Compound Interest

The pneumatic cylinder hissed its displeasure as it caught the weight of the door. A doctor’s sterile white cloak disappeared into the hallway as the barrier crept closed. Earnest L Whittington took pleasure in such repetitive things. The closing apparatus performed flawlessly while not a single person noticed the contribution, except Earnest. At a time when plenty of thoughts weighed heavy on his mind he dismissed them completely in favor of watching mundane mechanicals perform repetitive work. He himself could not begin to explain the unnatural manner in which his mind worked, but had managed to harness his preoccupation for all things mechanical into something useful. He chuckled as he recalled having been told of the improbability of a man simply listening to an engine and diagnosing which cylinder fired out of sequence.

Soon Dr. Horton would return with the test results in his hand, and Earnest would again leave frustrated, no closer to understanding his persistent ailment. The doctor would read the mumbo-jumbo in his pathetic, inflection-challenged voice.

He waved the chart above his head as if he were Moses returning from the mountain. His enthusiasm indicated that somehow decoding the chicken scratches on the page would miraculously change his patient’s quality of life. His voice struck with the finesse of a four inch needle in the buttocks. Though painful, Earnest promised he would give his friend a chance before he seized the opportunity to speak his own mind.

Earnest and Dr. Leonard Horton had been close friends for many years. Almost fifteen years had passed since the young intern’s car stalled in the middle lane during morning rush hour. Earnest, behind the wheel of his tow-truck, hurried towards his automotive shop as an unexpected detour on Fourth Street had already put him behind schedule. Long before he could see the cause he watched the harried drivers steering to either side of the unidentified obstruction ahead. As he eased the large truck into the right lane he reached down for his coffee. When his eyes returned to the busy street they widened as a man stood squarely in the middle of his lane waving his arms in a crisscross motion above his head. Earnest jammed the brake pedal to the floor, but despite his effort the gap between his bumper and the man steadily closed. He whispered a prayer for an opening in the adjacent lane and swerved in order to avoid the man. Breathing easier he brushed the remaining drops of coffee from his shirt and leaned out his window to voice his frustration.

“Ya fricken nut! Get outta the road!”

The tow-truck had traveled less than two blocks before changing course to assist the stranded motorist. Business had been slow, and he hoped the man wouldn’t have the audacity to ask him to tow the car to a competitor’s garage.

A couple of hours later Earnest had the well-used Mercedes back on the road. The doctor, impressed by the prompt service and unusual circumstances, insisted on making the check out for an additional hundred dollars. He claimed Earnest had been a Good Samaritan of sorts and earned every cent.

“Do you have any questions about the test results, Ernie?”

“Just what makes doctors so smug; pretending to know everything? ‘A hell I don’t what’s wrong with ya, Earnest’ reply, would be appreciated!”

Earnest lip parted as if he wished to continue, but a familiar feeling came over him as his lungs did not fill with air.

“Are you finished Ernie? If you’re dissatisfied, you should seek other services. Considering it was more than a year ago I suggested you see a pulmonary specialist! I continue to see you because you’re my friend and I enjoy your company. As a doctor, I’m doing you no good.”

Earnest’s lungs had partially recovered allowing him to speak in a raspy voice.

“Why did you bring that broken down old Mercedes to me instead of a transmission repair shop after I had already diagnosed transmission trouble? It’s simple—because you trusted me, precisely the same reason I come to you.”

“It’s not the same Ernie. The human body and cars are not the same at all.”

“Bullshit…..you deal in hearts and livers and I deal in timing chains and spark plug gaps. When I suspect fuel system trouble I don’t run a diagnostic check on your brake system. It’s almost as though you don’t want to find out what’s wrong!”

The doctor stroked his graying goatee while giving careful consideration to the words that had lingered on his tongue for many months.

“You want my honest opinion? You have congestive heart failure and since you haven’t visited a specialist and been formally diagnosed and treated. I’d give you no more than a couple of good years. Ernie, don’t you understand? I hoped you would visit another doctor.”

“Boy Leonard, you may know medicine, but your people-skills could use a little polish. You’ve got to ease a man into the idea he’s dying.”

Dr. Horton allowed his disgust to push his head from side to side while he released a heavy sigh.

“You accuse me of sugarcoating your diagnosis and now you say I lack bedside-manner. What is it you want me from, Ernie?”

“A friend, Leonard, and a fine one you turn out to be. Maybe my foot should have found the accelerator instead of the brake fifteen years ago! I’ll see myself out. Think I’ll head home, pull up an easy-chair, and wait to die alone.”

The front brakes squealed as the doctor brought the Mercedes to a halt in front of the trailer. It had been nine long months since the Mercedes had been in for maintenance, the exact amount of time since Ernie had closed up his repair shop. Leonard felt as though somehow he would be betraying his friend if he went elsewhere. He slammed his fist into the center of the steering wheel, frustrated that he had honored Ernie’s last words; most likely he had died alone.

Leonard regretted that his presence, even now had not been of his own accord. He had received a call from a neighbor, voicing her concern over the growing stack of newspapers outside Ernie’s trailer. She apologized for bothering the doctor, but admitted she didn’t know who to contact. As far as Leonard could recall Ernie had no relatives, at least that he spoke of.

He locked his car and reluctantly began the unceremonious walk to the door. The lack of any filtered light peeking through the curtains didn’t bode well for the situation. After two sets of unanswered knocks, each increasingly more deliberate, he tried the knob and found the trailer unsecured. Ernie had never seemed the type to be overly concerned about security. Perhaps he deemed the idea of a break-in less likely than a visit from a friend.

He ran his fingers along the interior wall searching for the light switch. His breathing came in short, rapid bursts as the bare light bulb inadequately illuminated the room. Ernie lay stretched out in his recliner, television remote still in his hand. He hadn’t been gone long. The experienced olfactory senses of the doctor failed to detect even a trace of death in the air. Leonard took solace in knowing his friend had gone peacefully, evidenced by the sheet of paper lying on his chest. If Ernie left a note, it had to be addressed to him.

To whom it may concern…

Leonard, you big dummy, who else would I be writing to? What took you so long, surprised the neighbors haven’t complained about the stench, or maybe they did. I had every intention of calling several times, but I suppose intentions only serve to lengthen my list of regrets. There remains only one piece of unfinished business left in my life and it would seem my procrastination has relegated doing this by proxy. Go to the freezer and you’ll find an envelope.

Leonard did as the letter instructed. He tucked the cold manila envelope under his arm before returning to the chair.

I want to thank you for your friendship. In all these years I didn’t bother to do that. I’ve never believed in fate; with all my heart I believe a greater power placed you in front of my tow-truck that day. For the record, I really don’t regret not having run you under.

In case you’ve forgotten, the envelope concerns the overpayment on your first repair. At first I was opposed to accepting the excess, but you insisted. Times were tight and the bank had sent final notice of foreclosure; confiscating not only my business but the one thing that had given my life purpose. The generosity of your deed sufficiently staved off the hungry dogs. Slowly my situation improved and I set that money aside. As you know I made multiple attempts to return it, but each time you refused, giving a different but equally lame explanation.

Leonard opened the envelope and found a crisp one-hundred dollar bill tucked inside, in addition to a large bundle of cash.

This is the original loan including the proceeds from shrewd investments. Pretty impressive for a non-Wall Street type, huh?

Leonard, there’s something to be said for familiarity. I’ve lived my entire life in ‘Comfortville’, driving a tow-truck for most of my life for God’s sakes. There comes a time when we must all move on. Promise me you will take this cash and purchase a car befitting someone of your status. I always pictured you in a vintage ‘Vette’; jet-black with lots of flashy chrome. A hot blonde in the passenger seat wouldn’t do you any harm. Doc, you need to live a little, tear up some open road. Punch her once for me, will ya? The ‘Vette’ I mean! Here’s to open roads and pegged speedometers, my friend. Cheers!

