Swap

The ocean was roaring behind me. A snail sensation crawled up my spine. The heat came out the crack of the door in waves, petulant and demanding.

I recognized the language of the ocean behind me. The tide was leaving, the moon pulling the train of her dress towards the stairs of the sky.

I bid you goodnight as I climb to my tower.

Just as easy as that, eh? I thought of my friend the ocean, abandoning me here, the time when I needed it most. The heat climbed like a lizard up a drain pipe. I took a step closer and waited, allowing my skin to get used to the temperature.

“A lesson you taught me.” I opined to the salt and sulfur air.  In response, an ear deafening creak clapped like a thunder bolt. The door was opening further and I felt myself shake involuntarily. Forcing myself into a meditative state, I concentrated on the crunching sound of the waves meeting the end of their journey angry at how fruitless it had been after all.

I felt a nibbling at my toes and it broke my concentration. Looking down, I saw a fog like smoke instead of my feet, my ankles and the ground. Or what was making a light snack of my skin.

“Ouch!” I hopped to the side and the sand was deep and loose. I stumbled closer to the door and I felt the hair on my arms singe. “Fuck.”

The ocean was now a memory; it was so small of voice and presence. Instead, the earth cleared its throat in a long, constant rumbling that was only slightly muffled by the doors of titanic proportions.

The ocean was gone now, I thought. I had no choice to meet my new mother element. Was I ready? Another laborious step, maybe two. My arms were bronze and slick with perspiration. Then, my shirt caught on fire. Quickly pulling it up and off, I threw it to the side. It flickered and burned until it was melted folds of charred waste that was swallowed up by the lurking fog.

I wondered why my skin didn’t burn. My nipples were hard and dark brown in the firelight of the doors, almost half way open now. I promised them I wouldn’t let them open all the way, wouldn’t inflict that pain on them. I took two painful steps, then two more, barely allowing myself to feel the searing. Accidently brushing the button of my jeans caused a huge blister to rise on my hand. I took the jeans off.

The next thunderclap caused me to cover my ears, and then decide it was time. Taking off at a sprint, I closed the distance between me and the door. The smoke seemed to swallow up my legs, then my waist as I got closer. The rumbling turned into the screaming and squealing of rocks forced to move against each other, raping personal space.

The burning was so bad, I welcomed death.  I burst through the doors with closed eyes. I turned once inside and pushed with all my might. I felt my hands branded by the fancy carved door knobs, but still no pain stopped me.

As the doors were closing, I caught sight as the ocean come roaring back, sounding like a New Year’s Eve party. I had bought the world another 100 years.

Hell's Gate by Frestro79 (http://frestro79.deviantart.com/)

Nothing But Time

I told them when she was very young, she needs glasses. Good thing at this point I wasn’t super active, still learning what the words meant, what they could add up to.

But now, she is older and so am I.

I have my coffee cup. It’s magically always filled and I like it like she likes it, although sometimes she likes it with no sugar and I always like sugar.

I have my chair. It’s this gorgeous old wide job with round rivets and a huge barrel back. You can hear the springs when I settle into its gaudy golden 70s cushion. It’s protective. It stops me from hurting myself when I nod. Hey, it happens. I don’t take 15 minute breaks, you know.

I have this pillow surface to lean on, but I also have a table. I sit low, I can easily rest my arms on the table and my chin on my arms. This is good because I do a lot of watching and a lot of writing.

I can write with both hands. I just taught myself one day. It’s worked out a lot better and now I have super strong muscles on both sides.

I like pens. I like to cross out. I don’t like to erase, its fucking messy.

Oops. Sorry. Sometimes I swear. Nobody in here usually, so, you have to forgive me.

I like music so I am happy when she plays it. I have to confess I make her play it loud. I stare out the windows and it makes the world a music video. I only wish there were more breakouts of spontaneous dancing. I know she itches to dance herself sometimes but only permits leg bouncing.

I like to stay up late and wake up early and I love when she reads. I love when she learns. I will incorporate everything. It’s all worthwhile, see my notes?

Sure, they look a little disorganized. That’s cool. I got nothing but time.

***

This piece was originally inspired by this post by Dave Farmer. But when I saw this picture and the twist for this week’s Sunday Picture Press, it was clearly FATE.

 

Sky-Mother

She started the slow, practiced walk back east, eyes glancing at the screen to her left. 

Nothing new.

The pipes spewed forth their flames, like lava ghosts. The air was so hot, her body had adapted, her black shell growing smooth and fitted till the lines between it and her skin were impossible to find.

Her noises were mostly buried and sometimes heard and described as cat like growls and an angelic soprano. Her face moved swiftly and no one could exactly describe the shape of her chin, her lips and eyes, more just a suggestion of elusive beauty and an elegantly concealed warning: You don’t want to see my face.

Lastly, there was the mark on her back. Her rank and species were indicated, along with the name of her Sky-Mother.  The creeping fathers got no credit, their mostly reptilian characteristics limiting them to twice monthly jaunts to impregnate a different female in the dead of the night.

Reaching the end of the beam, she swung out and around the outer beam, fearless. She had to shake it up.

Flashed across the screen…

Do not go gentle into that good night.
Old age should burn and rave at close of day
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

She let go one of her noises, seemingly timed perfectly with another flash from the pipes. Her forked tongue flicked out, judging the temperature and adjusted her position.

Perfectly balanced, life filled with poise and air filled with heat and bite.

By Martinakis Adam

Love Is Free

“I need to know why. I need to know why you took me.”

“And I am under no obligation to tell you.”

