The Kiss is the First to go

The kiss is the first to go

On a hot summer day Samhari sat on the banks of the River and watched the Willow King swim in it’s current.  Samhari’s feet soaked in the cold mountain water, her toes digging into the sand and gravel.  She waved to the Willow King as he floated by.  He pulled himself out and sat next to her.  “I think we are moving to fast,” Samhari said finally expressing a thought she had been thinking for days.  He dried his face on her skirt and suggested that they move to the sunny side of the river, out from beneath the shadow of the palisades, to continue the conversation.  She touched the gooseflesh on his upper arm and looked into his eyes.  When he spoke of the other side of the river his eyes twinkled.  He was charming.  She preferred the shade of the palisades but knew she would acquiesce to his desires.   “I think we are moving to fast,” she repeated.

They sat for a moment in the shade wrapped in a wool blanket and ate crisp apples and drank red wine from the bottle.  The Willow King began to gather their belongings into his river bag.  He corked the wine and threw his apple core into the current where it bobbed slowly and drifted down stream.  Wordlessly he began to cross the river.  Samhari followed.  On the sunny side of the river the Willow King spread the blanket onto the flat top of a large granite boulder that damned the flow of water into a deep pool where fat rainbow trout lurked and slurped winged caddisflies from the surface or slurped them deep below as larva.

Samhari was growing anxious that he had not responded to her concerns for the velocity in which their relationship was developing.  “What are you thinking about?” she asked.  The Willow King stretched in the sun and rested his cheek on the warm granite rock.  He reached up to move a stray lock of hair from Samhari’s face to behind her ear.  Small birds sang lilting ditties from the braches of the overhanging cottonwood trees.  The Willow King smiled and let out a breath. “When I sit by the river I imagine throwing my brain into its currents allowing the cold water and abrasive grit to round off the calcified edges of my weak thoughts.”   Samhari followed his gaze to a white-capped rapid that was churning and churning the water over a submerged granite boulder reducing it ever so slowly.   “Like what kind of weak thoughts?” Samhari asked.   “Mostly thoughts of being unlovable,” he said. “feelings of being unworthy.”  She could not imagine the Willow King feeling inadequate in anyway.  She never knew he was vulnerable.  Warmth grew inside of her chest.  The sun shined lovingly upon them.

Samhari lay down next to him.  He smelled of earth and labor.  His skin was warm and sun-kissed.  She pushed his hair behind his ear.  “Your eyes look green now,” she said., “they were more brown when we were on the other side of the river.”  He pushed himself up and took Samhari’s hands in his.  “What are you afraid?”  He asked.

Her mind twisted and swirled like the eddy of water behind the river boulder.  I fear so many things my love. So many things.  Her voice did not come.  She could not find the words to explain the pain in her chest.  In her mind she stood on the edge of a great abyss and could not see the next step.  She could not reach for his hand.  She thought of the rainbow trout deep in the cold pool below content to slurp bugs and procreate.  She knew with her continued silence the Willow King would slip back into the river and flow on.  She couldn’t form the words to tell him not to.  

The Willow King drew symbols with river water on the warm rock.  The symbols became prayers sent skyward as the water evaporated into the sky.  He drew a symbol for Samhari and as it evaporated he prayed for her well-being.  As he drew a symbol for the Willow King he observed the disquieted look on Samhari’s face.   She was searching for the words to express that she is petrified of disappointing him, of being truly loved, of being rejected, of being vulnerable.  The symbols evaporated from the rock to the sky merging far above in the belly of a cloud.  Samhari and the Willow King carried off of this earth of decay and rebirth, reformed in the torrential elements of cloud world, where they will blend and fall back down as rain.

{}

The sun began to dip behind the horizon of the palisades.  The stored heat from the granite boulder was slowly absorbed by the growing coolness of the late afternoon air.  Samhari was alone on the riverbank.  The Willow King kissed her cheek and slipped into the current when the sun was still high above them.  “I need your words,” he had said before leaving.  “Without them I fill in the silence with my imagination which is heavily influenced by my own self-doubt.  Your words are your freedom and mine.”  Samhari stood before him dumbfounded.  Her mind was filled with colorful and articulate thoughts, but like a bubblegum machine with a quarter stuck in it, not one of them would drop.  She wanted to say I need to be alone!  I’m still in love!  I don’t want to ever have my heart broken again!  I don’t trust you!  I don’t trust me!  I love you!

