Scorched fingers

 

Of course, there are times I see something - snap a picture but later find myself at a loss for something to say about it.  

This would be a fine example.

 

 

zc

just below

 

In the world just below, the wind ruffles no feathers, insects never fly and time only lives in the imagination.

        Sounds pass in muffled tones.  Beneath the murky bottom is the unexplored, where shoes have been snatched from feet and never returned. Tiny air bubbles rise up through the mud and when they reach the surface they pop.  If you listen closely you can hear, “Just do it” followed by a giggle.

            ZC

 

 

 

 

So, what ever happened to Walter

 

Walter Drake is a nice guy.  Although well accomplished, he has traveled through life mostly unnoticed.  He is of average weight and height, with no distinguishing marks or tattoos.   He lives in a typical suburban home and works in an office full of everyday people.  He couldn’t be anymore beige. 

He doesn’t buy Lotto tickets, drives a used car that hasn’t any chrome to speak of, and listens to talk radio for his news, consequently, he has no opinions that are his own.  His life could be described as ho-hum, with one exception.  Walter is very superstitious.  

He always keeps his pocket change in his left front pocket, for in his right front pocket is his lucky coin.  On his keyring hangs a lucky rabbit’s foot and on the dashboard of his car is a little plastic cross, his mother gave him one day after Church. 

Walter’s only interaction with his neighbors has been polite waves, or a pleasant smile.  He remains absent from all social media and has never had an encounter with the police, for anything.  He has never even tried playing golf and finds most sporting events stupid.  In fact, Walter’s only real interest has been space exploration.  He has watched every lift-off and has read every Carl Sagan and Neil deGrasse Tyson book several times.   He has sent money to PBS, to support the NOVA programs. 

If he could, Walter Drake would live in space, even though he remains fearful of navigating this world without his lucky tokens.  He finds the thought of distant galaxies exciting and seems to have little concern about meteor showers or ever being struck by a massive rock hurling at him with the force of a speeding Buick.   His superstitions do not appear to follow him into space. 

He thought about that one day. as he sat at his kitchen table, poking his macaroni and cheese.  Maybe he wouldn’t need all his lucky items once he was in space.  Of course, as he followed that train of thought, it led him to consider that here on Earth was the only place bad luck existed.  If that were true, perhaps the smart people at PBS could run a telethon in hopes of finding a cure for bad luck.

The letter PBS received from   Mr. Walter Drake caused them to contact the Happy Acres facility and inform them of a potential customer.  A complicated series of phone calls and interviews followed, culminating with Mr. Drake accepting guest accommodations for an unspecified duration.  Although not a fan of their game room, he did spend a great deal of time in the solarium, gazing up at the night sky.

 

 

  

 

 

 Z. Corwin

 

 

It's Magic and it's Real

 

Place a bowl of fresh potato chips on the counter.  Leave them there for a day or two.  When you return, you’ll find the chips are still there, but the crunch has disappeared.

 

No use looking around the floor, it isn’t down there.  The crunch is simply gone.  Vanished.

 

Even if every door and window were closed and locked, somehow the crunch escaped.

 

The only way I know to find the crunch is to sprinkle fresh Fritos around the house.  Then, late at night, with all the lights off, walk barefoot through every room.  As you travel, you’ll hear the sound of crunching.

 

That sound is the lost crunch calling out, trying to find their companion chips.

 

 

What?  Don’t believe me?  Try it.

 

 

You'll see.

ZC

In the Mirror

 

The camera can only see

what's there. 

Bits of Yesterday

 

Years later, hanging without fanfare or trumpets is a memory of days gone by.  Curled and yellowed photographs no longer tucked into an album, now squeezed together, shoulder to shoulder in a dark shoebox, as if standing in line, still awaiting recognition.

 

 

ZC

Inspiration

 

Can it truly be graffiti but also be art?  Is it not both vandalism and clever at the same time?   Should this person be reformed or admired?

 

I mean, who else would think to paint the bricks yellow?