He

#####

Callused, scarred hands clutched the crook of his walking stick and sat on the edge of a planter on Swift Street filled with geraniums. Just outside Cat and Cloud Coffee. He was catching his breath and after a bit, he stood again and ambled south on 35th to East Cliff. Standing at the top of the cliff, he stared at the ocean and listened to the waves crash on the rocks below. He –

thought of Cara. He had been optimistic, and thought there may have been something there:
thought of his career at the post office. He had just been pensioned off…
thought of the tooth extraction, on which he had just made the final payment last month.
thought of his recent holiday to Orlando, trying to figure out – why?
thought about how easy it would be to take one step forward, meet with the cliff face, meet with the cold Pacific waters;
thought about eternal life and wondered if it was worth it!
Once again, he decided it wasn’t worth it,
he always did*

He turned and retraced his steps back home, pausing only once to catch his breath.

###

OLWG# 367- Haibun

Written for OLWG# 367

###

Lewis leaned over, pushed Kitty’s hair behind her ear to whisper, intimately, “Let’s run away together. We can go out west. Live happily ever after.”

She put the tip of her index finger on his lips, as if hushing him, “By the time they figure out that we’re gone we’ll be in Arizona.” Her hand dropped to his leg and she smiled seductively, “But,” she added, “I don’t have to go home. I don’t want to go home. Let’s go to Paris, or Firenze instead. We could eat room service, drink fine wine, and only get dressed if we choose to go out. Prague is nice in the spring, but the architecture is a bit dark and gothic, for my taste. Maybe Budapest; we could hold hands and stroll along the river, making our way to a dimly lit, romantic restaurant. We’d never have to come back.”

Silent Danube flows,
Lovers’ dreams forever float,
Hand in hand they roam.

#####

This week’s prompts were:

1. fear of music
2. by the time they figure it out, we’ll be in Arizona
3. I don’t have to go home

OLWG# 366- Long White Cadillac

Written for OLWG# 366

###

Peter took a final hit off his Lucky Strike. He flipped the butt out the window and parked the long white Cadillac on the sidewalk. He killed the engine, watched and listened as it smoked and backfired. He waited as the hot engine and open throttle facilitated a bit of dieseling. When the engine finally stopped, he grabbed the phone from his pocket and dialed the number he had been given.

Inside the house, Michael Harriman’s phone rang. He pressed a button and held the phone up to his ear, “Yeah, this is Micky,” he said.

He listened for a while and finally said, “Oh? Well, I suppose you would know. OK, I’ll be right out.” He pressed another button, slid the instrument back into his jacket pocket, reached for the old-fashioned glass on the coffee table, and finished the whisky it contained. He dragged his forearm across his mouth and stood.

“I gotta go guys. My ride’s here.”

Carla stood up and gave him a big hug, “I’ll miss you,” she said simply and then stepped away.

The kids were all next, and each said their goodbyes. The youngest boy, Knox, whispered in his father’s ear, “Can I have your bike, Dad?”

“The Sportster?”

The boy, Knox, nodded his head and bit his lower lip.”

“Sure, I won’t have any use for it.” He mussed the boy’s hair and pushed him gently away. He turned and walked out the door without looking back.

Saint Peter got out and opened the rear door for his passenger. Micky slid into the back seat. Peter shut the rear door and got back in behind the wheel. He picked up the packet of Lucky’s and shook one out to offer Micky.

“No thanks, I gave ‘em up. I could use a drink, though.” Peter leaned over and opened the glove box. He retrieved a flask and handed it over.

“Is there whisky in heaven?”

“There is,” Peter replied. “There’s whisky, fatty foods, cigarettes, and members of the opposite sex. Even members of the same sex, if that’s what you’re into.”

“What about Carla?”

“She’s got a lot of life scheduled yet. Cross that bridge when you see her again. I think she’ll be OK with whatever you decide. Buckle up now.” He started the Caddie up again and revved the engine.

The heat shimmered off the asphalt.

#####

This week’s prompts were:

1. times I can’t remember
2. my ride’s here
3. Camino de la Luna

Zozo 16.05.24- processing entire patterns and configurations, not just individual components

Written Thursday, in 20 minutes, with the Carrizozo group.

