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- 12/10/2012
- 737 Words
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
I dreamed of Meg Ryan - 2. Chapter 2
The old crabapple.
Is still fecund.
I pile the fruit high. In a equally old, bird bath basin.
It makes a pretty display.
It makes no difference to the deer or the squirrels that come to eat them. Only I seem to make a big deal of it all. The beauty of it. The green. The plenty. The pageant. A festival of fall. Nature.
My nature. Is it that un/natural. Or is it all artificial convenience.
Refitted, reformed, reprogrammed, rejected, retired.
Over the hill, technology mythology.
This robot.
I have become.
All this anal analytical conniption.
I live in a dream.
Where art is… maybe or at least the amber is not so darn sticky.
The chainsaw is in my hand.
Can the old crabapple know?
The destruction of a dream.
When love is no longer a goal. When sex is no longer a pleasure. When what you want is indefinable.
I will rake leaves all day. All the time counting the seconds of their funeral flight around the four corners to the ground.
Miss Boo lived in a cave in her youth. She was mystery then. Excitement.
She knew all the answers to all the questions I didn’t even know I was even asking.
Mother tree was her friend. And Spot was a little kitty. Barely a smudge of the Spot to be.
Miss Boo would sing me blue lullabies. And impersonate Shirley Temple. Drag in miniature.
The rationale for the ration all receive. The rat shunned allusion. Miss Boo has often chosen a rat as the subject of a painting.
Not to mention or exclude the snakes and spiders and bees.
Even dog poop.
You don’t realized it is dog poop at first. Is that a blessing or a commentary ? Like that very famous painter that did a long series of humongous male genitalia. People refused to except they were admiring what was really there.
I like all her pictures. But sometimes I like to look at the ones of blood. Pools of blood. How it drips or flows. The shear stark beauty. A landscape more than a still life.
I have lost my way to the end.
Miss Boo enjoys a hand of gin. The card game. A lesson in the possible potentials of an endless variety of choices. Wants. Needs. Gifts. Sacrifices. Cruelties. Lies even. Gin! I win.
Winners and losers. It takes so many losers to create one winner. A winner is a diminishing number balanced by an expanding, multiplying cascade of chaos. Well, it is only a thought. But does it describe anything.
I am a djinn in a bottle… plotting… escapades. Playing gin. Reality as opinion only. Easily stubborn. Easily swayed. Easily made.
Invisible music always surrounds Miss Boo.
It is part of the enchantment. It enchants me. I suppose as I let it. Like the scent of the old crabapple in spring.
A guardian. A teacher. A mentor. A muse. A friendly monster. Because existence is monstrous. At times.
What about the truth. What about the facts. What about the clockwork.
Anguish.
A hand to hold.
When you want to share.
A cartoon. A fairy tale. A fantasy. A tear jerker. A heart breaker. A yearning. An old favorite crabapple.
Understanding.
A simple tragedy.
A dream provincial.
A density of days giving strength.
You have been discovered again.
She says.
How else to explain it.
What… we have explanations now ? This mystifies me.
How else to explain three deadly accidents in three days and three miraculous escapes… near misses… just luck.
A fall down stairs.
A two by four falling from the sky.
A dresser determined to crush you.
An universe is an infinity of puzzle pieces… but the shapes repeat and repeat.
It is dangerous to be a new shape.
The philosophy of the perfect sandwich.
Part of the perfection is the mustard that drips on your silk shirt.
Meet me in Paris.
Meet me in London.
Meet me in New York.
Meet me in Rio.
But.
I saw you in Walmart.
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4
Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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