The Natural Progression

 

The Little Street Urchin

 

I often wondered what had become of that little street urchin

we encountered so many years ago, along the side road behind

 the market square.  So many children chasing the tour bus,

their outstretched arms, their vacant expressions and

bare feet.  That image has never left me.

But here, now - I can see her sitting in that back booth.

How, over these many years, had she found her way to 

Denny's?

 

I doubt Luck has anything to do with it

 

It is early morning, and nothing is in here but me and a mosquito.  I have noticed it buzzing around the desk lamp.  I expect it will be only a matter of time until it notices me sitting here.  Once it leaves the safety of the lamp it will, of course, become much more difficult to see.

I could, I suppose, go out to the garage, and get a can of Raid.  My concern there is that I will end up inhaling more of the deadly poison than the mosquito.  I guess I could just smack him with the can, and not spray the thing at all.  For that matter, I could use my shoe.

If it were not early morning, then I wouldn’t need to concern myself with being quiet, but as I am the only one awake, (except the mosquito) I don’t wish to wake everyone by smacking at the drapes or lamp with a shoe.

“What was that!”

"Go back to sleep, it was only me knocking over the desk lamp."

 If life goes on as it usually does, sometime later today I will find myself itching.  A small bump will arise, and I will know who won the battle.  I’m not really sure if I am just destined to be someone else’s snack or if the mosquito simply has better luck than me.

Exactly how...

 am I to get any serious writing done, when just there, at the back edge of my keyboard I discovered a Zagnut Bar...

Without so much as a Good-bye

 

There is a sameness of days that leads me to question this traffic pattern of retirement.  The ticking clock has somehow taken center stage, and although the curtain has fallen on many of my friends, it remains that missed last good-bye that threatens any possible closure. 

It is without fanfare or even a bow.  Their act was simply over and they exited stage left.  

I, so far, remain to peer out over the audience, searching for the right line, waiting for my cue.

I couldn’t tell you what Shakespeare’s final words were, but the moment I hear that orchestra fire up, mine will be –

“That’s All Folks.” and I will be gone so fast that only my shadow will be left, spinning like some discarded hubcap.

 Not that this hasn't been fun....

Are Three Enough?

 

is four to many?

Reflections

 

What draws people into an antique shop?  Could it be that looking at the bits of the past makes us feel as if we had been a part of it, like we ourselves could be a piece of history.  Old technology being used by people who are relics themselves perhaps provides us with a little insight as to where we fit in.

In looking at the odd bits left behind by society we begin to wonder what the future holds.  Will cars someday drive themselves?  Will telephones become so small they could fit into your pocket?  But what about the cord?  How would it plug in?  And who could possibly afford to have such things?  I know one thing, cameras will never change.  How could they?

 

It should be noted -

the image reflected in this mirror

has been the same for several years.

It does not change, no matter what is

in front of it.

If you purchase this mirror, this is the 

reflection you will see.

No one has been able to explain this phenomenon,

except to suggest that it is an

antique reflection.

The Long Stemmed Rose

 

There is a great and amazing story

behind this picture,

but a post on a blog is hardly

the proper venue.

Absolutely Perfect

 

Think about it,

if you were going to open an

Antique Shop

selling bits of history,

wouldn't this be a perfect name ?

She Loved Surprises

 

Which is the only reason

she had her peephole filled in.

She just didn't want to know ahead of time.

Skilled Professionals

 

The ancient craftsman who designed and built

this church only had wooden yardsticks and sidewalk chalk

to work with.

It is said that Euclid was consulted on how to

do the curvy parts. 

You Missed it

 

Yesterday was the day.  Yesterday was the time you were to pick up your pens and write to your friend.  What were you thinking?  What was so important that you ignored the one friend in the world who would have written back? For some of you it will never come around again.

 

 

Sometimes destiny sucks.