###

It had been more than ten years since Marie had seen Randy. She took a second look, and sure as shit, it was Randy sitting in “The Grind” coffee shop. What the fuck was he doing in her coffee shop? What the fuck was he doing in Gallup? This is the last place she thought Randy would come. Randy was not a fan of New Mexico. He hated spicy food. He hated the desert and hated people who didn’t speak English at home. What the fuck was he doing in Gallup? 

How could he come here? Gallup was where she had come to get away from Randy and all of his fucked up friends.

She stepped away from the counter and walked over to where he sat. Where he sat, talking to some chick.

“No Anna Lee,” he said. “It’s not like that. Not like that at all. The whole is worth more than the sum of its parts.”

Marie stopped next to the table that Randy shared with that chick, Anna Lee was her name. Without an introduction or a prologue of any sort, she stood facing him, “You are so full of shit, Randy,” she said, “Are you still using that line about ‘the gestalt is now,’ and how we must seize the present if we are ever to understand the past? What a load of crap.”

She turned to the chick, “Anna Lee, right?” the girl nodded, “I have some advice for you, and you can take it or leave it. This line he’s feeding you today is the same line he used on me more than ten years ago. He’s probably used it on hundreds of others since he used it on me. It’s crap, though, total crap. Gather up your bag and your jacket. You don’t need this barnacle in your life.”

##

The prompts:

1. It must have been a dream
2. Your world has too many barnacles
3. I couldn’t stay
4. Doorbell

OLWG# 365- Cigarettes & Whisky

Written for OLWG# 365

###

Alden Ramos slumped deeper in the chair. He lifted the collar of the Pea Coat he wore and stuck his hands into the pockets. He felt the packet of Old Gold Filters that he had forgotten, years ago. Pulling it out, he tore open the top and found a single, bent and yellowed, cigarette. Alden hadn’t smoked in almost twenty years; he rightly concluded that it had been at least that long since he had worn the Pea Coat. He decided that he wanted to smoke that cigarette and patted the other pockets of the heavy dark coat, looking for matches.

It was only one

Babe Ruth had smoked Old Golds

If he smoked it outside – Ada need never know

Ada had gone to her meeting, and wouldn’t be back for at least an hour and a half

He had one of those little bottles of Jack that he’d kept hidden in his underwear drawer for almost as long as the cigarette had been in his coat pocket

Whisky and a cigarette sounded like just what he needed

He was already ready for this, and there was no way that Ada could find out

He couldn’t find any matches so he lit the cigarette with the burner on the stove and ran out the back door holding the smoke deep in his lungs. He coughed just a little bit as he ran through the kitchen, back to the porch. Once back on the porch he screwed the top off the tiny bottle of Jack Daniels, the cigarette resting loosely between his lips.

He snagged the butt between his thumb and index finger and sniffed the open bottle, it smelled good. He took a sip and grimaced. He didn’t remember whiskey tasting that bad.

He took a long drag on the cigarette and inhaled deeply. Yeah, he thought, that was good. Another tip of the bottle and even the whisky tasted good.

He sat back down at the table and took another puff of the cigarette and another taste of the whisky. His eyes closed and he passed.

Ada found out, but Alden died happy.

#####

This week’s prompts were:

1. last bent butt from a packet of Old Golds
2. already ready
3. Old age slumps deeper in the chair

The Muse

Brock Santangelo was a writer. His destiny was to be a writer. His name, after all, was Brock Santangelo, and that name has writer written all over it! But he’d been unable to scratch even a single paragraph for almost three months. 

In desperation, Brock joined the On-Line Writers Guild to get prompts. 

Nothing.

He enrolled in a creative writing class at Shelbyville Community College.

Nothing, again.

He went to the neighbouring city of Clayton to visit the airport, and eavesdrop.

Still nothing.

Brock knew that his muse, Mirta, loved water. He tried with a full kitchen sink for three days, and finally, he went to Scarscastle Gorge and waited along the banks.

After two days, he got hungry and left, but all was not in vain – he met Michelle there.

He and Michelle discussed his long dry spell.

“You know, Brock,” she recounted with her whisky dry voice, “In ’85 after I published ‘Abeng,’ it was two years before I got my next book, ‘No Telephone to Heaven,’ to the publisher. I don’t think you have anything to worry about, but if you are worried, you might look for another muse. Try a desert muse or a muse from the green. I can take you to the Afèith, in Evergreen County, or there is a Zawn in Dorado County where the waves smash against the cliffs with wild abandon. That’s a wonderful spot. Your muse might be in either of those places, you know.”

