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RWG Poetry 28.08.22

William had a thing for shoes
Italian shoes, French shoes, bit loafers, drivers, espadrilles (in the summer), daps and the like
Soft supple leather
                dyed black, brown, tan, or oxblood

Hand crafted art

“Nothing like slipping finely crafted footwear on your dogs,” he’d say
When he passed, he left over 1500 pair of slip-on shoes
Fifteen-hundred pair of shoes and one pair of boots

Full-quill pecan coloured ostrich leather boots… hand-lasted in a classic cowboy shape with…
Angled heels and hand-corded elk skin shafts

Five years later they are still selling the shoes in thrift shops around the Southwest

I kept the boots



Gracias for the inspiration, Jane

OLWG · writing

OLWG# 274- The Locket

Written for OLWG# 274



Bulldog Laughlin was not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he was always the most tenacious. He was unable to remember a time that he hadn’t loved Barbara. That was why he had agreed to this interview.

Arriving almost two hours early, he waited patiently for Barbara to arrive: rolling cigarettes and sitting in one of the elegantly upholstered wingback chairs. There were four or five crushed-out butts on the concrete floor when she entered the room. Of course, Bulldog recognized her straightaway and rose to pay his respects. She hung back at the door, and one of her people, an older gentleman resembling Col. Sanders, stepped forward.

“Mr Laughlin?” the old man opened.

Bulldog silently nodded his head.

“I’m Buddy Moss,” the man in the white suit continued, “I’m Barbara’s manager. We want to thank you for agreeing to this interview.”

Once again, Bulldog merely nodded. He kept his eyes on Barbara; it was she in whom he was most interested. The rest of these folks were just noise.

“Well, we’ll grab the gear and get set up then,” Buddy said. Barbara smiled at Bulldog as Buddy and his crew left to fetch the cameras and sound equipment.

When it was just the two of them left in the room, Bulldog smiled back at her and asked, “First time here, Barb?”

“Matter of fact, it is, but if I had known you were here, I’d have come sooner. I missed you, Bulldog. Are you really going to give me an interview?”

He shook his head slowly back and forth as he walked closer. Reaching out, he grabbed her necklace and pulled her in close. They kissed deeply and passionately. He pulled her closer, and one of the links broke on the chain. The necklace fell loose and dangled from his right hand as his left curled around her waist and pulled her in tight. He got lost in the feel of her body pressed against his, the floral scent she had always worn. Finally, she put her hands on his chest and pushed him away.

Holding the necklace up, he showed it to her as he slid across the room to the window. “I’m gonna take this with me,” he said, “I’ll see you in another twenty years.” Raising the window, he disappeared through it and into the night, leaving Barbara staring into the inky darkness, and that’s where she was when Buddy came back.

“Where is he?” Moss asked.

Barbara just pointed at the window, “He took my necklace,” she murmured.

“Goddamn.”


This week’s prompts were:

  1. I’m gonna take this with me
  2. Is this your first time here
  3. What are you reading

writing

ZOZO- 22.Aug.22 The Writer

Written in 20 minutes, with the Carrizozo Writers- Raw, unedited, exactly as it flowed through my fingers to the keyboard


“I’ll see you in helllll…” Timmons, the evil landowner, yelled as his fingers slipped from the railing and he plummeted into the abyss.

I stopped typing and adjusted my cheaters to read what I had just written. Then pushing away from the desk, I reached for the glass that still contained a couple drops of whiskey which I leaned back and coaxed down my neck.

Yeah, I thought to myself, that wraps everything into a neat package. I like my bad guys’ dead and this bad guy was gonna have plenty time to think about what awaited him before he was flattened on the rocks below. Now all I need do is get Winston back to the ranch to rescue Amanda. They can live happily ever after.

I was feeling pretty proud of myself when it occurred to me that this drivel I was congratulating myself for was too formulaic, too predictable. It was a load of crap. Immediately, impulsively, I picked up the two hundred and thirty-seven stacked neatly on the desk return and  dropped them into the bin. My readers deserved better, and so did I.

Pulling my bottle from the lower desk drawer I poured a healthy shot into the glass. I rolled two sheets of blank paper beneath the platen, put my hands behind my head and considered my story.

Timmons needed to end up with Amanda who, it turns out, has loved him since high school, but had been afraid of expressing her emotions. Now that her true feelings are out they will marry and have a passel of kids who will grow up to be politicians. They will control the county and become even bigger landowners. Winston needs to end up destitute, maybe horribly disfigured, or even, killed in the war, without anyone really caring.

##

time’s up – step away


The prompts

  1. twisted memory
  2. I deserve better
  3. I’ll see you in hell

 


writing

AMF


I pulled my pickup into the back lot of the Bourbon & Branch and parked in the far corner, away from the door. My shift ran from eight at night to four in the morning. I caught some of the good-time crowd early. Then I watched as the demographics changed. Changed from the beautiful people to the drunk people. Drunken people who had yet to realize they missed their chance for a hook up. There were a few regulars. They came in about midnight and closed us up at 0400.