Aye before Eeeeeeeee

 

Apparently, it is impossible to juvenate something.
It can only be rejuvenated, which is silly 
when you think about it.

"I'm sorry, but what you said is dundant."

Hey, it might be redundant, but it is never just dundant.

When trying to learn English, it's best to wear a blindfold. 

C - all of the above.

 

The Garage Sale

 

  I found this on a table at a garage sale.  According to the lady running the sale, this had to be purchased sight-unseen.  It was truly a mystery.

I spent, what seemed like, a long time weighing the pros and cons of spending $5.00 on who knows what.  I picked it up and shook it,  Whatever was inside did not rattle or move about.  I set it back down and walked around looking at other things for a while.

Then I noticed someone else pick it up, and I immediately wanted them to put it back down.  Suddenly I wanted it - no matter what it was.

Not that I'm a detective or anything, but I did notice the two other people sitting with the garage sale lady whispering and laughing to themselves.  When I saw that, I knew what the mystery box was all about.  It was their day's entertainment.  They were having fun just watching people agonize over spending $5.00 on something they didn't have a clue about.

How clever, I thought, but still - I had to have it.

As you can see from the picture above, I bought the mystery box.  What I haven't done is open it.  As long as it remains sealed up, it will give me pleasure.  I can wonder and guess and enjoy this mystery for as long as I like.

Not a bad deal for $5.00.

It's the Polite Thing to do

 

She had been living in New York most of her life, but then the winters became just too much to deal with.  In New York she didn’t really need a car, so she never learned to drive.  After moving here, she still relied on taxies, but seldom went anywhere.  She could walk to the market from her apartment and rolled a wire basket behind her with her groceries.  She had not requested the top floor but at the time it was the only thing available, so she took it.

 None of her neighbors got to know her until the break-in.  After that, everyone in the building couldn’t get enough about her life before here.  Right out of high school she had joined the Marines.  She was tough, with a no-nonsense personality.  But that was some 40 years ago.  Today she looked just like the other old ladies in the building, just going about their day, complaining about supermarket prices and watching the evening news.

 The break-in changed all of that.  According to the police report, the man broke in at the streel level apartment and had ransacked the place in search of drug money.  Had he stopped there he would have been better off.  He did not realize Bess was at home when he busted through the upper apartment door.  

By all accounts, he had been flung across the living room, suffered a broken arm and three broken ribs, after which, he was tossed over the balcony railing, striking the pavement below, which is were the police found him.

The only comment Bess made to reporters was, “People should really call before stopping by.”

Police Tape

 

 

She kept a small wooden box on her dresser.  It had a simple latch and tiny gold lock hanging on it.  No one assumed it had anything valuable because anyone could have just picked up the whole thing and slipped it into their pocket.  Therefore, it had always been ignored.

Then came the reading of her will.  Everyone assembled was there simply out of respect and sadness at her passing and they filled the room.  No one ever thought she left anything behind, as her life had been a simple one and never had there been anything flashy or showy about her.

It was, however, the way the will had been written that caught everyone’s attention.  The small wooden box seemed to be the focus of her entire estate.  Each word of the will had been specifically chosen.  Sentences were constructed in such a way that there could be no mistake as to her intent.

The bulk of her holdings would be going to Lacy McConnel, her granddaughter.  This included the house, any and all remaining investments and her automobile.  She was also to be the recipient of the tiny gold key, but not the box.  The wooden box had been willed to Ryan Newcastle, with instructions that it was never to be opened.

Ryan, the grandson of Hamilton Newcastle, the retired custodian of the local middle school, had always been a favorite of Bess.  In her will she spelled out that if the box was ever opened, all remaining proceeds of her estate would be sold at auction, with the money donated to the humane society. The key and the wooden box were to never be in the possession of the same person.  This was to help insure it was never opened.

