Occasional Sputterings

Can't stop. To the window. No; not there. Despair. To the sofa. Can't sit. Anxious. Back to the window; pacing the floor. Where is he? What could have happened? What time is it? Oh. Only one minute since the last time it was checked. Why hasn't he called? Shouldn't have made that last comment. What if he's had an accident. Of course he couldn't call. He left his phone here. To the door. Momentary terror. Peer through the kitchen window. Mounting frustration. Back to the door. Into the living room. Anger. Return to the door. Look at the clock. Only one more minute has passed. He should be home by now. Why didn't I tell him more? Did I say I love you? What if he never comes back? How would I ever go on? Don't think marriage to anyone else would be an option. Is that a car light? Just a neighbor. Tears. Lean head against door. Look at the clock; not even another minute gone. Kitchen window. Back to the door. Slide down the wall and sit... waiting.

(ref: here ) They were men; garbed in black leather, armed with frustration and righteousness, they strode tall across the night sky. Turning her head, Sammy whispered to her cat, "I can't get it right. The scene feels wrong." They were strangers; black on black, the men strode mercilessly into the night; their shadows as dark fingers in burrows unknown. Drawing a bright, red line through the type-written lines, Sammy sighed again. "Why can't I begin," she asked again. Tearing the paper from the machine, her knuckles gently buckled. "I'm so tired and it just isn't working. But IT MUST!" They were warriors; twelve strong, their weapons at the ready, operated as a well-oiled machine as they strode toward the horizon. Silence seemed to precede their steps and gaze as a circle of apparent calm surrounded their gaze and footsteps. "I ... why ..." cried Sammy, as her clear vision for the scene faltered. "I .

Dark and rolling were the clouds above, looming over the narrow alleyways. From the hill above, crowned with its stone structure, majestic not only by virtue of years, to the artisan hovels and stands below. Towards the end of the day, such scenes could often be witnessed. The jostling of tired men and women hastening to their homes, perhaps stopping to collect a loaf of bread or a recent magazine issue. The stones underfoot, the bleak sky overhead, the masses all around... Then those bits of life-giving color which punctuated the darkness; fluttering from sidewalk racks and tucked into so many gray and black coats. Hundreds of scarves hinting at hundreds of lives yet to be lived.

(ref: here ) They stood, alone, waiting and willing to whisper; wrapped around the neck of the Telurian, and nestled deep within the culture of the now, the thin exo-skeleton of crafts pasts lay thread-worn, abandoned, and spliced. Shades of muted browns, greens, and gold intermingled with patterns of bead, silk-stories of scenes and suggestions of sun sets suggested a regal history, and the silent nobility of their texture hinted at deeper, greater things. As the wind died down, they gently fell and held fast to one another; time-worn effects of elemental deconstruction formed knots and burrs in the abandoned edges; and the haphazardly folded bits of cloth and love fell loosely upon the wizened scarecrow.

I see a cavernous, antique judgment hall. I see the ancient, well-worn wooden seats which define it. I see the heavy, velvet curtains which obscure the outside light from venturing in. And I see the well-worn flagstone floor beneath my feet. On every side, a hostile glance, a whisper, a turning away. The murmur, so barely discernible to the unschooled ear, seems a din within my own. Like a crashing wave or incoming storm, I hear each whisper, each comment. So grateful for the sharp, electric crash of the gavel on its base; silencing the crowd and restoring the silence. I hear the pronouncement as a numbness creeps through my members. No hope. No amnesty. There is no escape. Her statement stands and by it, I am condemned.

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Large and lustrous eyes upturned, taking in sights heretofore unseen. The tiniest of dimples appearing in the smooth, soft surface of a plump cheek. Rosebud lips form soft babblings which tumble unchecked from an untrained tongue. An unbidden breeze catching and tousling curls of the finest silken sheen. Chubby fingers pointing; painting the air with curiosity. Fat little feet and sturdy legs attempting to jump in excitement and succeeding only in a tip-toe wobble. ...oh, to be a baby once again; to experience the world and all life holds anew.

