an opportunity. Quickly she glanced side to side, sure she was about to be found out for the uninvited interloper she was, but no one looked or noticed. Quick as a flash tiny hand took tiny treat. The jolt of adrenaline added to the flavor making the sugar complex and wonderful. Wildly she enjoyed the stolen morsel, and having eaten her treasure sank to the floor… deflated. No one had noticed or cared. Emptiness filled her stomach and inch by inch swollowed her, mind and all. Everything now felt sharp and disjointed as if it had become over large or ungainly. She sat with her new feelings and confused by them began searching for explanation. She had gotten what she wanted, right? 

Yes, it had been exquisite in both anticipation and reality. So why did she now feel even smaller? 

The thoughts made her want to wipe her hands off, as if this mindset could be cleared away so easily. 

Maybe, no. Perhaps the real want had not yet been met. 

Immediately her searching switched to scanning. The treats were little, the pleasure they brought had been little, and the motive tiny. She would need something much bigger to make the smallness go away. Ruby and amber flashes winked at her from smoky glass decanters daring her to “drink me”. This, she thought, was no little thing this was big. The big action of a big person who people would notice. Decided she went for the decanter thinking only up thoughts. The flush of success, so newly acquired, slipped away as the liquid passed parted lips. It seared and burned on the way down pulling her after. 

Up it seemed was still out of reach.

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I itch between my shoulder blades, the unreachable itch of watchful eyes cast my way. I don’t dare turn to look as the pointless gesture only makes me look guilty, of something… of anything worth watching. Instead I slowly roll my shoulders and stretch my back, even pull a yawn. It is better to appear bored, or better yet tired, tired people aren’t a threat. It’s hard to mobilize when you are beat down by life and lack of sleep. The gaze slips from me to the truely tired business man slumped against the hand rail beside me. He startles noticibly before faining indifference. I keep my smile small and smother the laugh threatening to bubble out, nothing attracts unwanted attention like laughter at tense moments. The urge completely abates with the soft gasp and hushed rustle of fabric that means someone is being “helped” off the train for questioning. 

A heavy silence follows those sounds; filled with dred and inactivity. I cannot blame them the fear we are all mainlining these days, compliments of our government for our own good I’m sure, is a potent drug. 

I check my watch, like I always do, stand and walk towards the back of the train, per usual, shift my bag to the center of my back, in a perfectly normal manner. I am just a commuter. I am just tired. I am “sheepole”. The thoughts drive through me like a steel rod, straightening my back and my resolve, like bolts of lightning, energizing and wild, like the truth which frees.

Impatiently, I wait for the train to stop and the doors to open. I tap my toes, check my watch, and adjust my bag. In an exaggerated motion I crane my neck looking for the conductor who will stand near the open the door waiting to help myself and the pair in front of me disboard. I mumble and “swear to god” under my breath. Everyone has backed away from the door except us three. Our mixed bag of emotions, as repellent as noxious gas, acts as a shield. No one wants to see the fear in the eyes of the man being taken for questioning or the joy in the young recruit’s. I remain impatient and agitated. I shift my bag to my side just as the train lurches to a stop. My perfectly timed fall is unavoidable and undignified. As the locked doors spring open the young recruit, I grabbed for stability, and I fall down the steps in a tangle.

The fearful man, selected for questioning, freezes for only an instant.

We lock eyes.

He nods once, then is gone.

The itchy feeling is back, but at least I no longer have to suffer the dreadful inactive silence. What comes next will have been worth it.

I am civil disobedience, and I will not be ignored.

 

​”This is the single greatest witch hunt!” His voice caught somewhere between a whine and a yell carried on the heavy air out into the night. As the inky darkness accepted the words rolling them over and over in fading echos it gained a chill edge, causing those whose shoulders it brushed to shiver. Developing a weightiness the wind filled with shadows and percieved threats. Shreiking across the miles it tore at sanity shreading peace no regard for the distraction left in its wake. Ringing with the sound of history repeated the bluster rages on, but fear not for it is followed by the winds of change.

 As seen in the Atlantic – Andrew Kelly

​I am Science. Define me.

I am no regal lady like Justice or Liberty.

I cannot be swayed like Luck or personified as “She”.

I stand without gender, color, or creed

For all questions and every need.

I am the breaker of barriers, the truth teller, the seed;

Fruit from the knowledge tree.

Yet so few can actually see

What is instilled in me.

I am patient not self seeking.

Jealous of your time without envy,

But at my core I am constant and freeing.

So do not allow yourself to be blinded politically 

Or silenced by ambition and folly.

Instead strive forward deliberately.

To challenge all who would dare to bar entry

Those whom ardently wish to stand sentry 

Over facts and figures approaching infinity.

Put your labels aside, throw away the lock and key.

Welcome criticism, evolution, and diversity.

For I am Science, defined by what I can be.

All rights to owner whom I thank

Magnificent Intentions Circus was trying to work its way out of a dry spell. The ticket sales the fire eater had been brining in were slowing down so now the MIC was as dusty as Oklahoma, and just as downtrodden.