For several months after the funeral of Bess Miller, townspeople were still talking about the small wooden box, speculating as to its contents.  People wanted to hold it to feel how much it weighed.  They wanted to shake it, to see if it rattled, but Ryan never let that happen.  He had placed the wooden box in his safety deposit box at his bank.  He didn’t want anyone to be tempted to steal it or to break it open, so there it stayed.

As far as I know, it still remains locked away inside that bank security box, and Lacy, some years ago, lost the little gold key.  It has never been found.  For those of you who had hoped the contents of the wooden box would be revealed by the end of this story, I’m sorry.  Even I do not know what was so darn important that caused Bess to go to such great lengths to insure it remain a secret.  I do know, however, that Ryan has made that safety deposit box a part of his trust with money set aside to pay the bank fees for years to come.

 

Here's the thing, I wrote this story believing all along that even I didn’t care what was in the box.  Well guess what?  I was wrong.  I want to know, but I just can’t go back a rewrite parts of the story to satisfy my curiosity. That would be extremely unprofessional, and besides, I’d be the one writing down what I discovered in the box, and I’d just be making it up.  How the heck do I know what to write down?  

What do you mean, make something up?  Look, this isn’t easy for me either.  I’ve only got so many words to pick from.  If I keep using small, short words, you’ll think I’m a hack and you’ll lose interest.  If I all of a sudden use $10.00 words, you’ll think I’m just showing off and your opinion of me will become debakafided.  I don’t think I could live with that.

Okay, now it’s all a moot point.  A special news bulletin just flashed on the television, so I walked over and turned up the sound.  It seems a giant sinkhole developed beneath the bank that held the small, wooden box.  The entire bank has been swallowed up.  The building and all its contents are now rubble.  The perimeter of the sinkhole has been lined with police tape, to keep people away from the edge.  The only item to pop free of the event was a black, ballpoint pen attached to a small chain.

Kelly Clarkston, from channel 4, along with her cameraman are interviewing the various owners of the surrounding structures that remain close to the hole yet appear unaffected by it.  It was during one of those interviews that Kelly happened to notice a poorly disguised Ryan Newcastle trying hard to blend in with the crowd.  Unfortunately, Kelly also happened to spot the massive ring of janitor keys hanging from his belt.

Sunlight was glinting off one key in particular.  It was a small, gold key, the same key in fact that had been shown in the paper so many years ago.  The look on Kelly’s face told Ryan immediately that she had seen the key dangling from his jumble of work keys.  He looked at her and she knew instantly that he now knew what she had noticed. 

Kelly grabbed the arm of her cameraman to drag him towards Ryan.  Ryan, however, was on the opposite side of the sinkhole and in Kelly’s excitement, she inadvertently tripped over the police tape, plunging herself and the cameraman to their doom.  The only thing on the television now was a sign that announced technical difficulties.  PLEASE STAND BY.

The picture on the TV stayed that way for so long that I lost interest in the whole thing.  I shut the television off and am now sitting here writing this.

                       The End

 

 

A Suggested Change

 

The word scrape gives me the willies.

I can envision a bloody and painful knee

that has suffered an encounter with the road,

or deeply scratched paint on a freshly financed car.

When children get into a scrape, teachers get involved,

threats are made, parents are called, stress levels rise.

I’m thinking we could do away with the word scrape

and simply go about our lives without issue.

Some sort of literary word-chisel would be needed

to remove the word from our language, or perhaps

a very sharp putty knife, the kind used for dictionaries.

We could just scrape it off.

 

Select the statement that best describes the issue

 

Structural integrity

Excessive Force

Fit, Form and Function

Overbuilt for the neighborhood

Design flaw

What's that smell?

 

For what it is

 

How very artsy

It's not my Fault

 

A windsock has no choice where it points

a broken compass will get you lost every time

There were other things I was to remember

but somehow my wind direction has changed.

 

I doubt you'll want to stand over there.

Cats & Dogs

 

 

There were whiskers on the kitten

and fleas upon the dog,

Embers in the fireplace

that fell from burning logs,

Grandma’s quilt upon the couch

bourbon in her glass,

A teacher’s plaque upon the wall

given by her class.