 The words did not come because none of them had the temerity to hold form long enough to travel from her heart to her head and finally escape her mouth.  They dissolved somewhere along the way.  The only thing escaping from between her soft lips was her slow, warm breath that smelled of apples and wine.  A smell that intoxicated the Willow King to the point that he wanted nothing more than to pull Samhari in and kiss her so deeply that the tips or her toes turned pink and tingled with joy.  Kisses they used to share, until she pulled away.  Kisses he knew only existed in their past.  From experience he knew the kiss is the first to go.  After the kiss loses it’s luster, the words soon dry up and distance is created.  If he were to kiss her now he would only feel the distance.  So instead he slipped back into the current of the river and left Samhari with the blanket, the wine and the river bag.

Good Dick, Bad Man

The prompt “that’s a hell of a way to loose a tooth” was given to Daniel Landes by Brian Polk. 

Good Dick, Bad Man

“Say pal,  why don’t you start from the beginning?”  The detective wore Dockers and an Indiana Jones leather jacket.  He had a Brian Bosworth haircut thirty years after ‘the Boz’ rocked one.  His aftershave reminded me of date rape.  I started up with the “well in the beginning, my mom met my dad and they had sex” gag, but this virile chunk of sports cut me off quick with, “Fucking with me is a hell of a way to loose a tooth pal.” 

Sobered, I started over. 

“Like every afternoon we went for a walk.  We headed toward the park.  It was a lovely fall afternoon.  She had been cooped up in the apartment, doing god knows what, so was excited to get out and stretch her legs.  She stopped multiple times to smell the flowers and say hello to strangers.”  The detective was nodding his head taking notes.

 A woman dressed in an earth tone pantsuit opened the door to the interrogation room.  “Do you want anything to drink?” she asked.  He shook his head.  “Coffee would be great,” I answered.  The dick slammed his hands against the table.  “Nothing for you perp!” he shouted as she adjusted the thermostat in the room and closed the door.  “Now what happened when you got to the park?” he asked thumbing through the note pad.

“Well, the park was pretty empty which surprised me as it was such a beautiful day.  There were a few people off in the distance playing Frisbee or volleyball.  I can’t remember.”  The heat kicked on in the room.  The detective took off his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair.  He was wearing a white t-shirt that clung to his muscular frame.  He had a barbwire tattoo across his left bicep.  “Pam Anderson fan?”  I asked pointing at the tattoo.  He leaned in close.  “You think this is some kind of joke?  Do you have any idea how much trouble you are in?” He asked as sweat began to bead up on his forehead.

“Okay, like I said, the park was pretty empty.  I was distracted by my stresses at work and wasn’t giving her the attention she needed.  She began acting restless, you know, really vying for my attention.  I tried to ignore her but she just wasn’t having it.” 

“Were you getting frustrated?”  He asked.

“Yeah, I guess.”  I paused, “I guess I was getting frustrated.”

He jotted something down in his notebook. 

“I try not to be distracted when I’m out with her, but on that day there were some urgent issues at work so I was on my phone checking emails.”

“And what was she doing?”

“Bugging me!  She was bugging me!” I answered, surprised by own admission.

“You just wanted her gone.  Right? Is that when you did it?” he stood over me like a mountain ready to slide.

I crumbled.  “Yes!  Yes!  Yes goddammit that’s when I did it.  I wasn’t thinking.”

“What did you do then?” He asked needing my confession to put me away.

I was so tired.  I couldn’t fight this anymore.  I just wanted it over.

My words came slowly. “I took,” tears of fear and exhaustion filled my eyes, “I took her off leash.”  I crumbled into my arms.  “I know it was wrong.  But the park was empty, I thought…” The detective interrupted, “You thought you wouldn’t get caught!  That’s what you thought.  Well let me tell you.  If anyone in this city takes there dog off leash they will deal with me.  EVERY GODDAM TIME!” 