“Meme, you must tell me. You don’t understand…”

“I understand. I understand you feel you need to know. And I do not feel the need to tell you.”

“I am 17 years old!”

“And I am 71.”

“Why? Why did you take me from them? Why??”

“It was war time. You were conceived behind fences. Something like that doesn’t make it to the real world. Nadia went to Berlin and Mac was back in the mines. Damn fingernails never even got clean. So you see, I took you because I wouldn’t allow them to determine your fate. That was for you to do. Under my supervision, of course.”

“Meme! Ha! “

“It isn’t polite to laugh at an old woman.”

Title Unknown by Vivian Maier

 Sunday Picture Press

From Sight

Doctor? Yes, its Mrs. Borguinne. She has locked herself in the attic room. Yes, I know. I did try, but she moved so fast this time. What? No, no more mention of the voices, just the eyes. I do wish I could figure it out, if it were something we could stop, block from her sight…yes, we did try that. She ended up in the closet most of the day. Yes? No. No. We couldnt possible. Jacob, um, Mr. Borguinne would never allow it. Maybe just the soft restraints. It the pair of eyes, Doctor. I only want to spare her the terror. What? The window? She has mentioned the window before, now that you say that. Not since November, when she started to wear the cloak and hood. Two months later. She said it was just while she was cleaning, but then they became permanent. No, the heavy tights didn’t start till later. Four. Two in May alone. I know. Across the street?

I loved watching the water. LOVED IT! I was never happier than when the master commissioned them and the lovely view was had. I would gaze and gaze. No time wasted, sun sets, sun rises and all in between. Ships and sails, kids and dogs, storms and fog ( tickles!); never knew there was such a variety to life! But also a rhythm, a repetition that lets you know, you are part of something…

I wore icicles and inches of lids, artificial. The river wore lacy ice frocks of bird footprints. I awoke to lightning and thunder, dozed to pattering rain. The view wavered and wrinkled in the heat and muffled and faded in the cold. It twinkled at night and sparkled during the day.

But then, the builders betrayed me. My view swallowed up by a new house.

I can’t stop looking. And it can’t stop being there, void of personality. There is this strange flash of peach, in the windows, smudged, seething at me…

***

This is for Indigo Spider’s Sunday Picture Press. I was inspired by the picture before I read the twist. But then I thought to write another side, the opposite of what first occurred to me, like suggested. It was fun. Check it out…

Showman Pity Party

Poor Max and Myra.

Does the first book ever go anywhere? I’m doing some editing and GODDAMN I’m so flouncy, I’m so flowery, I can’t stop the describing. It’s all this blah blah blah blah and I’m begging myself to get to the point, and I can see myself struggling to be unique.

Then, I come over a hill and to an ugly conclusion.

This book is not THE book. This is sophmoric and dramatic. As all first books probably are. Aren’t they?

I love these characters. They are real to me. And no one will read it. No one will ever know them.

On second thought, maybe they are too fabulous to be shared too much.

I like to protect my babies.

I am WAY too silver lining lately.

Marita over at The Indigo Spider has conjured a world for us. Go look. All my writerly friends. ( Yes, this is my Sunday Picture Press post)

Jump Start

I found it in a cardboard box, slowly breaking down and molding. It was the last thing I needed after Alfie died. But I pulled out a layer or two of newspaper and there it was. There were several pictures with it, but the only one I didn’t need to see THAT day was right on top.

I saw it and called Michael.

Three years later, we got married. It was like I woke up and was legally bound to my best friend’s brother. Their hair was the very same honey color.

The Green Door by Bryce W. Fauble

Finding Where

It was a sort of modern Widow’s Walk, the architect had said, with a sardonic laugh. She returned his sour vibe by remarking;

“Is that a selling point, Martin? Good God.” She turned back to the view. Twin trees of patchy baldness and leafless arms were silhouetted by the sunset. It seemed desolate, yet beautiful. It was perfect.

“So?” Martin noticed her mouth settle into a prim line, like a cat with a mouse in its mouth. He suddenly did not want to be involved in this transaction and he grew tired.

“It will do. Just, but it will. It will do.” She strode purposefully across the floor, snapping on her prissy white gloves like a surgeon.

The sun went down.

Title Unknown by Michael Glatt (http://www.inspireinsight.com/)

Sunday Picture Press!

Combing Thru

Title Unknown by Steve McCurry (http://stevemccurry.com/galleries)

 She had only paused a moment, to read the words in Old English. She hadn’t really believed it would work, thus she fearlessly, soundlessly mouthed…

The book came with her, the broom did not.

The rest was silence.

She was grateful she was the type of person to be settled comfortably so fast.

She was grateful she had felt leisurely that morning, before her chores. Her wings were fluffy and unruffled and her robes were flowing and uncreased.

She was grateful to be where she loved things; the wood pile, the materials, the back stage of the garden, the pieces waiting to go out.

One less angel in heaven. She did not feel sorry about that. She felt a patience for the present and she didn’t care what came next.

***

We lost another one.

I see there has been a drastic drop in faith.

We have had worse.

We will have worse.

Yes, my Lord.

Listen, fetch Isabella for me, would you?

Course, my Lord. Course…

Sunday Picture Press: You Know You Wanna

ReBuild Population/Type:Human

Title Unknown by Steve McCurry (http://stevemccurry.com/galleries

What are their names again?

Ok, starting from the left, its the Soldier, the Sissy, the Foreigner, the Geek, the Yuppie and the Millionaire.

What time is the next pick up?

In an hour. They will be happy to take this bunch. Its a prized collection.

Hope they can breed ‘em.

Are you kidding? They can breed anything…

****

Sunday Picture Press is back!