Leonard knelt quietly in front of the stone, running his fingers across the deep recesses carved there. It would have been a travesty he could not have endured had Ernie’s marker remained undistinguished from the others. Ernie accepted a simple role in life and asked for nothing more. While he excelled in his field, he never allowed the world of business to override his love and compassion for his fellow man.

His fingers moved from the name, Earnest L Whittington, down the shapely outline of the ’67 Stingray that was carved there.

Leonard turned the key and smiled as the aftermarket exhaust roared to life. Ernie had been right about more things than he ever realized. Leonard had passed on the blonde, at least for now, leaving room from his friend in the passenger seat any time he cared to ride.

Savage Beast

The morning started a little rough when my truck battery decided to play dead. Actually there was no feigning of anything and to be truthful it began more than a little rough. The turning of the key produced nothing more than a click, and I in response invented some new words in my fit of frustration. Forgive me if I misquote and since these are not real words I’m uncertain of the spelling. I believe it was, ‘Fricken-fracken, piece ‘o’ schnacken’!

Locating the right tools to remove the battery devoured my last bit of patience, or so I thought. Perhaps it was the seized bolt for the battery hold down bracket, or when the corroded positive terminal broke off in my hand. It’s very difficult to determine which event caused the unhinging to take place, and quite possibly it had been a cumulative effort on behalf of all things mechanical to persecute me.

Actually my morning/afternoon exercise in frustration turned in a positive direction from this point on. To my surprise the auto parts store not only had a new battery that fit in the same physical space, having the same specs in regards to cranking amps, they had the old style terminals (significantly more substantially engineered).

Not until my drive home did I recall that my wife’s car had satellite radio. Perhaps music does soothe the savage beast. Since neither my wife nor my impossible-to-please teens were in the car I sought out the station of my choice. Suffice it to say I found my fix in the form of a station appropriately named ‘Hair-Nation’, in reference to the eighties bands. The first song that played happened to be Zebra’s, Tell Me What You Want.

Amazingly after twenty-plus years I recalled each line and quickly found my screeching heavy-metal voice. Glancing in the rear-view mirror gave only a visual indication of transformation that coursed through my veins. I no longer saw cheap Walgreen sunglasses and my inch-long flattop instantly became a bleached shoulder-length mane. Reaching for the volume knob I found that once you surpass thirty-eight the digital display appropriately reads ‘max volume’. My image in the mirror became distorted as the bass made it quiver with excitement. I had almost forgotten the art of driving with your knee, but like riding a bicycle it came to me in an instant. Thankfully both my hands had been rid of the arduous task of steering just in time for my ‘air-guitar’ solo.


As if a healthy dose of Zebra was not enough, the rock gods blessed me with Geoff Tate of Queensryche blasting away the last of my frustrations with Operation Mindcrime. As an encore while I pulled into my driveway Rob Halford of Judas Priest reminded me I had been ‘Breakin’ the Law’.

P.S. To those discerning few; you may notice that I could find no images of Zebra, therefore I included the Scorpions, who entertained with ‘The Zoo’.

Direction

Oh cobbled road of stone
you answered desperate cries
leading from this home
you prevented my demise

Oh winding road of stone
your paths are so diverse
they guide me far from home
these roads I have traversed

Oh solid road of stone
companion true indeed
for years without a home
you served my every need

Oh weary road of stone
with keen and seeing eyes
my loneliness for home
exceeds my weak disguise

Oh friendly road of stone
and healer of direction
will you guide me to my home
which alludes my recollection

Sweet Temptress

Sweet temptress of the day
you bring forth deep desire
with your svelte and sultry way
you lure him near the fire

With silken touch and graceful state
your passion penetrates his will
beyond those smoldering eyes of slate
lie voids no mortal man can fill

Encompassed in your velvet dreams
his writhing soul finds sweet escape
bitter sweet her temptress scream
as he assaults her ashen nape

When evil reigns and lust arrives
with bloodshot eyes she stalks her prey
now living as the queen of lies
no longer temptress of the day

True Blue

He reached up and adjusted the brim of his Dodger ball cap so it tilted slightly downward. The flimsy shield made of fabric did little to thwart the rain. This particular May shower had combined forces with a gusty northerly wind, which transformed a gentle rain into horizontal sheets that tested his will. Each of the determined drops slashed at his face causing his patience to wear thin. Mike Cadiz, a nineteen year veteran of the L.A.P.D, was no stranger to the elements, but tonight he wore no uniform. The oath he had taken to serve and protect didn’t stop when he clocked out. The obvious odor of alcohol emanating from the occupant explained the man’s struggle to produce his driver’s license. Many things had worked to bring these two men together, but mostly luck. Good on Mike’s part and misfortunate concerning the inebriated man.

Mike had exited the convenience store when he spotted the car in the parking lot. A black 2004 Chevy Cavalier that matched the description given by the witness two days earlier. The fact that the owner had made no attempt to conceal the heavy damage to the front driver-side quarter panel surprised him. Mike knew it would be best if he called one of his buddies on patrol, but instead returned to his car to wait.

A rail-thin middle aged man emerged around the corner of the mart. His spindly arms appeared taxed just carrying the brown paper bag. The glimmering of brown glass just visible left no doubt as to his purchase. Mike couldn’t fault him; he too preferred longnecks. Mike lit another Camel light while he watched the man enter the car and promptly retrieve a bottle. He took several hurried swallows before setting the beer aside and reaching for the ignition.

Mike’s reliable Seiko indicated the time, one thirty-two a.m. Few if any of the fifteen minutes he promised his wife remained. Fifteen minutes would have sufficed to run out and purchase a pack of smokes, but then this opportunity came along. Although she needed him there with her, he knew his wife would understand. Only a few minutes of effort could prevent a serious accident.

He allowed the black Cavalier to exit the parking lot and followed at a safe distance. The driver continued to utilize his entire lane and occasionally a portion of the opposing one. Perhaps an indication this wasn’t his first twelve-pack this evening. After the man made an exceedingly wide right turn onto a side street, Mike placed the lights on the dash and activated them.

Standing in the elements, Mike adjusted his cap again. The soaked ball cap had given up what little protection it had provided just a few minutes earlier.

“Sir, this weather is nasty. You think you could hurry a little?”

Mike’s request seemed to frazzle the already nervous man. Document after document fell in his lap as he rifled through his wallet. The beam of Mike’s flashlight focused on the center console.

“Is that an open container in your cup holder?”

“Um—yeah officer, sorry about that, been a long day at work. You know how it is.”

Mike then guided the flashlight to the exterior of the car and examined the damage closer. The crumpled metal did seem consistent with what he assumed had transpired.

“Don’t suppose you can tell me what happened to your car, can you?”

“Well—officer, funny thing, my wife ran into the garage a couple of days ago.”

“Hummmm, I see. I swear the insurance companies would go broke if it wasn’t for the female species.”

The man laughed nervously as if Mike believed his story and eventually if given enough time he could produce a valid license.

“You know what? I changed my mind. Don’t bother with the license; I think I’ve seen enough.”

Three empty casings clinked consecutively as they rebounded on the pavement and found rest in a puddle. The minuscule noise they produced paled in comparison to the actual muzzle blast but it was the clinking that caused a satisfied grin on his face. The first round smashed into the unsuspecting man’s temple, predictably expanded before exploding on the far side, carrying with it the man’s last milliseconds of life. Logic would have prevented the second and third rounds from being fired, but this had never been about logic.