Brock and Michelle stared into one another’s eyes and considered their options. When she spoke again, Michelle ploughed ahead, “Or you might enjoy listening to the whispering trees. You have some in your garden, I think. 

The two clasped hands and moved slowly to Brock’s house, nestled below the foothills on the east edge of town.

Brock pointed Michelle to the gate and he slipped into the house. He grabbed two glasses and a bottle of red. There was no cheese in the house, but there was a soft, rustic loaf of bread. He took that as well. 

The two writers sat in the grass beneath the old Sycamore and listened.

OLWG# 364- Goodnight Winnett, Montana; Wherever You Are

Written for OLWG# 364

###

I left the Winnett Bar and Grill with Ella. She linked her arm with mine and we strolled to the curb without needing to speak. Just enjoying the company and the moment. Moment by moment. I pressed the button on the key fob to unlock the truck and opened the door for her. Holding her hand, I steadied her as she hoisted herself up and into the passenger seat, then waited as she slid across the long bench before tossing her the key. She caught it and fired up the 8.0 L, V10, which rumbled smoothly beneath the bonnet.

“Truck is sounding pretty good,” I said above the engine noise.

“You should think about getting one of these for yourself.” She answered and swept her hair behind her ear.

“No thanks,” I said, “My dad always told me that I should never buy a Chrysler product; besides, I like my ride.”

Ella stuck out her tongue and flipped me off. I smiled and blew a kiss as she roared off on East Main St. and disappeared with a left turn on Moulton Avenue. I could hear the big engine for a long time, probably to HWY 244. That girl was gonna get another speeding ticket for sure. 

As I always did when I let Ella drive away, I wondered why I let her go. She would stay if I only asked.

My ’57 Volkswagen Beetle was parked right behind where Ella’s truck had been. I didn’t have far to walk. When I cranked it over the air-cooled, 1.2 L flat-four, purred like a kitten. I slipped it into first, pulled away from the curb, spun the wheel, and did an about-turn. I could make it to Lewistown in about an hour unless there was still a problem at the bridge east of Grass Range; there’s usually a problem at that bridge.

#####

This week’s prompts were:

1. Jesus and John Lennon
2. she hunted him down
3. goodnight Winnett, Montana, wherever you are

OLWG# 363- St. Umabel

Written for OLWG# 363

###

Umabel may have been an Arch Angel, like Michael, who was dropped to earth by Deus in July of 1955. She was supposed to land in Kobenhavn, predestined to be the angelic daughter of Dorthe Schønfeld and her husband, Søren. She was supposed to become a world-renowned campaigner for social justice and a strong champion of women’s rights: an angel of God.

There must have been a strong wind that night because she wound up in Bell’s Ferry, Alabama. She was born to an unknown, unnamed, never-seen-again father and Ms Ember Rough. Ms Rough was a waitress at Morgen Zee, a popular breakfast spot on the north end of Vermillion Bay. There was no fine hospital, doctor, or midwife, only Ember sheltering in an abandoned, squat, low-rise shed in a dark alleyway that branched off South Water Street. 

Ember succumbed at a young age, a victim of the unequal gendered economic impacts of the pandemic in the South, and Umabel became a ward of the state. She stayed in Mobile, living at the Grace Home for Orphaned and Wayward Girls in Summerville, educated by the good Sisters of St. Gemma’s School.

Umabel was smart as a whip with strengths in history, mathematics, and statistics. She earned a scholarship to Auburn and majored in Political Science. After attaining her degree, she took a position as a Policy Analyst at a progressive think tank in DC, where she grew into a strong campaigner and organizer for women’s rights and social justice. At the age of thirty-one, Umabel Rough was killed in the notorious Metro Red Line Bombing at Union Station along with 436 other innocent souls.

Earlier this year, there were discussions of canonizing Umabel Rough. It hasn’t happened yet, but there is a strong belief among Vatican insiders that by applying the proper persuasion, maybe next year, or the year after, we will know the name of Saint Umabel, Patron of Women’s Rights & Social Justice.

#####

This week’s prompts were:

1. persuasion
2. It gave new meaning to the phrase TGIF
3. Dude, don’t you remember what Isaac told us about the apple?