With unavoidable hard times on the horizon the troupe started dividing itself into factions. The ones who had been with the circus the longest were the first to draw a line in the sand. The menagerie keeper, clowns, strong man, and the peep show considering themselves the greatest of performers began disparaging the newer acts in an attempt to safeguard their own positions at Magnificent Intentions. This left the other acts to fend for themselves. 

Tired of feeling left out and unwanted the newer acts decided they to would form their own diverse network of carnies. Now all the freeks, geeks, and oddity acts that had not been with MIC long enough to be considered eligible for the greatest of performers had the sense of community they had been lacking. 

Wanting to revive interest in the circus once more both groups decided to sugest a new act for Magnificent Intentions in the hopes of cementing their positions in the troupe. The diverse network of carnies made the first move recommending  Mademoiselle Merry to the owners. It seemed all too perfect a fit. The alliteration alone making her inclusion in the circus seem preordained. So the fortune teller came down from New York City. Immediately interest in MIC grew as word spread about the Mademoiselle and her mystical knowledge of all secrets and hidden truths. Unfortunately, times which were already hard were only made harder when mixed with her cold hard facts. So Madem’ Merry’s brand of entertainment proved ineffective at sparking the renewed interest Magnificent Intentions badly needed.

Having watched the fortune teller’s popularity wax and wane the greatest of performers sifted through many options before deciding which act to set before the owners. They all agreed that the act should be fantastical, as far removed from the mundane as possible, and entertaining enough to necessitate multiple viewings. However, a decision seems nearly impossible till the menagerie man made his suggestion. An orange elephant. He argued that such a massive wild beast would be awe inspiring, and that people would come again and again needing to be assured the creature truely existed. Many thought the menagerie man could not produce such a beast, with coloration as vivid and outrageous as orange, but finally the owners were swayed by the novality of it. After all… no other show could boast such an impossible act. 

So the circus made its preparations. 

On the day the orange elephant was to arrive the other beautiful animals in the menagerie were pinned and stabbled in the back. Out of sight. An orange elephant, being so superior, could not be expected to get along with the black Arabian stallions, brightly feathered peacocks, or aging jaguars after all. The next change was in staffing. Maintaining an orange elephant required more work hours devoted to feeding and cleaning so the owners of Magnificent Intentions asked all the women in the troupe to stop performing and focus on care related tasks instead. Finally, additional strong men were hired to help train the orange elephant while those with talents deemed “nolonger necessary” were asked to leave.

The orange elephant was exactly what had been promised. It was iminse, dwarfing all the other animals at the circus. It was an unbelievable shade of orange. Fantastic to behold. The orange elephant made the other acts seem dull and quickly became the Big Top performance everyone wanted to see. The day the orange elephant joined the circus ticket sales went through the roof but the Magnificent Intentions Circus changed. 

The greatest of performers only saw the good changes. Their jobs were secure, the seats were filled, and money was flowing like a river. The drought was over. However, the other carnies saw it differently. The fence erected around the circus to protect the orange elephant felt more like a cage than a barrier from harm. The once equally revered performances from both long running and newer members could now be easily separated into favorite acts, from the greatest of performers, and forgotten acts, from the diverse network of carnies. 

But the people cheered when the orange elephant appeared. Clapped when the Dancing Donkeys were scattered as the orange elephant charged. Laughed as the Acrobatic Annabelles were swatted away by swinging trunk and flapping ears. Even begged for more as the Big Top tent shivered and shook when the orange elephant stomped around.

The Magnificent Intentions Circus loved the new interest and the major up swing in ticket sales, but soon even the owners could see the orange elephant was more trouble than it was worth. The damage however was done; the money spent and the banners painted. The orange elephant would have to stay till a better act came to town.


What do you remember?

As seen on wikimedia all rights to the owner

The night was sharp. I have no better way to describe it. It looked like it had been cutaway from the daylight by a painter’s knife with short sure motions. 

I could focus on little else.

Driven to distraction it wasn’t till my fingers started to burn from the icy wind that I looked away from the heavenly Bob Ross. Summer sunsets are beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but there is some kind of eery otherworldliness in crisp winter night skies. 

Once inside I turned off the TV and put a kettle on to boil, the image had me in the mood for strong tea and dark silence. So I watched the red-orange flames lick out alive waiting for the hiss of steam.

I held the mug with both hands soaking up the minty warmth, but the tension in my shoulders refussed to drain away. Something in the night nagging at the periphery of my attention. The house was quite, the door was locked, I closed my eyes willing the edges of my frayed nerves to lie flat…

I startle at the sound of a man clearing his throat sloshing piping hot tea onto my right hand.

“Ma’am can you tell me what happened,” he asks a look somewhere between pity and suspicion in his eyes.

“Happened? What happened?”

He checks a notepad while I look around the small uncomfortable room. It has dingy short pile carpet, a table with coffee cup rings, and hard molded plastic chairs. The man makes direct eye contact, only suspicion this time, “What do you remember?”