Tiny bits of memories

are all that now remain,

Little steps and wobbles

made study by her cane.

The dog can sense what’s coming

for death is in the air,

The kitten plays with shadows

and doesn’t seem to care.

 

 

I never set out to write a gloomy,
depressing little poem like this,
so I should mention here that
Grandma is fine.  In fact, the dog
no longer has fleas, and the cat...
well, the cat is sleeping, as usual.

Z. Corwin

Lucinda

 

It was a brown and reddish vase that should never have made its way into the store. A series of odd occurrences and misunderstandings caused it to end up on the table next to a photo of Lucinda, their only child.  Everyone in town was aware of the history of this vase.  It had been passed around like some treasured heirloom, even though it never seemed to stay very long in one spot.

Two women in town believed it was cursed.  They would no sooner have the thing in their house than eat a brussels sprout on a Thursday, which they both agreed would cause your dreams to switch into black and white.

How the vase ended up here changed from person to person, depending on who was telling the story.   Raymond Tipton, a furniture buyer for Sears, says he ran into Lucinda during his travels overseas.  He reports that according to Lucinda, the vase had been given to the family years ago by a homeless man who said he discovered it sitting outside of a carwash.  It wasn’t quite clear which was sitting outside the carwash, the homeless man or the vase, but in either case, the homeless person was thinking he could get a couple bucks for it, so he carried it up to the nicest looking house on the street, but all Lucinda’s grandfather did was to take the vase, say “Thanks” and then close the door.  That, according to the two women, is precisely when the curse began.

 

It's Today

 

 

I seem to recall that Christopher described Pooh

as a bear of very little brain.

In the adventures of Winnie the Pooh, however,

Pooh had the most intelligent comments and

Philosophies of anyone.

 

“Whenever I want to get to someplace,
I simply walk away from where I’ve been.”

 

“Some people say that nothing is impossible,
yet I’ve done nothing all day.”

 

What day is it?
“It’s today.  Yesterday, when today was tomorrow,
it was a very long today.”

 

 

Crumple After Reading

 

I’m in quite a pickle

These aren’t just more lies,

The tiny seeds tickle

and the juice stings my eyes,

I doubt I’m alone

I sense others here lurken

I might be home grown

I think I'm a Gherkin.

My friend disappeared

He got himself bitten,

It’s all very weird

This should have never been written.

 

Old Friends

 

 

There are shoes in the back of the closet feeling neglected.

They have been here and there,

and even places beyond where they should have gone.

No longer looking their best,

concerned voices suggest they are not suitable

for fashionable outings.

My feet miss them,

like old friends waiting for a play date

they were always comfortable together.

They can anticipate the needed steps,

the sudden stops –

A dark and lonely closet

seems hardly a fitting end.

Even the other shoes

started calling them loafers.

Keds can be so cruel.

Guilty - with an explanation

 

Over the years the judge had heard so many explanations, excuses and hard-luck stories that she was always hoping for that one story that would be the jewel in the crown.  She was hoping for the ultimate in explanations, and so when this particular defendant pleaded guilty with an explanation… well let’s just say, her hopes were high that this would be the one.  She took a sip of her water, sat back in her chair and said, “Speak to me.”

A little nervous, the defendant cleared his throat and began.  “Your honor, it all started with my grandfather.  He lives by himself, in a small house at the edge of town.  In fact, from his front porch you can see the railroad tracks that cross Maine Street.  As you know, the train doesn’t really stop there but it does slow down quite a bit, due to the city ordinance making it illegal to exceed 6 miles per hour at that intersection."

The judge took another sip of her water but let the defendant continue.

"Anyway, my Grandfather, at the time, was sitting in his rocker on the porch when the train slowed to a crawl.  It was then he noticed a dog jump down from an open boxcar and start walking down his street.  He watched the dog until it was right at the steps of my grandfather’s porch.  Well imagine his surprise when the dog climbed up onto the porch and lay down right next to the rocking chair.

