A Writer's Playground

 

There are no swing-sets and no fences around the farthest edges of my mental playground.  It has very soft ground, made up of sometimes sand and sometimes leaves, depending on my mood.  Where monkey-bars would ordinally be is a jumble of punctuation, still suitable for climbing upon.

Tall statues of nouns cast their shadows across inactive verbs, who lay resting until needed.  It is forever summer with a slight breeze blowing from East to West.  I don’t know why.  Words grow wild here and there, ready to be picked at a moment’s notice.  Misspellings are the weeds, often all to prevalent.  Occasionally a run-on sentence will trip me up, like a vine stretching across the path.  Or, depending on the position of the sun, tenses might change when, in fact, they shouldn’t.  It’s one of those things I just need to watch for.

It's not all fun and games you know.

zc

 

 

 

 

23 Skidoo

 

That leaves one.

Knock, Knock, Knocking

 

Ma, take this badge off of me.
I can't use it anymore.

It's getting dark - too dark to see
Feel like I'm knocking on Heaven's door.

The Flavor of Words

 

Turns out, morning is a blend of coffee and words.  The quality of my coffee definitely affects the outcome of my stories, poems and gibberish.  The better the flavor, the longer I linger selecting just the right feel to whatever it is I type.  If my coffee tastes bitter or harsh, my outlook on life becomes, maybe a little sarcastic or snarky, but should that first sip be rich and smooth, I may see my words and phrases interspersed in a field of colorful Tulips, with Monarch butterflies passing overhead.  Perhaps even a quiet selection of Beethoven playing off in the distance.

 

Of course, none of that is true.  I just saw this photograph and thought I’d type something to go with it.

 

So, how’d I do?

 

 

 zc

Turns out it's a good thing

 

The Following Day

When Marjorie pulled into the parking lot it was already swarming with police cars.  Right away her heart beat faster and her breathing was short and quick.  She knew someone had discovered the conference room and she was glad she remembered to wipe her prints from the door handle. 

As her car rolled to a stop in the parking space, her supervisor suddenly appeared at her driver’s side window.  She was already talking but Marjorie couldn’t tell what she was saying.  The moment her car door was open Marjorie could tell she was talking a mile-a-minute in Spanish. 

“English please.” Marjorie said, as she stepped out of the car. 

Wanda Alverez stepped back away from the car and took a gulp of air.  Then in a calmer voice said, “The police want to talk to you.  What happened last night?  What did you do?  Dave, from the third floor, is dead.  They said a bottle of Windex and a roll of paper towels was next to the body.  Did you leave that there?  Do you know what’s going on?”

As Marjorie tried to stop her head from buzzing with a million thoughts, she spotted a uniformed police officer making his way between cars, heading towards her.  “Wanda, I’m not sure if I should say anything at this point.”

Wanda’s expression changed quickly.  “Did you kill Mr. Dave?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Conference Room

 

The conference room was empty.  The chairs around the table were askew.  Left just as they were when people departed. One glass ashtray sat at each end of the long table, both filled with ashes and butts.  The stench of the lingering cigarettes had not dissipated, and the smell of the dirty carpet wasn’t far behind.   

The chalkboard at the far end looked as if a child had scribbled fragments of equations combined with directions leading nowhere.  This was a room where decisions were made that affected lives and changed histories.  It was a place where voices were raised and sometimes threats blended with the hum of fluorescent lighting.

Marjorie rolled her office cleaning supplies into the room but stopped dead.  Something was off.  Something felt wrong.  A tension was still lingering in the air that told her to back away.  Don’t clean this room tonight, leave it alone.  It was an eerie feeling she’d not experienced before.  As she glanced around the room she noticed the stack of folders in the center of the conference table.  Then at the edge of the stack, she spotted the drops of blood.

Carefully, she rolled her cart back out into the hall, and used a cleaning rag to pull the door closed, hopefully removing her fingerprints in the process.  She thought about calling her supervisor but then checked her watch.  It was already after 10. But she couldn’t just leave it.  She needed to tell someone, but who?  There was no way she was going back in there.

Just then she felt her cell phone vibrate in her pocket and heard it ring.  She thought it might be her daughter calling from home but looking at the screen she could see it was Mr. Davis calling.  He had never called her before.  She even wondered how he knew this number.

"Hello?"

"Is this Marjorie?"

"Yes."

"Marjorie, this is Mr. Davis.  You can skip the conference room tonight.  Just leave it.  There were sensitive documents left in there - information we can't have getting out.  I'll take care of everything in the morning.  OK, Marjorie?"

"Yes, Mr. Davis.  I'll just leave it closed up. I won't even go in there."