“It was sharp,” his eyebrows shoot towards the ceiling, “the night was sharp.” I elaborate, “the sky had this look like it was painted, you know what I mean? Too many straight edges…sharp-like.”

“That’s what you remember?” 

He’s incredulous.

“What about the fire? Do you not remember the fire?” The man is very nearly yelling at me.

I consider what he has said, thinking back, trying to remember. Like a reflex I take a sip of tea, “I made tea.” I offer holding up the mug.

He stands and walks to the door. Quick quiet words are exchanged with someone I cannot see. “I just handed you that tea ma’am,” he says while walking back to the table, “you don’t remember anything.” This time it’s a statement not a question.

“The night was sharp and otherworldly.”

He looks at me so hard he looks through me. The pity is back in his eyes.

I shiver chafing my hands together on the bus. Even sitting uncomfortably close to a stranger my fingers and toes ache with cold. Standing on curbs waiting for late public transportation has that effect on even the most weather worn new englanders I imagine.

Staring out the window I feel myself begin to thaw in the sunlight. Now I can see it. The riot of color, the light frost turning to dew on the grass… Then I can see it. There under a blanket on the cold stone footer of the decorative bridge lays a person covered with a blanket a shopping cart at their feet. 

The shiver comes again. This time it is the cold creeping under my skin and into my soul. 

How dare I complain. 

The image whips past me as the light changes, no matter it is burned into my mind. 

All rights to the owner of the image whom I thank

Poised

An acidic tang hung on the warm dry air, coating her tongue and souring her words, keeping unnecessary conversations to a minimum.  The silence suited Ayda though allowing her to stretch her senses as close to the horizon as possible knowing that the constant wind would distort sound and the fading light alter her depth perception.  Still she waited, poised, at the edge of a decision.  If going had been hard then returning would be nearly impossible.

“To the East,” she said moving forward in long steady strides.  They called her Ayda for a reason… nearly would be good enough.

image

All rights to the owner who I thank for putting such a striking image on the internet.

Not time for daydreams

The tall slender birch trees stood at ridged attention like ancient sentries long forgotten and ghostly in the predawn darkness.  The birch ringed the clearing, which must have at one time or another been farm land, reminiscent of a whitewashed picket fence.  The thought made me smile, made me want to place the flat of my hand against the pale papery bark.  It made me wish that I was just on a small walk, just me, the clearing, and nature, but the truth was this wasn’t the time to be caught in daydreams. 

Part of me knew it was the escapist in me letting my eyes go unfocused and my mind wonder, another part registered how necessary this was for survival.  I knew that the mind could break under such stress and pressure without a free fall now and again.  So I savored my dark clearing and the peaceful birch guards watching over me because whether it was in a matter of hours, minutes, or split seconds the silence would end … and the moment would be lost to the waking world.  The peace would disappear like the morning mist and my sanity; with the blare of sirens, the call of machine guns, and the whistle of shells.  It was most decidedly not time for daydreams…

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Halloween was over and they were looking Thanksgiving square in the eye.  It was crunch time, the danger zone, 11th hour.  He took a deep breath as his hand ran through his hair knocking his hat askew.

“Logistics!”

His barked command was met with a scuttling of feet and a shuffling of paper before, “Printed, ah, in duplicate, and out for round one.”

He looked up with furrowed brow “You’re sure?”

“Positive sir, absolutely.”

“Good.  Transportation!”

“Aah!  Hemhem.  Uh, good sir.  All in fine running condition.”

This time the look in his eyes was almost quizzical.  “Everything’s fine?”

The question within the question hung in the air as Transportation read back over the slightly crumpled report in her hand.  “No it is sir.  Lights are a go, speed checked out, it’s … It’s all good?”

He sat back in his chair swiveling back and forth thinking.  “Utilities?” the question was quiet this time almost unsure.

“Well, we’re well within the range.  I mean not full capacity but … You know solid.  I mean If tonight was a go we’d make it.”

His hand shook slightly as he pulled the crooked hat from his head.  “Production what do you have for me?”

“Sir I’m proud to say that we are ahead of schedule.  We haven’t missed a quota since July one.”

“So what your telling me is that Christmas is only 45 days away and you cannot find a single problem.  No issues.  None whatsoever?  Not with the naughty/nice list, the sled, the reindeer, Christmas’s spirit, or the gifts!”

“Number One, sir, isn’t that a good thing?” The elf from production asked.

“Well Production let’s see.  Records!  What happened the last time nothing threatened Christmas?”

“Sir?” the tiny elf holding a giant leather bound book squeaked.

“You heard me Records.”

“It’s just …” he poured over pages of script, “It’s just …”

“It’s never happened Production.  You get it yet?  No problems, no Christmas miracle, no …”

“Jing..gle…bells!”

“Yah not on my watch Production.  Now talk to me people how are we going to ruin this Christmas?  We have millions of children depending on us.”

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All rights to owner

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