It was almost hypnotizing watching the dog’s tail wag and each time just miss being rocked on by the chair.  As if they were synchronized or something."

“Pick up the pace Mr. Louis.  We’re heading into lunch time.”

"Sorry, your honor, but it’s important I don’t leave anything out, or none of this will make sense."

“Go on.  I’m listening.”

"That evening my Grandfather went into town and bought several cans of dog food, a bag of dry food and a couple dog dishes.  He ended up naming the dog Boxcar, and for months after they were inseparable.  If my Grandfather wandered off the porch, Boxcar would follow him.  If he had to go into town for any reason, Boxcar would ride in the passenger seat of the pick-up truck.

 

Last August 2^nd, for some unknown reason, Boxcar stood up and walked down the front step of the porch and headed down Lake Front Road.  I’d like to point out at this point, your honor, that Lake Front is a gravel road.  Even when people don’t speed, the amount of dust kicked up is tremendous.  Everything along that road is always covered in dirt and dust.  No one living along that stretch hangs their laundry out to dry.  It would be nothing but mud in no time."

“Is there a point to this Mr. Louis?”

"Sorry, your honor.  Anyway, as Boxcar was making his way along Lake Front, and cars were whizzing past, once in a while, tiny rocks would be flung out from their tires.  Boxcar would yelp whenever he got hit with one of these pebbles.

The Miller’s live along that road and Scott Miller just happened to be outside when he heard Boxcar yelp.  Well, of course, he came around their fence to see what was going on.  That’s when he spotted Boxcar, who by that time was completely filthy, hungry and hurting from the tiny rocks bounding off of him."

“Excuse me for a moment, Mr. Louis."  The judge looked over at the bailiff and asked, “Isn’t your son named Scott?”  The bailiff answered that his son’s name was Scott and that he lived on Lake Front Road.  "And do you happen to know where this story is going?”

It was at that point the bailiff, the court recorder and the attorneys broke into laughter.

Mr. Louis raised his hand to get the judge’s attention.  

"I’m sorry, your honor, but they bet me that I couldn’t keep you listening to a story for at least 20 minutes.  It has now been exactly that, so I win.  I’m also hoping you don’t throw me in jail for wasting the court’s time."

“How much did you win, Mr. Louis?”

"$200.00 your honor."

"Then that’s your fine.  Case dismissed."

 

 

 

 The story you just read is true.  The judge eventually threw a small party for everyone working in her courtroom.  Even Mr. Louis was invited. 

 

Like the Tail of a Comet

 

 

Small bits and fragments get swept away in the scurry of our lives only to be carried out to the bin on a dustpan.

Once they were an important part of the grand picture that was our life.

The tiny elements themselves neither know nor understand their fate.

No sparkles and without fanfare they are gone. 

Only the memory of our tale remains - passing through the night sky of others.

 

The Red Mug

 

There was a small boutique along Main Street that sold more than clothing.  There were heavy-handed cheeses for foreign sounding crackers, laminated olives designed to adorn holiday martini glasses, and various kitchen accoutrements that were far beyond my understanding.

Once a year the shop ran a sale, but never inside.  They would set up tables in the back alley and have everything displayed with reduced price tags.  The sale was never advertised beyond word-of-mouth.  Everyone seemed to know when the sale would be and the alley was always packed, no matter the weather.

It was on one of those tables that I spotted the red coffee mug.  It seemed an orphan, and yet somehow more magical than sad.  The moment I spotted it I knew it was to be mine.  I carried it gently to the lady standing next to her cash box.  She wrapped it in tissue and then set it into a bag. 

Over the years I have discovered my morning coffee generates more of a van Gogh feeling than an office cubicle feeling.   I was correct when I had sensed a magical aura around the red mug.