We play a dangerous game you and I. We are both desperately trying find out each other’s identity; and most of all, the hotness factor. But alas poor soul who has decided to take a rest after a night of debauchery in MY apartment on MY couch with MY spare comforter and MY extra pillow, I have been at this game awhile. I know you really mean to wait me out. To see if I will wake you up nicely or shove you out the door; but as I said, I have played this game before.
I went to bed at a prompt but respectable 2 A.M. It appears she, whoever she may be, came home with my roommate after the fact. It also appears that my roommate has broken roommate code and neglected to inform me of this compatriot and the need for her to stay in my humble abode. I shall have to remember to bring it to his attention the next time I see him.
Now back to the task at hand. I have tried to ascertain the identity of this wayward guest for well over an hour and a half now but to no avail. Mayhap I shall “go for a glass of water” even though there is one already at my bedside? No that won’t do; much too easy an illusion to perceive, she could easily say why I did not just go to the bathroom that is adjacent to my room. Maybe I will get some breakfast? The living room with the couch and suspicious guest is on the way; perhaps I can pierce the veil of anonymity? Yes this might do it.
… … …
After having fixed myself a bowl of cereal (very noisily I might add, in the hope of waking her up) I did creep back to my room and tried to make an inconspicuous gaze at the woman-on-the-sofa but could not see her face as it was covered by a strategically placed arm and elbow. It appears I have underestimated my opponent, but not again! The game is afoot!
… … …
I come back to relay my thoughts to you, dear reader, after having purposely stubbed my toe on the couch which the woman resides. This, I think, was not one of my brighter ideas. I stubbed it as hard as I could, I even moved the couch! Needless to say, I am in copious amount of pain and it is with trembling hands and a sore appendage that I write to you again. Oh! And she is clever. She did not so much as fake a yawn when I shook the couch asunder. This leads me to believe one of three things; woman-on-the-couch is in fact sound asleep and I am delirious (which is obviously the least likely possibility), she is in fact dead and I will need to call the police immediately, or ,the most likely reality, she is a professional at this dance and it will take all my skill and cunning to defeat her.
But soft, what noise through yonder doorway breaks? I hear a rustling like that of a body sitting up on a sofa; shall I chance a glance out of my door into the living room? No, that won’t do, she is almost certainly expecting my door to open and for me to reveal my identity first and that I most decidedly cannot allow. It was a nice ruse with all your fake yawning and what with the sitting up and rolling around. You thought I would fall for that. As I said before, I have been at this game a long while; you simply cannot best me.
… … …
I have not heard a noise in about half an hour, maybe I will attempt a peek?
… … …
Alas, her arm was strategically placed yet again and I am unable to rank her hotness factor. How am I to untangle this riddle? Shall I scream and attempt a faint? No, too extreme; the other apartment dwellers will probably dial nine-one-one. Play music loudly in my room? Too uncivilized. It must be something subtle so she will have to reveal herself first but not befuddling enough to be rude so as to keep a friendship if she ranks high on the scale. (Which, let’s be perfectly frank for my sake, I will attempt a friendship regardless of the hotness factor, or better to say if she ranks at all I will attempt a friendship, because yes, indeed, I am a poor soul weary of all and quite alone.)
I have it! I shall make some tea and inquire if she would like any. It is both intrusive and hospitable. A most ingenious solution! The tea kettle will be set to boil, and whistle like it oft does. The noise is so distinct that she will have to get up to see or least lift her eyes and reveal her true identity. I might even applaud myself when this is over, but for now, it is off to test my hypothesis.
… … …
I fear I have overdone myself. I am now covered in bruises from the beating I received. The events that transpired leave me woefully exhausted. I set the kettle like I said; I even let it whistle for about half a minute than what was necessary. I poured two cups of tea and after deducing that she had not stirred I intended to nudge her awake and ask if she would like the second cup. Needless to say I tripped over my two left feet and spilled both cups all over her sleeping form.
This caused a livid reaction from her that I am sure was a tad excessive. I’m sure if she would consider my point of view she would not have reacted thus: she jolted upright and started swinging fist over head raining down blow after blow on my poor self. I received the onslaught with as much calm and dignity as I could muster but after a lengthy time, about 15 seconds, I decided enough was enough and bellowed for her to get out of my house. She obliged quickly and promptly and left in a huff.
I only caught the briefest of glimpses of her and I can say with the surest of opinion that she ranked modestly on the hotness scale, not high but not too low either. I supposes one can dream though.
In your honest and plain opinion, do you think she’ll be back for the cup of tea I offered? Do you think she’ll show up, we’ll hit it off, and then be happily married by the year’s end? I know, I know, miracles don’t usually happen that way, but a gentleman can dream can’t he? Anyways I hope you, dear reader, have a wonderful week. I am off to see how many hours I can spend indoors without any human contact.
My beautiful princess bucket,
My red wonderful friend,
You are the dandelion, and I pluck it.
You hold all the water I can spend.
Grandma Norma is your ordinary Grandma on most weekdays. She bakes the cookies, attends the sewing circles, and watches the daytime dramas. But whenever I saw Grandma Norma Jean Willis, I could almost tell there was something other about her. Maybe it’s the way she carries herself, she has that twenty year old stride where she should be shuffling to and from bingo night. Her smile, and she smiles all the time, is unnaturally large, those pearly white dentures shine like the sun is in her mouth. I almost saw the wolf in sheep’s clothing before it was too late.