The tears were flowing from my eyes as two officers escorted me from the room.  They had me dead to rights.  Now it was time to pay the price. 

constanly amazed

constantly amazed

We draw strength from the decay around us,

 like children playing on the banks of a poisoned river,

we cleanse ourselves in foul water and coagulated fat.

Never stuck,

we draw butterflies on the inside of our concentration camp walls

and blow them alive and away

over the razor wire to

alight on the limb of the old cypress tree.

Hand in hand we leave fresh tracks

in the ash of cities in riot

and skip stones

off the reflection of the blood moon.

We are not the red flesh

pasted to a white wall

of a preschool

surrounded by cop cars

and media vans.

We are not the shooter within.

We are not what travels in and out

 of our mouths and our assholes.

We just happened upon this place;

to us there is only beauty.

So we coo to each other in museum whispers;

constantly amazed by the end of the world.

The execution of a demigod

The execution of a demigod

By Daniel Landes

The house was set beneath the navel of the reposed form of our universe.  It was deeply rooted in bedrock, shale and divine purpose.  The putrid winds that blew from the north buffeted the foundation, and pelted the shingles and siding in a relentless effort to reduce the house to a granular form.  The house withstood the torment and continued to shelter the tragic players as they accepted providence.  Inside the walls of the house, the elemental battle for balance played out, again, and again and again. 

The blowing leaves of the trees, planted as a windbreak on the north side of the house generations before, were brittle with draught.  The sound was of shattering glass as the leaves chafed against each other in the morning wind.  The precious dew, here and gone, never settled long enough for the dehydrated cells of the leaves to rejuvenate.

The child was pacing as early morning light shone through gossamer curtains of her bedroom window.  The torn and crumpled pages from Leaves of Grass were strewn across the floor, like crumpled love notes filled with the poetics of unfulfilled promises.  From the rafters above her bed hung a mobile of the nine planets and their moons, made in school from Styrofoam balls.   Pints of spilled paint, red and green, pooled under the windowsill and swirled together as a random blue creation.  The nightlight flickered, preparing for daybreak.  The child’s mind, red with fury, was empty but for the plan.   She thought only of the plan. 

The man awoke from his narcotic slumber with a full bladder and covered in the humid sheen of night sweats.  He arose, relieved himself, and then went to the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee.  As he did every morning, he turned on the radio and waited for the crop report.  The water filtered through the ground burnt beans and drip, drip, dripped into the awaiting pot.  A detached, monotone voice, reported the news; the record breaking heat wave continues as the draught worsens, the daily tally of solider corpses from the Endless Wars adds up, and the diverting scandals of politicians never ceases.  It was the oceans, not the wars, not disease, that was the new pandemic, killing millions as they claimed higher and higher ground, wiping out cities like sandcastles. The man, sipping his coffee, waited for the crop report. 

In her room the child stopped pacing and stood as still as a statue.  Her balled fists barely peeked out from the flared arms of her nightgown, ankle length, made from soft cotton in a place far away by evil means.  She would soon be free of it, her death shroud.  She stood waiting in the blue grey light of dawn thinking of nothing but the plan. 

The man, a moneyman, a farmer of sorts, owned fertile land above the encroaching seas on which he grew corn.  Acres and acres of Holy Corn. 

Ghosts don't stay buried

Ghosts don’t stay buried

I am pressed up against the edges of Denver.  The hidden stories of this city are the only thing that keeps my interest.  Stories we tried to bury and stories we are trying to bury now.  The stories that get my attention are of wretched acts of treachery and demonic acts of man.  Stories so dark they have to be buried deep beneath this city so we can try to forget them.  Stories that should stay buried.

We don’t want to know just how uncivilized we behave or remember when rivers of blood jumped the banks of the Platte River and Cherry Creek. We would assume forget the scalps and carcasses that stacked up on both sides of the Frontier Wars.  It’s gone now, buried, and we ride bikes on the graves and feel good about our efforts to not drive.  The stories will not stay buried.  Nothing stays forgotten.