The place was hoppin’ when I arrived. I waved to Connie as I came through the back door. She nodded to acknowledge me and went back to work. She pulling a tray full of Guinness Stouts for one of the tables against the wall.

After she handed the tray of drinks back to the server, Marny she meandered down the bar to turn over the reins to me. She looked tired and ready to finish for the rest of the night and the morning.

“Evening, Jake,” she started.

“What’s up, Connie,” I said.

I’m not a big talker, which explains why I work till four in the morning. The customers, after midnight, aren’t here to talk. They’re drinkers.

“Everything’s going smooth,” she said. “All the barrels are fresh changed within the last couple of hours, except for the Hoegaarden. You’ll need to change that before the night is over.”

I nodded.

“The crowd is about what you’d expect. Down at that end of the bar, we got a local guy. Named Daniel, and he’s cryin’ in his beer ‘cause his wife up and left him. You know Daniel, he lives three doors down from here, towards the church.”

“Yeah,” I said, “he’s been in a couple of times.” I craned my neck to see him sitting at the bar, slumped over something blue, in a glass

Connie nodded, “Seems she left him for a guy who lives two blocks over from the park, named Nick Masters. I don’t know him.”

“Me neither,” I shrugged my shoulders. “What’s Daniel drinking?”

Connie grimaced, “He calls it an Adios Motherfucker, and it has equal parts of vodka, rum, gin, tequila, and Blue Curaçao. Gotta be nasty, and he’s working on his fourth one.”

Turnover completed, Connie went home, and I got to work. I checked everyone at the bar, got more drinks, as required, and clocked in with Daniel.

He wasn’t doing well; he still slumped over his drink. He was literally crying when he asked for another one. I asked him if he was sure, and how he was getting home.

He said he was sure, and that he was walking home. I made him another AMF. He was quiet. He wasn’t bothering anyone. I figured it was alright for him to sit and cry a while longer. He sat, shit-faced, nursing his drink until he exploded. Which was when Nick Masters walked in with Daniel’s wife, Emmy, on his arm.

Danny spun around on his bar stool and leaned back. “You son-of-a-bitch, Masters!” Daniel yelled. “I’m not letting you bring her back. You’re stuck with her.” He picked up his blue drink and flung it in their general direction. He missed wide, but managed to signal for another AMF.

I got busy.



OLWG · writing

OLWG# 273- A Place of Truth

Written for OLWG# 273



Palmer Kanawha pulled his hat lower, over his eyes, raised his head, and studied the summit. Pico Nevado was a notorious peak, but it was a sacred place and he needed to reach the summit. So, he shrugged deeper into his heavy coat and ploughed on. The mountain was snow-capped year round; he had been told that he would find truth there, and he needed the truth.

The snow is ceaseless atop the mountain
It whispers my name
It tells me the stories of my people

It urges me to jump


This week’s prompts were:

  1. snow won’t stop falling
  2. speak my name in whispers
  3. Jan just told me, “we need to talk.”

OLWG · writing

OLWG# 272- Fireworks Down the Block

Written for OLWG# 272



Mort swung left into Chinatown and found himself moving through a maze of narrow streets and alleyways beneath strings of red paper lanterns. Neon lit the night, and pedestrians teemed in front of the green Buick. He turned to the slightly worn-looking blonde on the seat next to him.

“I’m going to have to ask for directions, or we’ll never find the place.” He said.

“Don’t stop.” she told him, “Take a left on Pine and park across from the alley. I know the way.”


This week’s prompts were:

  1. the road’s been my redeemer
  2. Chinatown
  3. like my favourite balloon

writing

Things Change


The tempo of the steel wheels got faster as the train began to pull away. Carl pressed his hand on the window and watched the prettiest girl he’d ever known, his new bride, Sara, hurry down the platform waving after him.

He was gone to fight in the struggle. – Southeast Asia -. He was still unsure what it was about, but they all assured him that he was protecting America.

So he went. And, there he found

 

Firefights

A Carl he’d never known 

Wounded and dead, piled like driftwood

A Purple Heart

Morphine and his own proclivity for the same

 

The tempo of steel wheels lessened as the train eased into the station. Carl pressed his hand on the window and searched the platform for Sara. They had taken away his morphine, but substitutes are easily found, in a war zone. Life was never going to be what he’d grown up believing.

 

Medicines that raced like trains through his veins were more important 

More important than the bride he barely knew

More important than money or food or family

More important than life itself

 

The train doesn’t stop here anymore. 

The economy is in decline. 

Property values are non-existent.

Sara lives alone at the edge of town. 

Carl never stood a chance, 

– bowled down by forces beyond his control.