Mike returned the model 1911 back to its resting place, tucked beneath his shirt, hiding in the small of his back. He grinned as he realized his preference for his own weapon opposed to standard issue. Certainly there were dozens of reasons he could cite. The silky smooth action and the immediate response the trigger provided were astounding when compared to the overpriced Glock. But on this particular early morning it was the origin of the weapon that gave cause to smile. The .45 had come from the evidence locker. On an off change that a ballistics test be performed the authorities would show up at the last registered owner’s home looking for answers. Mike knew the drug dealer from which the gun had been confiscated and had a pretty good idea he had not rushed out to register it.

Adjusting the beam of his flashlight he carefully collected the spent casings. After inserting the brass into the front pocket of his jeans he reached inside the Cavalier. The beer remained cold, a testament to justice dispensed quickly. Mike guzzled several swallows before pausing and wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

“Aaaaahhh! You’re certainly welcome Mr. Kowalski. I had supposed the second D.U.I. and suspended license would keep you off the street. Regretfully I was incorrect. Oh, it’s no problem at all. Even I realize what a burden a heavy conscience can be. Hope you rest easier now, I know I will. No, no, thank you for the frosty beverage.”

Mike waited until he reached a busier thoroughfare before flipping on the headlights. As the light turned green his foot pushed heavily against the accelerator, hoping to make up a few of the lost minutes. With only a few blocks separating him and his destination he met with delay. Swirling blue and red lights swallowed his rearview mirror. For a moment he experienced a quickening of his pulse; the results for which he was responsible for inflicting on a daily basis. He rolled down his window as the officer approached.

“Sir, I need to see your driver’s license and proof of……”

“Jose, Jose Martinez, it’s me, Mike.”

“Hey Mike, almost didn’t recognize you. You’re lookin’ a little rough, but that’s certainly understandable. Hey, how’s your son doing?”

“I’m headed back to the hospital now, just had to run for a pack of smokes. After two days he’s still in a coma. The doctor says he could wake up any minute, in a week or a month from now, or never.”

“All of us guys at the station feel terrible about what happened. I assure you, if there’s one bit of justice left in this world we’ll catch that drunk that ran your son over!”

“I know everyone is doing their best and we really do appreciate your dedication. ‘Stay true to the blue’, isn’t that what they always tell us? Well, I better get back up there. My wife’s waiting and I’m already late. You be careful, man, plenty of freaks and misguided souls roaming the streets at this hour!”

Today

Drawn to my window by notes slightly off-key
sweet purple dancer you’ve awakened me
thoughts of tomorrow have your forlorn
delicate darling fret not frosty morn
inspire with song and unrivaled display
sing from your heart if only today

Government for the People?

Perhaps the skepticism and nagging concern many folks have voiced about a reversal in regards to the most recent decision regarding same sex marriage in California has a valid basis. The fact remains that the people of California voted for a referendum banning same-sex marriage. My angst does not lie with this decision in particular, but the troubling trend of Supreme Court rulings that run contrary to the will of the people as a whole and routinely run afoul of precedence. Especially in the ninth circuit court where they have an inordinate number of cases reversed every year by the United States Supreme Court.

This is nothing new. Our country has been held hostage by special interest groups for years and I see no radical change on the horizon. It’s just that today, as I fill up at $3.97 a gallon, that I’ve had my fill and am looking to mount my soapbox.

Let’s take Al Gore for example. That’s ‘Nobel Peace Prize winner, Al Gore. Give me a break! The only ‘green’ he’s concerned about is the lining of his pockets. Are we to believe that his heart is simply in the right place when we learn that this campaign has increased his net worth by nearly a hundred million? How quickly would gas drop closer to $2.00 a gallon if this nation showed serious intentions of tapping into our own resources, primarily A.N.W.R. Does it not seem hypocritical, to anyone except for myself, that President Bush is asking the Saudi’s to increase their oil output while we allow special interest to impede any progress we could make in our own nation? Yes, you can curse ‘big oil companies’ for profiting from these ridiculous gas prices, but the two largest pieces of the pie are the oil producers and our friendly local and federal government, who take a tidy sum of taxes from each of those gallons we pump and have no expenses involved whatsoever.

How about imminent domain? I’m not a betting man, but I’d like to see the government put that to a vote by the people. How many takers will vote for the government to be allowed to offer a ‘fair market value’ for your property in order to run it over with a bulldozer?

Lest I run on forever I’ll not get started on the fallacious argument of gun control relating to a reduction in crime. For now I’ll step from the box and smile brightly about the prospect of paying a higher percentage of my paycheck to bolster current and fund new failed government run programs.

The Chuch God Intended

The church I attend is currently transitioning from a building that was erected in the late 1800’s. Understandably some of the older members hate to see us leave this facility, but in time have come to understand we must.

Today marked the final farewell service and I had been asked by our pastor to write a poem for the occasion.

Ornate and sparkling from the outside
like the golden cup our Master did warn.
A church should reflect the contents inside;
a tapestry weaved, not easily torn.

Souls come unraveled revealing frayed cords
results of this world now and forever.
Yet through the grace of our savior and lord
he is the tie that binds us together

Structures erode like the fleeting of time
but not so the promise of salvation.
The church we desire and of God’s design
shall transcend a specific location.

Closing a chapter, writing another
guided by virtue of God’s holy hand.
Unions between our sisters and brothers,
the only church that God ever planned.

Hide and Seek

Smoothing
contouring
sculpting the surface layer
internal demons we superficially repair
living flesh disguised
as plastic and silicone
until given bodies
are longer our own

perhaps if insides became out
reversed from the start
no longer disguised
those lacking a heart
a grotesque display
not easily denied
venomous emotions
black and festered inside
repressed feelings
having wrought their decay
surely all would shudder
at the enlightenment of such a day

we must master and tame
the beast within
removing the cover
for healing to begin
no longer conforming
to standards prescribed by mankind
perhaps inspired
by the beauty we find

some insist society is responsible
for the great hiding game
but let us choose wisely
when delivering such blame
we individually share in the debt
that inevitably will be paid
for only the weak of mind and of character
are so easily swayed

I am....

a bird with clipped wings
a robin without voice
a harp with no strings
a decision without choice

a salmon seeking a stream
a diamond without reflection
a player cut from the team
a compass without direction

this life that I’ve led
from the day conceived
ensures that I’m dead
without having breathed

The Game

A classic game designed to loose,
advancing pawns display no fears.
Relying upon unlimited moves
reveal the flaw of youthful years.
Fearless warriors the reaper claims
broken dreams spawn forgotten names.

Middle age foresees the plight
only able to extend the duel.
For only a soul void of fight
shall play the role of victor’s fool.
Fully engaged in primordial dance
he bides his time invoking chance.

Wisdom arrives far too late
to alter a runaway train.
Resigned to accept unavoidable fate
he forfeits this winless game.
One desperate deal struck in vain;
the old man cackles as he drives the train.

All the News That's Fit to Print

twisted views in black and white
a conscience only paper thin
pointed news every night
crammed down our throats again

sipping poison from a paper vial
perhaps to paralyze the mind
folded neatly in a pile
lay hours of precious time

vermin concealed in lairs
the purveyors claim no crime
each day peddling their wares
one subscription at a time

The Den

Dark, angry clouds gathered along the horizon. In the distance, spider webs of lightning erupted from the purplish bank and spread like gnarled fingers, reaching for the ground below. Thunderheads gathered and swirled overhead before releasing a torrential downpour.

That’s precisely the scenario Dr. Chad Gardner envisioned and expected. Many years had passed since his very public humiliation in regards to his predicting worldwide drought. His study met with considerable skepticism by the elite in his field and although he made a concerted effort to set his bitterness aside, the ridicule embedded itself deep in his soul and festered there.