(ref: here ) I wondered, as I wandered, across the broken sky where dreams of scenes and painted streams danced elegantly by I wondered, as I sauntered, tripping light fantastic, spry whence before were dreams and simulacrum seams and spy with naked eye I wondered, ever hungered, falling forward, sadly wry, for writ along the stars were stories left, reams unwrit on ignored sky I wondered, as if haunted, what of those with silent cry who would speak their songs decry their rights and wrongs on the soft, but by and by I wondered, as if answered, and, in pausing, peace inside, for I knew I would be singing oh, their songs, sharing, dreaming, dancing elegantly by

(ref: here ) She buzzed alot, the silly wit, and buzzed about some more Seemingly inspired by some inner fire she bounced and trounced galore Through frit and froth, a laughing trough, few would open her door For she had a thorn, a painful horn, that few could rightly ignore

(ref: here ) Almo the Saint, known for his white beard and even whiter teeth, was found on the streets of a city this morning. Cloaked in his traditional clergical uniform, the bewildered ancient had been meandering about the town the night before; residents spoke kindly of the old man, indicating that it had become a kind of ritual. Visiting upon the poor and rich alike with equal adlomb, Almo would nearly bring a smile to even the most frustrated of onlookers. His exploits were so well known throughout the vicinity of his death that, in memorium, the venue upon which his house stood was voted to be named after him; sadly the recommendation did not pass. Ultimately even attempts to complete his tombstone fell oddly incomplete. All that was left of his fine history, exploits, and adventures read simply: almo st

(ref: here ) She swept. Away tokens, unspoken memories and dust; as the tools of her task performed marvelously, she dreamed of more satisfying times. Broom became staff. Chairs became trees. Small bundles of dust became rodents, chimera, dragon. With every thrust of her weapon, the foe was vanquished; resolute and solemn, she disabled and destroyed her dusty foe. As the corners of her hovel became crisp, and fresh light revealed previously unattended corners, her illusory alternative weakened. In the still-dark corners, a mushroom-laden world awaited, filled with moonlight-scented boughs, paths of secret hope, and fantastical challenges. In the now-lit corners, sunlight drew her attention to recklessly-mirthful chirping. And she, the champion of this walk, was called to make the choice. She swept.

(ref: here ) Each of us, a stable echo, of a spoken word, formed of flesh of rocks or clay, the nearby rocks leaned toward. Xenolith or megalith, as rocks go, we're unique, each of us instantiation of maker's physique. Able, potent, possible, adjectives, each, we earn for we are champions of dreams, as stones, to stars we yearn. Magnificent grotesqueries, our stones are flawed within, for at the heart of mortal flesh, beats e'er disturbing sin. Past flaws and caws and bloodied claws, our choices oft repeat, for we are made, as if of glass, we shatter to our feet. Lest we think that there is no hope, another has remained, far longer, sweeter, and stronger than others that are named. Enduring host, who paid the price, His was example true, His is the standard we can choose: Lay claim! He paid for you.

(ref: here ) They called it TRAINING. Thirteen weeks of stomping mindlessly in circles, learning not to talk back, to follow orders, to fill out paperwork, and to repeat. Thirteen weeks of no sleep, forced dining, and learning to innovate - in an environment that suppressed the expression of the individual. The order of the day was groupthink. Week one was paperwork, haircuts, and pseudo-camaraderie; stick thirty young men in a box, take away their identities, and it comes as no shock that they begin to connect. Add in the commands of an arbitrary source of authority, communal bathing, and matching uniforms, and you have an opportunity to invite suppression of voice. They called it TRAINING. Week two was revision; at this stage, those with distinctly unsuppressible personalities arise - these are given official categories of either leadership or victim ... sometimes both. These are the geese. Everyone else is a duck, following commands and treading water. Weapons were