Her eyes darted to and fro, always keeping an eye on me, making sure I never left her sight. When she took me to her home I was sure I’d find the lair of an evil, black, witch. Sure the outside was yellow and inviting, with the smell of a fresh baked apple pie in the air. The walkway leading up enchanted me even more with its flowers and speckled rocks. The steps lead to a brown welcome mat, directly before a white door with a worn brass handle.
She was much too devious not to have a beautiful front room complete with a bouquet of roses and tulips on the waist high table to the right of the door. I looked a little higher and I found some generic paintings of beaches and people lining the flowered wallpaper down the hall, which lead directly to that door. That fire truck red door.
That red door still haunts my dreams. The unspeakable things that occurred while I was imprisoned within her dwelling are almost too hauntingly horrific for me to speak of. But for the sake of your survival, my dear brother John Henry Willis, I will tell you. For when I was your ripe age of five I had to endure the trial before you as well; that unspeakable, terrible, week and a half vacation with Grandma Norma Jean Willis.
She would opened the door with a creek, leading to a dark and musty wooden stair. Once my eyes had adjusted to the dusk I could see a worn burgundy couch in front of a television set. She would set her tired old bag of bones down at the end of the day and turned that old picture box to whatever soap was on. She than had me fetch a lotion from a corner cabinet and sit directly in front her. She would beckon me to apply the rank liquid to her feet and rub. Rub until every inch of those cracked and disgustingly wrinkled feet were covered. And you would think I was allowed to stop there. But no! That devil of a lady was much more devious than I could have ever imagined. After her feet were thoroughly massaged I was to start on her neck and shoulders, which were even more wrinkled than a pug.
Johnny, as your elder brother of two years I find it fair to warn you of the horrors that wait. When you come back it will take a solid half day to come to your senses. I will be here to nurse you back to full health, but you will always carry the scars as I do. And maybe if Mom and Pop send Charles you can help him back to the land of the living. And as payment I will heartily accept a quarter of your Halloween candy and that G. I. Joe action figure I always barrow.
Your Loving Brother,
Henry Dennis Willis
Fire cackles and laughs
Flame dances with fire
Contorting into ancient sinewy shapes.
Fire gives out a belch,
Sparks dance in the midnight air,
Drifting slowly up to heaven
They become one with the stars.
Flame to fire
Fire to spark
Spark to star
Star to heaven
Then in the midnight air
The little sprites descend into earth
Forshadowing events to come.
They come to rest on my arm
Annoyed, I send the messenger back to my hell, his heaven
This waiting is killing me,
I mean I don’t know if I am waiting,
Or maybe my life is on full sprint and I have no clue.
I know I am meant for something great.
But that just feels so far away.
I mean I’ve lived for two decades now,
How soon before I actually do something.
I know part of it is me,
My unmotivated laziness
that seems to be sucking me into a black hole,
that is the antithesis of togetherness.
Slowly over time I feel more and more alone.
I fear that one day I will not want to see anyone.
For days on end I may actually not want to see a single soul.
This both scares me and brings me peace.
I feel like that sounds too opposite for one person to feel.
But here I am, feeling away.
On the beaches of eternity I wander,
Content to watch from afar.
Slowly building up my courage before finally decide to just go.
And here we come full circle.
Not sure if I have built up my courage and should go for it.
Or if I should just wait.
This waiting is killing me,
In a world covered by the same dull grey clouds and the exact same grey buildings stretching for miles and miles, life seemed quite dull for Henry, the assembly line worker. Day in and day out everything was the same, it never ever changed; the same wake up time, the same plain grain cereal, the same fifteen minute bus ride to work, the same turkey and swiss cheese sandwich for lunch, the same fifteen minute ride home, the same television, the same off color white wallpaper that he so desperately wanted to tear out of the wall, stomp to itty bitty pieces and light on fire. But he never did, because it wasn’t proper.
The dullness was getting to Henry. He realized that the sameness was literally going to drive him insane. He could feel his mind’s inner clock begin to go bonkers and the very fabric of his reality began to unravel.
About this time in Henry’s life, on October the second at around seven fifty-five in the morning to be precise, he will meet Amelia. On a slightly drizzly Wednesday morning, Amelia is everything Henry is not. Henry is not an outgoing person; he is not a person who hollers at people while j-walking across the street as if it’s their fault he almost got hit, he is not one to wear an absolutely beautiful yellow sun dress on this overcast and drizzly day (with no umbrella), he is not one to dye a streak of his hair pink, and he is certainly not the absolute most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his entire life.
To Henry she emanated grace and beauty. Her every step was an explosion of color, her every move a chorus of angels in his dull grey world. She was dangerous and wonderful. He knew in the back of his mind that his world was even more ruined than before; he could never again think the same way.
She had almost made her way across when the street when out of no where, BAM!! A black escalade hit her. She flew ten feet in the air and landed with a thud on the lifeless concrete. Moral of the story, don’t j-walk…
If home is where the heart is
Than I have never truly been.
My heart has never been in soil or stone,
Alive and well maybe,
But always in a different garden grown.
That garden lies somewhere above the stars,
Through spiral galaxies, past Orion’s belt.
Through supernovas turning colors we haven’t felt.
My heart lies on shores glistening with peace.
The sun always rising as well as setting,
Shining brilliantly over snow capped mountain peaks.
and hills covered in red and yellow grass,
Shining through silver leaves,
In forests afire with the light that glitters through its piece.
And there sits the one who has claimed my heart,
I have yet to find a love in this fleeting existence that is as great.
Eyes that contain Eons of comfort with centuries of peace,
Compassion emanates from their very depths,
Swirling with green and brown and silver,
With love so great that you are wrecked for life after but a glimpse.
This is where my heart is,
With my beloved, and still,
I have yet to truly be home…