As a senior meteorology professor at the university he dedicated years of his life to advanced studies of accelerated climate change, but even he underestimated the timeline. Within five years of completing the study, major portions of the world had been without rain for nearly three months. Bewildered citizens watched helplessly as their lush lawns were quickly consumed, transformed into baked, brittle graveyards of clay. The severity of the drought was unprecedented, but soon the unfolding of unfathomable events complicated matters. The procurement and processing of oil came to a grinding halt at the hands of several suspicious explosions in the Middle East. Massive and uncontrollable fires greedily consumed the precious commodity as quickly as it spewed from the ground. Some believed this a fitting punishment, a reckoning brought on by years of unregulated profiteering, but little doubt remains that this countries veracious consumption and irresponsible dependence upon oil contributed greatly to the present day anarchy. Across the expanses of the country panic ruled the minds of the masses, and soon rioters flooded the streets of major cities, brandishing weapons as they forcibly collected food and water. Certainly nothing will be gained by pinning the blame on one particular group, and whether this catastrophe resulted from man’s misuse and abuse of the environment seems irrelevant now.

Daytime temperatures soar to a hundred and fifty degrees and the relentless sun scorches everything in view. Dust storms as commonplace as rain showers once had been sweep the barren land, cloaking everything with a thick layer of filth.

Few were fully prepared for such a disaster, but Dr Gardner and his team of his colleagues had established a self-sufficient under-ground community, equipped with a functioning greenhouse, fresh air filtration systems, and very large underground fuel storage tanks. This haven quickly became know as the ‘den’. In addition to providing a safe alternative living area the group had made significant progress in developing a plan to reverse the disastrous chain of events. The plan involved what some referred to as ‘flimsy’ scientific data. ‘Cloud seeding’ has existed for decades. The process involved dispersing silver oxide, delivered by plane or missiles. Once released in the proper amount and into the appropriate clouds, the moisture that existed in the clouds initially was frozen. Other molecules then could accumulate more easily on their frozen counterparts, hence speeding up the rain process and also enhancing rain volumes. His team believed they had improved the technology, and if the first experiment was an indication, quite successfully; nearly three tenths of ‘liquid gold’ had fallen within a twenty-five mile radius.

Many of Dr. Gardner’s colleagues had become suspicious of his activities. For over a week he routinely left the confines of the den each evening. When confronted he claimed only to be working on the expansion of the project.

Dr. John Stein, one of his closest friends from the university, peered at him curiously over his glasses, “Enough is enough. Come on Chad, what are you up to?”

“Shhhhh, John. Keep your voice down or the others will hear.”

Doctor Gardner motioned for him to follow. He walked towards a secluded room and quickly closed the door as he gestured for Dr. Stein to take a seat.

“John, you’re my closest friend and I suppose you should know the details of the matter at hand. As you know, I believe we’ve perfected the ‘cloud seeding’ process and recently I’ve begun shop the market for potential buyers. As you may well have guessed it’s getting ugly aboveground. To put it mildly, our government is getting nervous regarding the chaotic situation since the oil fires. I’ve taken the liberty upon myself to contact, shall we say, a very high-ranking government official about our potential solution.”

“Who gave you permission to ‘shop’ this technology, anyhow? Are you proposing blackmailing our own government?”

“This was my third meeting with them and truthfully I had hoped for a change of heart, but our government remains uninterested. The exact phrase directly from the commander-in-chief was, “We aren’t interested in a hair-brain’ scheme’ by a renegade meteorologist”. Come on, John, you were there at the conference when I presented the data from my project and they laughed me off the stage—don’t you remember how they called me a fool to my face, a disgrace to my profession, calling for my resignation!”

“Yes, yes John, sadly I do remember.”

“As I was leaving the meeting with the president and his advisors, a limousine pulled along side me as I heard a familiar voice call my name.”

“This whole thing is crazy. Let me guess, it was the CIA.”

“No John it wasn’t our government. The man in the car was King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia, whom I had spoken with some time ago.”

John eyes widened, “Whoa, wait a minute. Since when is a foreign king an acquaintance and why would he come here seeking you out? Wait just a second…….for God’s sake, man, assure me that you had nothing to do with those terrible fires in the Middle East!”

“You have to admit the fires did accelerate the opportunity. The king contacted me several years ago expressing interest. Come on John, I’ve given our inept government every opportunity to buy into this program. You know full well that we warned of this radical climate change years ago, but no one wanted to listen. Well they’ll listen now! At first I saw ‘cloud seeding’ as the opportunity to make a little money, but now, more importantly we, have the opportunity to be recognized for my—I mean our hard work. For decades the Middle East has controlled our economy through oil, now they’ll simply control us by other means…….is there really any difference?”

Dr. Stein slammed his fist on the table, “Chad, I’ve known you for almost twenty years and during that course of time you’ve transitioned from a respected professor to a stark-raving mad lunatic. You’re a damn traitor, to the profession and most importantly to your country! This is about our dying planet, not your own personal pride, and I’ll not stand by and watch this happen!”

Dr. Stein slumped onto the table and fell to the hard dirt floor with a thud as the butt of Chad’s revolver struck the bridge of his nose. Dr. Gardner watched momentarily as a stream of blood pooled along the gash before spilling down both sides of his friends face. He removed a syringe from his jacket pocket and carefully injected the unconscious man.

“John, I knew there was a reason I hadn’t included you in the formulation of this plan. You’re just too damn conscientious! I’m sorry I have to do this, but I’ve worked too hard to allow anything or anyone to interfere.”

Dr. Gardner struggled as he drug the much larger man into an out-of-the-way closet and cuffed his hands before locking the door.

“Sweet dreams, John. By the time that wears off my plan will be in full force.”

Dr. Gardner nervously glanced at his watch as he stood on the tarmac, briefcase in hand. He could see the flashing lights of the private jet coming into view. He knew the documents alone would give the Saudi’s a fairly precise plan for implementing the ‘cloud seeding’ program, but he smiled as he considered his salesmanship. He had convinced the king that the extra $150,000 would be worth every penny. Chad would travel to Riyadh and oversee the program until the Saudi’s were satisfied they had purchased a working program and the foreign scientist were adequately trained.

The aircraft halted in front of him and the steps lowered slowly until they met with the ground. Chad noted the contrast of the pure white turbine against the dark-skinned gentleman’s forehead. The cigarette hanging precariously from the corner of his mouth wagged as he motioned for the doctor to move forward. Chad smirked as he toyed with the idea that this must be a smoking flight. He looked up toward the man at the top of the steps and as he did everything went instantly black. Chad never heard the shot ring out; he only felt the hot lead smash into the back of his skull as he tumbled lifelessly down the steps he had just ascended.

The young Saudi made his way to the bottom of the steps and casually pried the dead doctor’s fingers from the handle. He took one last drag on his cigarette, flicked it onto the doctor’s chest and ground the heel of his shoe on the butt.

“You must be more careful of the steps next time—and also who you associate with!”

Doctor Stein sat just outside of the ‘den’s’ entrance enjoying an ever so slight breeze as he sipped a cup of coffee and gazed at the stars. It had been almost a week since anyone had seen his friend. Truthfully if he did return the ‘den’ he hadn’t decided whether he would give him a hard right cross or welcome him back to the ‘den’. A streaking flash of light just to the north caught his eye. Upon closer examination he determined it to be far too brilliant for a falling star. Then came a second burst, followed in sequence by many others. They appeared to missiles; perhaps Chad was attempting another trial from a different location. Within two hours desperately needed rain began to fall. Slowly at first, but the drops increased in size and intensity until his arms glistened with welcomed moisture. The other members of the ‘den’ came to the surface and joined him, dancing in the downpour like young boys.

For the next month a multitude of missiles lit up the sky, bringing with them torrential rains, sometimes more than an inch an hour. Soon the ‘den’ began to take on water and eventually became uninhabitable, next the low-lying areas, then the hills, and eventually the tallest mountains.

Finally Finished

With any luck my hiatus from posting has come to an end. A frozen pipe that ruptured in my dining room ceiling drew me back into reality with about as much subtlety as a hard slap in the face on a bitter cold winter morning. Many moons later I sit in an easy-chair with cool drink in hand, absorbing the ‘fruits of my labor’.