{}

Only half the train whistles you hear passing through the crease of Denver in the middle of the night are real.  The other half are the screeches of the ghost train signaling it’s passing through a town that existed one-hundred some odd years ago.  A time when things that glittered on the sandy shores of our rivers got men laid and got men killed.  It is the whistle of the ghost train passing through a town that reeked of pine smoke and the by-product of human encampments.   The whistle of the ghost train, a warning signal of its slow approach into the forgotten depot near the confluence of the Platte and Cherry Creek.  

When the ghost train arrives at the station the people who get off are not alive.  They are ghosts; poor souls who did not stay buried.  They did not understand where to go when their hearts stopped beating so they stay here with us, without substance.  They go about their daily lives, just like they did a hundred some odd years ago in Denver City.  They exist beside us, participating in the commerce and civics of a by-gone era with as much conviction of their realness as you or I do, as we go about our daily lives.

If you can shut your mouth and open your ears for just a minute you can hear them.  They are everywhere.  They tell stories.  Stories of a time we would assume forget.  A time when the rivers ran with blood and we stacked carcasses like cordwood.

Cucumber 5 ways

This is piece of flash fiction based on this prompt from Brian Polk.  "Do you have any idea why I pulled you over today?"

Cucumber 5 ways

Our love made all other love seem pallid and weak.   We felt sorry for the couples not nearly as in love as us.  ‘Let’s never be boring in our love’ she said as we drew hearts on the table with the sugar jar.  ‘Never,’ I said with stars in my eyes; constellations only she could read.  ‘That waitress is so jealous of our love.  Right?’ she asked after the waitress wiped up the table for the second time and asked if we were ready to order.  ‘Poor thing probably has an ordinary love,’ I replied.  ‘Like that couple over there, look at him, he’s reading the paper and she’s reading a paperback book.  How sad, they aren’t even speaking to each other.’  The woman with the book blew steam from her mug and took a sip while the man kept on reading the paper.

 

‘Let’s just order a couple of things and share,’ she suggested.  ‘That’s how I love to eat,’ I said, ‘I just like to share.’  Our almond milk chai’s arrived at the table and the waitress asked again if we were ready to order.  ‘Oh we haven’t even looked at the menu,’ she said.  To busy looking at each other,  I thought.  ‘Okay I’ll give you two a minute,’ the waitress smelled of a just smoked cigarette.

 

Finally we broke gaze for long enough to peruse the menu.  It was a bountiful menu filled with mouthwatering treats like deep fried rhubarb pie, chicken fried, double stuffed, marshmallow wings, three layered peanut butter, banana and miracle whip sandwiches with a side of strawberry au jus and a full bowl of noodles and sauce.  ‘Well my truest love, what looks good?,’ she asked.  I slowly looked up from the menu, ‘what do you have in mind my love?’ I asked.  ‘I’m not eating salt, or sauce, or breaded and fried things, so I don’t know.  What looks good to you?’  My stomach turned with hunger as I looked at the Hungrydillo section of the menu loaded with items that would make me fat and happy.  

I turned the menu over to the side she was looking at.  A light affair.   A chill ran through the restaurant.  A child was coughing.  I heard the clink of plates and silverware.  The stench of the waitress’s cigarette hung in my nostrils. I read on:  Cucumber 5 ways, Button Mushroom Stock Soup, a Sprouted Seedwich, Ice Cold Gazpacho.  

My brow furrowed.  ‘What’s wrong my sweetest?’ she asked, her words like apricot jelly.  I looked at her, truly looked at her, maybe for the first time.  Who is this woman?  I asked myself.  The man reading the paper was sharing an article he had read, the woman laughed.  My love sat staring at me.  The restaurant swirled as I tried to justify a life of compromise.  Slowly I arose.  Grabbed the keys and walked out the door.  

I was doing well over 75 mph in a residential area when the officer pulled me over.  ‘Do you have any idea why I pulled you over,’ she asked.