DAISY CONFLICTED

 

Daisy was conflicted. It was not an unusual occurrence, but today’s "conflict-ion" was more conflicted than most. 

If not for the hats, she’d be in a serious dilemma. Daisy was cantankerous, but baffled, and the more confused she got, the angrier she was. And when she was angry, she went from 'zero to pissed'.

She was down to three hats. Straw, linen, and “sporty”.  The straw was wide brimmed and provided needed protection. The Linen was a chic, drooped- over-the-eye mysterious, and the sporty was just that -  to a tee. Country girl, city girl, or active girl.

  

She hated this bullshit. The hats were the easy part, but the pants, the top, the shoes…oh my god, the shoes. She was loosing it!

Darrell called, which did not help. He offered to come over and ‘put something together’ for her. She declined. She didn’t need this mania to spread…or be suppressed, for that matter. She didn’t need a man to manage her wardrobe, even if he was a gay man with loads of taste, the answer was still ‘no’. No chance. She her "disengaged" her cell, cutting him off in mid-sentence. She needed to get past this herself. 

Goddamn him for even trying. Now she’ll have to think of way to say ‘I’m sorry’, but, then that’s a thought for another day. Right now she was in panic mode. She had a bout with IBS, which was painfully unpleasant, and 'emerged' with even less time to prepare. She was meeting men with jodhpurs and riding crops…the women, wore what, garters and gussets? Who knew? 

It was all getting so time-consuming and tiresome...

Two hours later, she called Darrell and asked what he was doing. He was a bit pissy from their prior conversation (and had right to be), but she told him she had decided not to attend, after all.

“A Major Client Faux Pas, but that’s what ‘staff’ is for. They’ll think of something, and bring in someone at the last minute. It won't be easy, but it’s their job.”

"Oh, no! Is she alright?....All our prayers go out...well wishes for a speedy recovery...poor, poor, Daisy..."

She asked him, pointedly, if he needed a drink, and he said, “Lord, yes! ” and that was that. They planned an early dinner, nothing special, very casual, sunny patio, and most of all, loose attire.

“Every now and then, I’m allowed to be casual on the weekend,” she declared, and then proceeded to be very.

V

COLD MOON

 

It was a cold, silver spoon, kind of moon, full of itself, and out-shined the stars on a sharp, chill, desert night. Ralph lay huddled in a shallow ravine, pressed against the warm clay wall, it’s day spent baking in the sun, and it radiated like a brick oven. Discovery of the phenomena has significantly altered Ralph’s daily existence by allowing him to endure the cold and stay warm. Then the winds picked up and skimmed the tip top of the bluff, scattering sand and tumbleweed overhead, like a surfer in the tube, he tucked inside the warm cusp of the crease just below the curling, swirling, blasts, enduring only a hint of the pending sandstorm, and finally he drifted off to slumber.

Next thing he knew, he was jarred awake by a noise he did not recognize. Something snapped him from his deep sleep and his consciousness rose quickly, to break through the surface of reality. His eyes shot open to reveal the moon, now hovering overhead like some light-bulb in the sky. The night now grown still, but much, much colder. He listened hard, anticipating an echo to return, in hopes of recognition. It did not. He lifted his head above the short ridge and smelled the sulfurous waft of smoke drifting by at it’s own pace. Had the wind been up, the scent would be in Arizona by now, but in this desert stillness, smells linger, only to fade, like every other thing, in it’s own time. Still fresh, it had to have come only a short way away, in the wake of that sound - Gunshot.

Someone was out here shooting. Wait for another shot, but it never came. Why only one shot? Could be their last round shot off, closing out a clip, or a load. A hunter on his way back from Utah, making sure he did not take a loaded gun back home, popping one off. Of course there could be another, darker option. He  resisted the thought that perhaps it was the only shot the shooter needed. The mission may now be complete. Both scenarios were viable explanations. Maybe some drunken kid, or kids…but still, just that one shot? Why come all the way out here? That’s when it struck him - it had to be the darker option. Out here is exactly where that would be. Even in the full moonlight, who was around to see?

But had he? He thought he heard it, but cannot swear to it. He smelt the residue of the crime…if there was a crime. And there’s no crime without the body. Was it his job to substantiate this? This what? Ralph slid back down and curled up fetal. He had to think about that awhile. Was it his job to seek out someone else’s atrocity? And who could he tell that wouldn’t look at him askew and wonder. If it was suicide, then they’ll have to wait. But what if there’s a ‘shooter”, and where was the shooter this minute?  Then the engine roared, in answer to his question, and the vehicle rumbled it’s way back to the highway. Ralph could only see the taillights, and they were in no hurry. It would do no good to call out, it was too far gone and would only lead to trouble.

He waited for daylight, sleepless with the grim prospects of the task awaiting him. 

V

FLOCK

 

They can’t blame this on the Rapture, it was far too rapacious, but the Beings being brutalized, suffered in silence, because they Believed. Pity their souls, giving all their worldly possessions over to the cleric, heretic that he was. He was not in the business of giving back the bounty and would soon be out of town before they ‘returned to earth’ and realized they’d been fleeced. They were his flock, and due for a fleecing.

And there'd be Mutton for dinner. Tough old meat, but cooked long enough, the rich juices flow, from deep within. The fervent broth, it can be intoxicating…

A flock don’t tarry, ‘til it’s been fleeced, and that’s when they become wayward. …’til the next Shepard  comes along. But this stock don’t-got-squat…gave it all to the last fella’, passed through here.

And, can you think of anyone more deserving, than this, Servant Of The Lord?

Hell No! ….no, you can’t. 

V