This room was next on my 'list to be remodeled', but it seems mother-nature forced my hand. Truth be known, the ‘sterile-white’ motif had lost its appeal some time ago, and manly as I am, hesitantly I admit the new color scheme was of my own choosing (please no calls for decorating advice).

Hopefully this finds all of you well, in cyber-land and more importantly in the real world.

Unfulfilled Dreams

Leaning and longing a weathered shack weeps
though dreams remain dreams of youthful days past.
Each grinding hour leaves her weaker than last,
starving her hopes and the vigil she keeps.

A blistering gale over yon hill sweeps
delivering death with one fateful blast.
Worries as black as the shadow she cast
cascade from her soul, now gently she sleeps

If only they knew the breathtaking view
she wouldn’t have spent these days all alone.
Imprisoned by dreams that never came true;
yet nature has freed her spirit to roam.
Perhaps it is best her anguish is through;
predestined to be, a house not a home.

Anyone You Know?

Now I’m just as red-neck as the next central Illinoisan, but this offends every fiber of my being and that, my friend, takes some doing. Will you look at that duct tape, must be four or five inches wide and just barely sufficient to get the job done. You can’t convince me that this kind of thing happens by accident. “Well, doc, I was in my garage cleaning up and I came across this industrial size roll of duct tape and then I started playing with it and one thing led to another….well you can see the results! You can level with me, tell it to me straight. Will this be an outpatient procedure? Better yet, does Blue Cross/Blue Shield cover such an incident?”

I’m more inclined to think this poor fellow was partying at the frat-house and happened to be the first unsuspecting soul to have over-imbibed and passed out. You never know how low a bunch of bored drunk friends will stoop until it’s too late! Although you can’t see them, crocodile tears are forming in the corners of my eyes right now. Can you image the hide that will come off when that tape is removed? Is it like a band-aid? Do you just yank it off quickly, praying that the sting will dissipate as quickly as the tears formed in your eyes? Even if you work up the nerve to attempt the band-aid removal technique there’s the problem of reach and leverage. As much as I hate to admit it, this is not a one-man endeavor. I suppose the bottom line is, poor pun intended, how good of a friend do you have to be to help out, and more importantly will you tell anyone that you assisted?

Why Good Friday's Great

Although I'm still busy with my remodeling I thought it would be appropriate to post a monologue I was asked to write for a Good Friday service. I hope the Easter season finds you all well.

Imagine a street just outside the city wall of Jerusalem. It is around 50 A.D. and a weathered old man sits on a corner, as if he’s waiting on someone or something.

“Excuse me—excuse me, young man. May I have a moment of time? I promise I’ll be brief. Don’t look so afraid; I’m merely a tired old man in need of some assistance. Wait—please don’t go, wait just a minute. Ah, here they are—two pieces of silver. Oh I know it’s not much, but it’s all that I have. Please accept them. You see, I have a very important meeting I must keep; an anniversary with an old friend you might say. Won’t you appease a ragged old soul and walk along side me for a moment? Here let me take hold of your arm, my eyes are dim and as I recall the road is quite steep and littered with stones.”

“Certainly I have a name, and although it is difficult to tell from my appearance now, I once held an important position. But neither my name nor my title is relevant any longer. In fact there is much of the past I’d do well to forget. In my youth I was a rough piece of coral, jagged and dangerous, but as the sea has its way with the coral, so does time with a man’s misguided intentions. Time has a way of polishing things, taking away the dangerous edges, smoothing them into something more universally acceptable.”

“Yes, we’re getting close now—look just ahead and you’ll see it. They call it Golgotha—The Place of the Skull. Over the years many men were crucified here, very near the spot you’re now standing. Come, let us rest on this large stone while I tell you the story of one man in particular.”

We knew him as ‘Jesus of Nazareth’. His wisdom and eloquent words far exceeded his years. He performed undeniable feats of healing with merely the touch of his hand. Many believed his spiritual knowledge surpassed that of the Pharisees. People whispered quietly at first, but then voices became louder and bolder; proclaiming him as the messiah, the promised one. Some of his teachings went against the law of the day, the Pharisees and Caesar’s government became alarmed with Jesus following and eventually concluded they must end what they perceived as a threat.

They breached his inner circle, finding a weak link from within. They convinced one of his closest followers to accept a bribe. Then they arrested him and brought him before Pilate, seeking some kind of charge against him. Pilate could find no fault with the man, but the gathering crowd became persistent and unruly; so much so that Pilate feared their actions. During Passover the law allowed one prisoner to be set free. He believed with certainty, presented with a choice they would free Jesus, but the mob demanded Barabbas be freed instead and Jesus to stand in his place. With that the crowd grabbed him and prepared to crucify him.

Perhaps I should spare your impressionable young mind as well as my minds-eye the barbaric details. Roman Centurion’s oversaw the flogging and humiliation of the man they called “King of the Jews.” They thrust a crown made of thorns on his head, taunted, and beat him all the way up the hill. Once they arrived here the soldiers drove spikes through his hands and his feet, securing him to the cross.

Waiting for death is never pleasant, even for those that simply watch. In the sixth hour darkness swallowed the sky and eeriness settled over the crowd, then in the ninth hour Jesus cried out his final words; “It is finished!” At that moment the temple curtain was torn from top to bottom, the ground shook violently, and rocks split in two. It was at that moment I was convinced, this Jesus had been no ordinary man.

Slowly the crowd dispersed and went back to their homes, some perhaps regretting their involvement, yet I can only speak for myself. Yes…..I was there that day, among the crowd, and it still weighs heavy on my heart. In fact after witnessing the events I rushed home and wept bitter tears, yet somehow I knew I must record these emotions stirring within. In fact, this scroll I carry with me is the one I wrote that very day. Perhaps it is time I read it aloud, other than to the walls of my home.

Confessions

Some claim a blasphemous heathen served justice by the horde,
others espouse the ‘King of the Jews’ was savior and lord.
Pilate could find no charge, yet they insisted in foregone conclusions;
irreversible actions fueled by conjured delusions.
Old Testament prophesies fulfilled through hands of the willing;
those naïve to the sanctity of the blood they were spilling?

Angry skies loomed closer, now swallowed in swirls of black;
Even the heavens cried out, wishing the crucified back.
The crowds had dispersed, satisfied with the finality of death
yet one remained hours after Jesus had drawn his last breath,
examining closely his role in brutal events just occurred;
granting a voice to emotions so unexpectedly stirred.

“Father in heaven, for what reason do you still grant me breath?
My transgressions so great, surely they have sealed my death.
Say it so Father God, and the ground shall split open and swallow me whole,
where the serpent and demons may feed on my miserable soul.
Would be a kinder fate than to face the savior I beat;
for it was these regrettable hands that drove spikes through his hands and his feet!”


“Despite these failing eyes I can see your disappointment; certainly no more so than I in myself. But this story does not end in death, it is alive with birth. It was this very place where so many have died that our most merciful God in heaven saw fit to grant me new life. Sixty years ago, I began a relationship I had in no way earned. A relationship of divine creation, meant for anyone who will ask for it—even the man who drove the spikes.”

“Here, take this with you. I have no use for the scroll any longer. Share it with your family and the community; it is a message that should never be forgotten.”

“Son, your company has far exceeded the price of two silver pieces, but it’s time we both headed for our homes. No, you must return to city alone. Don’t fret over a weary old man. These eyes have seen many things and now they must rest. Run along now before your parents are filled with worry. My friend will be arriving soon, and without a doubt and just as he promised, he will carry me to my home.

Speed Freak!!!

