APPLE GREEN PAC

Out there in the field at the end of town at the beginning of fields stood a tall man erect but broken, leaning hard against a post that weren’t there hoping for some support even if based solely on a hope – he leaned and he hoped he did not fall over.

A car, it was a Packard, big and green like an apple. Round and shiny like it was just polished. Pulled up to the man and stopped confidently with nary a tick of dust in the air. The erect man, he bent as though beckoned to do so. The assumption would be that the stranger needed directions was lost in the sticks and was seeking a highway.

The two they talked for a quite awhile. Their conversation seeming to pick up some steam as the lean man he leaned well within the open car window and created some agitation, like he might have even gotten a hold of the driver. The car swayed from behind as the driver shifted his weight away from his attacker, the car shifting with him listing to the left.

What is between two men is only between the two men and it is best to mind your position, less you find yourself in the middle. I do know when the lean man disengaged himself from the vehicle, he looked much the worse for wear, like he was stricken, but then I don’t know these facts. I was not there, to hear me tell it.

Man disappears from his repossessed farm. Is that out of the ordinary? Isn’t his obligation to do so? It’s the law. 


But he never showed up anywhere after, and that was the crime.

SEETH

Anger boiled like a thousand snakes poured into the cranal cavity and capped shut, his brain slithered with pent up fury, host to a most hateful commotion. The pistol, the key, the liberated, spiteful glee. I have a gun, the snake chorus hissed, I have a gun. You do not rule me now, you do not abuse me now, you die from your excuses, your excesses, your power chokes you off, gag on the ferment of your ridicule, I am the avenger, I am not your fool, I am not insolent, nor incapable of capping your dense cranium with a round of hot titanium.

YELO CONVRT

Up ahead, appearing quickly around a curve before 

darting around another, was a yellow sports car, low 

slung, tight gripped, it dashed and curved hard, then 

dashed again before disappearing. It was a wicked 

ride dancing on the edge of elation and extinction. It 

was a convertible but I could not see the driver, too far 

and too fast. I counted maybe eight curves before I 

lost it. Over the next grade I was offered a view of long

straight down-slope with no yellow dot or red tailed

light in sight. Whether it broke the sound barrier over 

the far horizon, or simply made a turn onto a side road, 

I did not expect to see it again. There were other

things to occupy my mind at the moment. I tried to 

piece the trail – the roads - the web. I was getting 

sucked into something. The convertible was just a 

distraction. Then it struck me. James Dean died up 

along this stretch. Driving just like that, no doubt. Hard

 and high on the edge of his headlights. The light was 

failing in the shadow of the hills and I wondered to 

myself if I might come across a shattered yellow heap 

around the next corner then backed off the pedal just a

 bit to assure I didn’t join it.

On Exhibition

Angels At  The Exposition

The headline read

Not meant to be biblical

Angels referred instead

to the dancers at the  Expo Club

on old Montreal Road outside of town

Half way to Hankrum

on the northbound fork                                                                        

Up to port

It was fading on yellow rag

Something in a chest or a drawer liner

But folded and neat and creased

ever so carefully around the advertisement

Precious little Victorian etchings

cherubic chubbies donned each corner

and one cupid drew a bow

lower center, just above the address

out there on Old Montreal Road

What was it?

How did it go?

An angel in reputation

exposed on exhibition

such a display

with little hesitation

for the extreme exuberation

of the gentlemen

in rapt attention

Out old Montreal Road

 at your discretion

Only at The Exposition

Join us won’t you?

                                    
Your Loving , Angela

I was compelled to do so.

Took the directions as told

But time and wind have claimed the road

And Life, it seems, has called Angela home

Miss Citrus

The day started with a morning, sweltering hot, but after a rainy summer afternoon, the evening cooled, and a wind rose off the sea to dry the streets making it ideal for strolling. Helen Fairchild consented to take her stroll with me that evening, and a lucky man is “me”, because she is the pearl of the neighborhood, and I was proud to be seen with a genuine beauty queen. Helen Fairchild was Miss Citrus Festival back in the day, not so long ago, out in her Riverside home.

She had no movie star vision when she moved to Hollywood, just out to get a job. Maybe a secretary at a studio. That was her ambition, something solid, and not so glamorous. A good job and a good man. Kids and a home. If she harbored other notions she kept them locked away, like most of us do.

Miss Fairchild was in a rare mood that night, alright, her voice so lyrical, so light, her laugh so full of life. Like she was in a spotlight and you were in her movie, but she wasn’t acting. Nothing phony about her. Genuine. Her star was in her heart, and her glow shone from eyes as blue as the summer sky. To be close and witness the depth of those azure orbs, the sweetness of her breath, the soft musk of her femininity, the swell of her breasts, my senses immediately overwhelmed, I stood dizzy on the spot, unable to lift a foot from pavement, so glued to the spot was I, and then she smiled with lips full, and teeth perfect and white, I staggered back, my feet now scrambling to catch the balance I desperately needed as I stumbled and found myself lying flat on my … before her.