It appears my transfer suffers,
perhaps a hyper-extended byte.
No success flushing buffers;
I’ve dumped them half the night.
I see the signal sputter,
dropping packets left and right.
Streaming audio begins to stutter
as data dribbles from the pipe.

I phoned tech-support straight away,
yet my plea for assistance ended in dismay.
Can you believe he had the audacity
to speak these crushing words to me?
“Sir, I see no reason to keep you on the line
the only trouble I detect, is in the way you connect.
You’re on dial-up, and all is working fine”

Exorcising of Demons

Father Mahoney’s eyes adjusted to the dim light of the unkempt room. The extravagant chandelier, centered over the table at which he sat, indicated possibilities of past, but the home’s cries for attention had gone unanswered, evident by the peeling wallpaper and broken plaster precariously clinging overhead. Intricate but sheer cobwebs proved little obstacle to the emerging sun. Rays of defiant light crept in under the boarded windows, refusing to obey those who wished to keep all things out. A sorrowful feeling washed over the priest as he mulled possibilities of what could have been.

No matter how intrigued he wished to be with his surroundings, his eyes again returned to his own thick wrist. At first glance the joint appeared no more interesting than any other, but the fact it was bound by handcuffs to a stranger begged more intriguing questions. The priest exhaled loudly as he assessed the situation. Both wrists were secured, one to a large man sitting next to him and the other to the leg of the table. As always he attempted to find some good in every situation, truthfully he knew the removal of the blindfold had been an answered prayer. The priest continued to wrap his mind around this seemingly senseless abduction.

He had been roused from a deep sleep, blindfolded, and ushered quickly out of his home. Although he had not seen a gun, the nervous man implied he possessed one which convinced him it would be in his best interest to avoid anything remotely construed as resistance. The young man exhibited his instability by changing his mind several times, then finally insisting the Father be transported in the trunk of his vehicle. The priest remained there in total darkness until coming to an abrupt stop at this old home.

He turned his attention to the man who sat motionless but connected to him. An unshaven face and salt and pepper pony-tail resting on the man’s back jogged no memories. A tattered Harley Davidson tee-shirt provided no clues either. Father Mahoney knew just about everyone in this small town. If they weren’t regular parishioners he had at least run into them at the local coffee-shop or post office and as any good priest would, extended an invitation to attend mass. Good or bad, it simply remained fact that one’s identity could not be kept a secret in such a small village. Especially as lively looking a character as the stranger appeared to be.

“Pardon me for not extending my hand, but we seem to have extenuating circumstances. I’m Father Mahoney and I don’t believe we’ve met.”

The stranger turned to the priest and nodded slightly. His square jaw did not flinch and gave no indication of an impending smile. His eyes seemed small, hiding in the shadows of his protruding and narrow brows; the whites of them crisscrossed with enlarged blood vessels, almost obscuring the fact they surrounded an iris of pale blue. The aroma of stale alcohol seemed to be his fragrance of choice.

“Sure could use a damn cigarette preach, how ‘bout you?”

“Actually, I’ve been trying to quit.”

The grubby stranger examined the priest closely. The prompted the Father’s lips to slowly spread into a nervous smile.

“That was joke. Can’t say as I ever saw the benefits of smoking, truthfully.”

“You’re a funny guy, preach. Guess we’re even; I ain’t never seen the benefits of goin’ to church, truthfully.”

“Have you ever been inside a church?”

“Have you ever had a Camel light?”

The priest shook his head from side to side, in response to the question as well as the unexpected chilly reception. Perhaps he would remain silent until the young kidnapper returned, hopefully to explain why he committed such an act and what his demands for release would be.

“Tell me preach, what’s so important that goes on in that church that I’m missin’?”

“Well—I suppose the presence of God, mainly.”

“You sayin’ they got God locked up in the church?”

“No, but I believe I’m safe in saying, you’re more likely to encounter God in a church than in the bottom of a whiskey bottle.”

“I don’t know preach, I’ve seen some crazy shit near the end of a fifth of Ten High!”

Just as the priest prepared himself to respond, the young man returned to the room. He adjusted his gaze from one hostage to the other. His eyes moved in an erratic fashion, as if they took in only a small portion of the view before becoming bored and moving on. His torn and frayed blue jeans barely reached the top of a pair of sneakers that had obviously seen better days. The upper portion of his body filled less than half of an oversized gray hooded sweatshirt.

He sniffed violently several times before wiping the excess powder from his nose.
Retrieving a shiny pistol from the pocket of his sweatshirt, he paced nervously back and forth in front of the two hostages. For several minutes he moved from one side of the room to the other, before pausing directly across the table. The small amount of light, that dared enter this room, now seemed focused directly on his face.

“You gotta be shittin’ me”, cried the disgusted voice of the stranger sitting next to the priest. “Johnny, just what the hell do you think you’re doin’, and to your own dad no less?”

The agitated young man struggled to speak, “You…you mean step-dad; you piece of shit!”

Johnny moved toward his step-dad with purpose slamming the pistol down on the table with such force the priest feared accidental discharge. The young man reached for and slid the cuff of his sweatshirt past his elbow, unveiling dozens of scars on his forearm. As he picked out a particularly severe mark he began to speak.

“Remember this one, ‘Dad’—ten minutes late coming home from school in the third grade. How about that one—forgot to take out the trash; now that’s a real travesty!”

Neither of the hostages appeared interested in viewing the scars any longer. Johnny’s step-father repositioned himself as to avoid the inconvenient view. He showed no interest in confronting the unfortunate results of his foggy days past. Father Mahoney’s eyes suddenly found particular interest in a blank wall directly ahead of him. To him each of the scars represented an unfathomably heinous act, but far more importantly the unconscionable acts were perpetrated by a trusted parent. During all of his days as a priest he had witnessed only one exorcism, but Father Mahoney wanted no part of a demon responsible for such abuse.

With one fluid move, Johnny buried the barrel of the revolver in his step-father’s thick chest, their faces mere inches from one another.

“Do you even remember holding the cigarettes to my arm? How I squirmed and begged you to stop, or were you so far into your bottle of whiskey you couldn’t hear my screams?”

The young man expected and received no reply, no apology, not even a feebly constructed excuse. He withdrew the pistol, leaving only an imprint in the Harley Davidson symbol on the man’s shirt, and then casually tossed an object onto the table. A fresh round belonging to the revolver rolled harmlessly to the edge of table, coming to rest against the belly of its intended target.

“Look closely at the base of the brass, you’ll find your initials carved there. I was only thirteen when I inscribed them. During the years since I hoped my raging hatred for you would subside, but unfortunately that never happened. Your role in this torture only lasted a couple of minutes, and you can’t even remember those. I’m the one who couldn’t escape the strange looks from strangers as they saw this disfigured piece of flesh. Do you have any idea how it feels to have literally no control over a situation that forced upon you! Perhaps within a few minutes you will!”

“Father Mahoney, don’t fade on me now. It’s your turn for a trip down memory lane. Come on Father, don’t you recognize me? Perhaps some soul searching is in order.”


The priest stared blankly at Johnny, as it was his turn to look down the dark barrel of the revolver. He racked his brain searching for a time when he and the boy’s paths may have crossed, yet he could recall nothing.

“Son, I’m afraid you have mistaken me for someone else, but you certainly seem very troubled, perhaps I can assist you.”

“Oh Father, you’ve done quite enough I should say. Perhaps you don’t recognize me without my altar boy robe. You hid behind the cloth, satisfying your own twisted needs, while forcing us to keep secret your nasty perverted game! Do you truly believe your God can forgive that wretched soul of yours?”

Johnny whirled toward his step father, as a thunderous roar erupted from the weapon. From nearly pointblank range the inscribed bullet found its mark between the bushy brows. His step-father’s limp body slumped over, and an echo filled the room, as his head made a thud when it came in contact with the table. Father Mahoney reeled in horror, partially because of the dead man still strapped to his own wrist, but primarily due the unsettling realization that his crime against the young man deserved equal justice.