“Oh!” she gasped with momentary concern at my clumsiness, but she laughed with relief at my blushing red faced embarrassment. “Are you quite alright Mr. G. ?”

Although I had managed to stand and gain my balance and footing alright, I had not gained full control of my sense of decorum and I blurted out, “I am simply bedazzled by your beauty. So struck by your presence, I am. I…”

She blushed, now, and held her delicate hand to those perfect lips, attempting to stifle a girlish giggle, so lyrical, it strummed the strings of my heart. Then she touched my arm with concern on her face, and my world started spinning. “Are you alright Mr G? You look so pale. Would you like to sit for a awhile?”

That struck me as a good idea. Without releasing her grasp on my arm, she slid her free arm across the small of my back and guided me in the direction of a nearby bench. I was in her embrace, her body now brushing ever so slightly against me, a sense of hips glancing, a brush of breast and a whiff of soft auburn hair, her leading, while I stumbled like an idiot dancing, finally to flop on said bench, so hard on the derriere, I uttered “Ouch”. And to my surprise she did not just leave me there, but settled next to me, not releasing, still holding tight hoping, I suppose, to keep me upright.

“Are you alright, Mr G?” she asked with some urgency now, and I realized I had not responded to her initial query, and for all she knew I may be in cardiac arrest.

“Yes…yes…no, I am…I am alright. It was just this night. I had looked forward to it, so…I was…my head got a little light. I apologize.”

“Could you drink some water?” she leaned in even closer, looking deep into my eyes, as if still not sure I would survive. I knew I had to get control of the situation right then and there, but regretted being released from her intimate proximity and caring grasp. The quiet between us shattered at a moment’s cowardice.

“The night must go on.” I mustered false bravado, and thus broke the spell. She drew back and replied, “Well, if you’re sure you are up it…” she rose and held out her hand. I gladly accepted it, and stood, as tall and assured as I could stand. “There. See? Sound and steady.” She smiled, and having already crossed the awkward bridge of initial physical contact, she casually slid her arm in mine, and said “Fine! Where are we going on such a lovely evening?”

“I’m afraid, I have been a bit clumsy so far…”

“Enough of that, now. You were over come by the warm weather…”

“I was overcome, that part is certain, but it was your beauty that overcame me.”

“Mr. G you are making me blush! Oh! And you too, I see!”

The light had grown magic, balanced symmetrically between day and night, and the breeze hushed in appreciation, when a wicked little whirlwind decided then to flick up her dress, so I could see the long leggy thigh above her knee. She had noticed, but she let it be.

“Too breezy for you, Miss Fairchild?”

“Not at all. And I am Helen to my friends”

“…and I am Paul.”

“Then, Paul, I guess that would make us friends!”

“To the very end!”

“Well! You do move right along, don’t you?”

“Pardon?”

“You and I? Friends to the very end?”

“It’s just a catchy phrase, is all. Were it only true…”

“We shall see what we shall see.”

“We shall?”

“ Yes, we shall, and so may you.”

So we walked as the light dimmed, the winding park path overlooking the Pacific, when finally she said, “We may have been a clumsy start…the two of us…but I am having fun with you.”

“Really? I…”

“Yes, really.” And she moved in closer, and squeezed my arm.

This wasn’t my life I was living, this was her movie and I was privileged to share her scene no matter how long or short it might be. I was just an extra called up on stage. 
This long tall doll was obviously much too hot for me. Still, she was a Mountain I’d be willing to die climbing.

Things you take to the grave...

A bag is left behind...what's inside, meant never to be seen, comes back to haunt them.

Victoria lay Marsh to rest on that drizzle gray day, with the wind whipping at their slickers and burberrys, while umbrellas trembled and where-under huddled a small flock, high on the green knoll atop the steep white cliffs. September 14 1947, Marsh Jurrey was put asunder. While heading out of port sailed a long low tanker, it’s black smoke trailing as it started its trek into the Channel. Which direction would she turn? Heymond wondered to himself. The sea was choppy, and caps danced from peak to peak and as far as the eye could see, which on a day as bitter as today, was not all that far. The salty blast stung their eyes, and caused the congregation to bow in reverence and preservation, hunched, tilting noticeably into the wind. Heymond’s riding goggles protected his sight and as he cleared them with finger wipes he saw the ship turn to the South. They had made some pointed comments about his choice to ride his motorbike from the ceremony to the hill, and in such weather! But Hey’ felt it was a suiting farewell since Marsh was the bike’s mechanic, and a darn good one at that, leaving him in a slight quandary about where to go for service now that the old man had passed.

Marsh had been a Sergeant Major for Montgomery’s troops in North Africa, in charge of the motor pool for the campaign against Rommel. Obvious from the gathering that he had been respected within a close rank of friends and war mates, of which there were a half dozen of so. There were four women, including his wife, daughter, mum, and one who stood apart and seemed unknown to the rest.