“Yes Father, I do have a round containing your initials, but recently I’ve been conversing with God. Despite my own wishes, God himself has revealed to me another plan for you.”

The young man returned to kitchen, while Father Mahoney fervently broke into prayer.

“O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended you and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell. But most of all because I have offended you, my God, who are all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve with the help of your grace, to confess my sins, to do penance………”

A strong aroma filled the room, as Johnny continued to soak the table, occasionally splashing the liquid onto the legs and shoes of the priest. He reached across in front of the holy man and slipped his hand into the front pocket of his dead step-father’s shirt.

“For God’s sake Johnny you don’t have to commit this terrible crime! You’ll burn in hell for this, I assure you!”

The young man struck a match and held it perilously close to soaked wood of the table. His hand began to shake violently as the priest pleaded desperately for his life.

“Perhaps hell will be final destinations, but I trust you’ll make a place for me there Father!”

The table and floor burst into flames with an indescribable whoosh. The young man walked calmly from the house, unaffected by the priests screams. As he shifted his car into drive, perhaps his mind should have been consumed by remorse, but Johnny only knew that he would rest easier now.

Closing Time

Boulevard of Broken Dreams by Gottfried Heinwein

She flickers her fur boa just as rehearsed,
aroused by the concept of roles reversed.
Another night at Phillies where studs are thin,
perhaps the odds will improve with a tall glass of gin.

Introductions worn thin by conversation so terse
She gathered her nerves along with her purse.
“Neither of these clods can pass minimal inspection”,
she muttered in a voice full of disdainful inflection.

Striding for the door, house-gin fueling her speech;
she grabbed one of their arms, the first within reach.
“There’s no carriage outside, and I’m no Cinderella;
but the mood has struck me for a strapping young fella!”

Crystal Clear

The Crystal Ball by John William Waterhouse

What do these omnipotent eyes
belonging to the sage madam see?
Does her crystal orb ever so wise
utter words in regards to me?

She regrets her crystal ball has grown dull;
the spirits unwilling to speak.
Perhaps I’ll take the opportunity, during the lull
to expound on my future so bleak.
Each star and planet aligned and foretelling,
I’m fifty bucks lighter and that’s bull-shit I’m smelling!

Foreign Justice

Anna Taylor scraped another plate before stacking it neatly in the plastic tub. An overwhelming feeling of disgust washed over her. She continued to glare at the backs of the family walking from table nine. They were speaking Spanish and laughing frequently, no doubt they found it amusing that a pretty white girl had to clean up after them. How could anyone be expected to tidy-up behind these pitifully ignorant foreigners and their anchor-baby offspring? She assumed that once she left her home in Texas and arrived here in Spokane at her uncles she would be rid of them.

Although daddy held fast to his claim that this work experience would serve as a prerequisite for his footing the bill for modeling school, Anna felt it was only a deceitful and cruel plan designed to demean. He would likely pay for modeling school regardless of whether she worked or not, but explained the income would cover the difference to send her to a prestigious modeling school in Paris, one truly worthy of someone as glamorous as she. Soon the entire world would be abuzz regarding her unprecedented emergence on the runway. Quickly the sweet words ‘Anna Elizabeth Taylor’ would caress the lips of every young aspiring model.

This measly paycheck only supplied a difficult means to a deserved end. Anna made no pretenses; she didn’t believe for a second the meager pay sufficiently covered the lowly work she performed, and certainly wasn’t sufficient to require her to socialize with the other kitchen staff. All the gold in Fort Knox couldn’t compensate the daughter of an oil company executive for such a drastic lowering of social standards, especially when it came to scum such as Carlos Mendoza.

Anna didn’t know the specifics about how the immigrant dishwasher had entered this country, but she had a general idea. Carlos, under the cover of a starless night, likely scampered across the border shouldering a bag of stolen goods, naively fortunate to have remained one step ahead of border patrol. Carlos claimed to have simply left his homeland of Mexico in pursuit of freedom, and on this particular day his exuberance for his new-found liberty took literal form.

As Anna passed by he extended an open palm and helped himself to a handful of her perfect pear-shaped butt. Her initial reaction of shock soon gave way to instinct as she whirled around and struck the perpetrator on the end of his jaw with an unexpected and powerful right. Carlos staggered one step to his right then two unwieldy steps to the left before crashing into a tall stack of dishes. Heckling voices of other male workers echoed from the kitchen and the female employees cheered wildly. Apparently Carlos didn’t qualify as a first time offender and the ladies of the kitchen approved of Anna’s swift justice.

She made her way back to the dining room, pausing in front of a mirror to attend to her slightly rumpled hair. Truly—what had that heathen Mexican been thinking, she mused? Carlos Mendoza certainly wasn’t the first to touch her, but all those who had that privilege knew the price of admission. Typically bribes of expensive jewelry or meals at fine restaurants gained them access to such opulent rewards, yet this little man had nothing of value to offer. Perhaps he did have one thing she desired—his freedom. An anonymous call to I.N.S. on Monday morning would correct the situation. Without a green card, which she doubted he possessed, they would haul him back to Mexico to work in the fields, precisely where a ‘dog’ like him belonged!

Thoughts of sweet revenge softened as she imagined her father shaking his head in disgust. Tom Taylor had always attempted to fill his daughter with confidence. From a very young age, even strangers began to comment on Anna’s unusual and striking beauty. Tom reluctantly accepted this as fact, but quickly urged his daughter against depending upon her outward appearance to attain what she desired in life.

She carefully tucked a wisp of blonde hair behind her ear and admired her sultry pose. Anna winked at the reflection and blew a kiss towards the glass, “What fool would deprive the runway or movie screen of such mesmerizing beauty and a smoking-hot body? Not I”, she giggled.

After clearing several more tables, a quick glance at the clock revealed her disastrous first week of work had finally come to an end. Quickly she escaped the diner, but just as abruptly as she exited, she returned to the warmth for a moment while allowing her car to warm up. Stomping the snow from her boots, she cursed her uncle for being too cheap to have sprung for heated seats. Carlos slipped on his jacket and prepared to leave, but before he escaped Anna would give him a piece of her mind.

“Not only have I performed unspeakable labor today, this fine ass of mine has been forever tainted by filthy illegal hands and then subjected to a frozen car seat! Carlos Mendoza, undoubtedly you understand nothing about foreign justice, but very, very, soon you will feel the undesirable, yet inescapable, consequences of your indiscretions!”

The look of bewilderment on Carlo’s face indicated either he understood little of what Anna had just said or he simply didn’t care to return fire. Carlos lowered his head and carefully slipped past her, ensuring he didn’t make incidental contact. “Si, foreign justice Mizz Taylor.”

Anna returned to a slightly warmer seat. Glancing into the rear-view mirror, she pursed her lips and gave the back of her hair a toss, “Hey good-lookin’; where have you been all my life?”

The stressful day had taken its toll on Anna, she inhaled deeply then laid her head back on the headrest for a moment, closing her eyes.

“I’ve been right here waitin’ for you!”

Horrified to hear a response to the question she’d asked, Anna panicked. Little doubt lingered as to whom the voice belonged to. Her mind shifted into overdrive as she realized the danger of the situation and the sudden coldness that settled upon her cheek. She carefully moved her eyes to the rear-view mirror, where she observed the stark contrast of a shiny steel blade against her flawless skin.

“Carlos, please, please don’t cut my face…I’ll do anything you want—I swear!”

After several seconds of silence, she began to sob. “My purse—there’s probably a hundred bucks in there, it’s yours!

“It ain’t yer money I want, senorita.”

Anna knew her desperation would be evident in her words, but she must attempt to preserve her valuable asset at all costs. “Is it sex you want Carlos? If so, I’m all yours; however you want it!”

He chuckled, “Filthy illegal, huh? Tell me Mizz Taylor, when you look in the mirror, do you see the filthy bitch I see?”

Carlos began carefully tracing her high cheek-bone with the blade, lightly at first, then increasing the pressure as he descended past the corner of her mouth. He observed the skin separate and the blood slowly rise to the surface. His deviant actions stirred no emotion within him. The uncontrollable smile resulted from the irony of Anna looking into the mirror, her horrified expression as she helplessly watched her own beauty fade, slice by slice.

“Si, Mizz Taylor, foreign justice!”

Shameless......That About Says it All

I was presented this award from Jo at Jo Janoski’s Blog. The recipient is tasked with listing three things that they believe make writing good and powerful before passing the award along to five other people:
The following things make writing good and powerful:

1. Capturing of the imagination, having the ability to transport someone to another place and time.

2. Detailed description. A reader needs to be able to visualize a character, situation, or scene.

3. A good writer will not stay in the comfort zone of writing only what they know. They will move on to foreign subjects, characters, or situations; if only to challenge themselves.

And finally, I present the award to these five people:

Harry at hfurness poetry

Shirley at Whispers in the Wind
Bob Hazelton at Average Poet
Sue Turner at Tumblewords

Alcoholic Poet at Alcoholic Poet

How Can We Go Right?

Sifting through dialogue drifting askew;
fabrications smother a single fact.
Candidates tossing partisan spew
hoping the other don’t throw back.

Deciphering rhetoric, an arduous task,
like spelling with alphabet soup.
Securely veiled behind party’s mask,
no limit to how low they will stoop.

Finally a chief we can hail
no more propaganda to air.
Barely a visible slimy trail;
they’ll never admit was theirs.

Unlikely Cast--Continued

This is a continuation from my last post. An elaboration upon the short poem 'Unlikely Cast'.

A finely-detailed, black Mercedes limousine came into view. The tires, encompassing gold-plated wheels, create spirals of dust, gathering momentarily in clouds before being whisked into the hills by a gentle country breeze. An odd sight indeed; such a lavish mode of transportation, no appointment too grand, yet finding reason to grace a dusty path. A farm road actually, forged by the wheels of crude implements, and foot traffic of hard working farmers that transform these miles of dirt into productive sheets of landscape.

The Cyrus Barker farm, which I proudly own, rarely has the privilege of such company. Certainly Ms. Riker could send one of her hired staff, but she continues to visit herself. I waste little time worrying about her strange inclinations. My primary concern is to proudly display my fruits and vegetables, enticing her to purchase as many as her blackened heart desires, then gleefully waving goodbye to her as quickly as possible. The scrutiny of her eye is unparalleled, often spending half the day selecting only the finest and largest specimens. She does pay a premium for my goods, and that small formality in itself makes bearable her likely inbred display of condescension. Without these particular customers, my livelihood would be halved at best, if not in jeopardy altogether. Suffice it to say among the snooty folks, Ms. Riker ranks dead last on my list; her particular tone seems to reverberate in my head long after she’s departed.

As the fine automobile comes to halt, I begrudgingly prepare myself for the ceremonious greeting. Her driver opens the door, revealing a long silken gown, complete with embroidered jewels adorning the hem. The flagrant flaunting of assets disgusts me thoroughly. Following at some distance behind the dress, the face of Ms. Riker emerges; her eloquence unruffled by the unusually rough ride. Her beauty flows genuinely, yet her disguise of niceties remains perilously thin.

“So sweet of you to personally greet me, Cyrus; I’d hoped to find someone else waiting for me, but I see you’re still here.”

One side of my mouth gives way to smile, then reluctantly the other. “I’ve been anxiously awaiting your arrival. I’ll assist you as you make your selections, if you prefer?”

Vigorously brushing dust from her gown, she gracefully places both feet on the ground and dismisses the driver with a wave of her delicate hand.

“I’m familiar with the layout, no need for you to coddle. I’m certain you have pigs to slop, cattle to herd, or some other filthy beast to tend to. I’ll be certain to call when my shopping is complete. Now run along, my grimy little farmer man.”

I turned and began slowly making my way toward the fields. A defenseless watering can bore the brunt of my hatred for Ms. Riker. There certainly are filthy beasts to tend to; but I just offered and was rudely turned away. Grabbing a hoe from the shed, with unusual ferocity I began attacking the weeds encircling my plants. One of the many responsibilities of a farmer is to ensure the culling of unproductive nutrient-robbers from the fruit-bearers. Perhaps this philosophy should extend past gardening.

Grabbing a bale, I break it up into flakes, spreading straw over the fruit bearing vines, careful to apply a sufficient cover, wishing to save as many bales as possible to insulate my own shack from the approaching harsh northern winds. I pause to watch from a distance, the self-absorbed purchaser of fruit. While I will spend another winter shivering in a one room shack, she will dine in excess. Extravagant meals served her by loyal servants, berating them as they perform their micromanaged duties. Once sufficiently gorged, she will belch loudly before ordering the disposal of more food from one meal, than I will be allowed for a week. The mere jewels encrusted in the hem of her dress, are surely worth more than a years salary of my own. One wheel from her precious Mercedes would purchase ten of my homes. The cruel injustices life inflicts upon those such as I, boil within me. For a brief moment I consider grabbing my hoe, and ridding earth’s garden of an inferior weed.

“Oh Cyrus, where have you run off to? I believe I’m finished and ready to settle up.”

Ms. Riker’s voice snaps me from my murderous mood, and surely regrettable action. I smooth my hair and do my best to compose myself by the time I reach her. Throughout our conversation I continue to battle emotions welling inside. My fingers involuntarily tighten around the hoe on more than one occasion, but I successfully avoid the urge to strike her repeatedly, in her beautiful face.

Just as the Mercedes prepares to pull away and I believe I am finally rid of her, the rear window lowers and she signals me there.

“Cyrus, it’s painfully clear what you think of me; your worried brow holds more furrows than your fields. Your compulsion to anger easily holds you back from great things. You bitter attitude towards life consumes you, always believing you have been shortchanged. While I’m certain you assume my family was born wealthy, that isn’t the case. How do you think I developed such an eye for produce? My great-grandparents were peasant workers, laboring in the fields just like you, but they applied themselves, Cyrus. I benefit now from the struggles my ancestors overcame.

When I arrived this afternoon, stating I had been wishing for someone else to greet me, I could immediately see the fury in your eyes. Each time I come to the farm I anxiously anticipate someone else. Not because I dislike you, only hoping to find someone who works for you perhaps. Or even to find the farm no longer exists, because you’ve moved onward and upwards in your life.

Cyrus, I my only wish is to help you, but unfortunately I cannot. The insults I cast at you today were simply a test, only to measure your improvement since my last visit. Had I seen an improvement, even a slight one, I was prepared to hand you a check, made out in your name; $10,000 to help you realize your dreams, but sadly, Cyrus, there is no improvement. Until you can maintain your own discipline, how can you expect to conquer the world?”

The Mercedes quickly becomes a speck on the horizon. Briefly I consider what she said to me, but ever so briefly. “Ten-thousand dollars, that cheap conceited hag; she wouldn’t miss a hundred-thousand!” The continued slamming of my hoe acts as therapy as I imagine battering first her limousine, then striking the smugness from her filthy rich face.

Unlikely Cast

For to be a Farmer by W. Homer

A jeweled carriage arrives at last;
a customary deal ensues.
Two actors compose this unlikely cast,
come forth with pointed views.

“Grubby nails and soiled clothes
plague those who toil by hand.
Thank God I’m not one of those
who inconceivably chose
to work this filthy, vile land.”

“These tired, muddy boots
shall never grace her marble floor.
For a plant with shallow roots
is content producing rotten fruits
and likely nothing more.”