Hey’ eyed the woman. She was dressed well…too well for this small town crumbling from the weight of the war, goods scarce, fashion tattered. She was dressed simple, respectful, but also rich. They could all see it, and the questions hung heavy in the air as Marsh received the shovels’ final burden.

“And who would this be?”

 “What is she doing here?”

“What business does she have with old Marsh?”

 Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen her arrive. She was not in the chapel for the ceremony, he would know. He had been an usher and stood facing the congregation until dismissal, at which time he walked briskly up the aisle and met them all at the door as they exited; assisting ladies with coats, gents with umbrellas, then holding the door open against the blasting winds. He watched as they each slipped into one of four cars, and followed on his motorbike as they slid their way up the muddy hill road to the gravesite.

Hey’ found her to be mysterious.  

Someone rudely grabbed his arm and broke his reverie. “Heymond, come to the house. Kate has requested it. She has an errand to be run.” It was Marsh’s stepson Tate. Marsh never cared for Tate, because he knew Tate looked down upon him. His real father, an Earl, was killed in a bomber run. He was an Ace in the Queen’s own, and Tate bore the bloodlines.

“I…I don’t know, I have obligations.” Which was true.

“Don’t disappoint her, Hey’”

Hey’ walked across the lawn to Victoria’s side and took her hand and thanked for the invitation, that it meant a lot, that it had been an honor knowing Marsh, but that he had obligations. She hugged him tight and reminded him that he was one of Marsh’s favorites, ever since they had moved here seventeen years ago. Marsh knew that he liked the lad even though Heymond was a child at the time. An uruly child at that.

“Marsh would want you to get-on-with-it. And I concur.”

“Thank you. I…”

“I know.”

Four miles down the highway, having got a late start, Hey’ gained on the black sedan she had departed in. It had appeared just at the top of the hill, just above the gathering. That’s how she had arrived, from the upper road, over the crest and that’s how she left. Quiet, and quick. Now, closing on the auto as it sped through the rain, into the wind, blinding him with the spray of it’s perilous wake, he zigzagged desperately looking for a trench or hollow in the sedan’s backwash. Finally he found a groove just inside the left rear fender, at the rear of the driver and just outside the rear window. Then in that window she turned to look back at him. Was she smiling? Perhaps, but then she wiped a tear. The moment just fractions within a blurr of whipping rain and swirling drafts. Hey tried to swing wide but his headlight caught the wide board barricade immediately ahead and he swung back in but the sedan did not respond as quickly. The driver’s hard steer barely broke the momentum as the wheels failed to grip, sending the mass in motion, through the barricade flying into the harsh darkness. Hey’ lost control of his bike, shocked by the sight, he plowed into the opposite embankment, sending him skyward until landing in a muddy heap, while the bike careened back across the road again and cut it’s own path up and out into the black gorge.

He had been out for a while, he thought. He came back to consciousness as if from a nights sleep, but wondering why it was raining in his bedroom...then thought maybe shower... Realizing he was elsewhere but with no knowledge of where that might be. A woman called out from the night. Was it an illusion of the wind or…? It came again. Real. He sensed a direction, and turned back behind him. In a flash of lightning he saw the shattered barricade and from beyond them a call came once again. Hey’ tried to rise but his legs buckled then slid away from beneath him. He landed awkward with legs crossed and askew and immediately felt the pain of his fractured pelvis. “Auuuuuuggghhh.” He screamed into the wind, and the wind answered, “Help us!”

At the wreckage, he has crawled across roadway and slid gingerly down wet hillside to get there –the driver is nowhere to be found but his door sprung out, hinges bent and broken, had been tossed out no doubt. And inside the inverted cab, she lay bloody on the interior roof, now it’s floor.

“I can’t die like this. I came to say goodbye. I should not have come. I am too young, please don’t let me die here like this.” Her voice grew more weary the more she spoke but she continued to speak as if to live, making a noise, communicating, coherent, breathing, living…she grasped it, she rabbled, she shuddered, she died. But before she died she uttered her last words and they were, “the satchel…must…”

The satchel whose leather strap was twisted around her arm, and spattered with her blood, probably buffeted her and enabled her to survive the immediate impact, but she bled freely and succumbed.

He tenderly extricated the satchel strap from around her broken arm and slid back out into the rain clutching the bag like a child it’s doll. A light swung past him and illuminated the wreckage and a voice called out. He turned to look and there she was once again peering out in his direction, pressed against the glass but not blinking, and the voice...was not hers. This time the pain and light crescendoed, and he did not fight for consciousness and accepted his blackout.

EYES ALL OVER

 

wind blows quiet

anticipation rising

night air

from the sea

born the fog

come rolling

o’er the town

damp air

down the alley

came a creeping

a creep named Erwin

sneaking

breathing hard

lungs constricted

with fear

drenched air

erwin angered

by her ignorance

could bear her dullness

no more

he strangled her


scarce air

lifted her

and dangled her

threw her down

with a thud

nary a sound

devoid of blood

still air

got to run

someone saw him

round the corner

sweating bad

eyes all over

 panic fills
 the air