The Crescendo

by | Writers, Flash Fiction, Readers

snow covered house near trees and mountain during daytime

A Reiteration of something I once read a very long time ago!

A spark ignites the kindle, creating an ember. From here, a flame needs tending. As an author, I pledge to remain ever vigilant, and keep a lookout for the best of ways and means, to keep my fire aglow.

One day, my creative writing teacher, a beautiful spirit, introduced to our class, the one-page story format. I had never heard of Flash Fiction. Thinking back, I don’t remember if it even existed as a literary writing tool.

Someone I never met wrote the story I am about to tell you. Embellishments aside, I am trying to pay homage to the original author. I am drawing inspiration from an old memory. I feel terrible because I cannot remember the title or his name. All I remember is a little about his technique, and the genesis of his tale. He impacted my life. He provided the spark that contributed to my wanting to become an author. For lack of an original title, I’m just going to call this piece

The Crescendo.

Alone, he sat, consumed by and within his high-backed green velveteen chair. His side table hosted a glass of his favorite single malt scotch whiskey, Glenmorangie; served neat, along with a separate glass of ice.

He opens the dog-eared coffee-stained page of his work. Somewhere near the start of the Third Act, for the hundredth time; he wordsmiths the Dramatic Action…

They covered their faces and hands, but to no avail; as they continued to garner scratches from the leafless barbed branches and their ensnaring twigs. His one hand holding a pistol, with one remaining bullet; while his other hand was wrestling with hers. Were they predators or prey? Who knows? He kept looking forward; she kept looking back. It would be dark soon. One could feel the temperature dropping as the snowfall continued to mount.

They needed to find shelter. Other than the crisp and crackling noise, courtesy of the snapping branches, coupled with the thumping of their feet, silence ruled. One last moment to catch their breath, one last hill to climb; one more push to find shelter.

They came upon a hunter’s cabin, atop a hill, facing the clearing below. They had hope. Maybe now they could escape this nightmare.

Making their way forward towards the cabin, he lifts the door latch and pushes it open. As if guided forward with the help of a silent but wispy gust of cold air, they enter the cabin.

Ten paces in, she claims her space by holding her lover back. Locked in each other’s gaze, she gives the order; evidenced by the directive — a slight nod and slow release of his hand. He moves closer, taking an additional ten steps, then gives pause.

Upon her orders, he shoots the old man in the head. Just moments earlier, the man had been sitting in his high-backed green velveteen chair, writing the last line of  “The Crescendo”…

The purpose of the story was to introduce to our class various techniques or twists to employ when writing about how our characters roll through a story. The aforementioned example of beginning near the end and ending near the beginning was but one of the many techniques that we learned about.

There are many varied literary vehicles or tools from which to choose and employ. Using Flash Fiction as a modality of style, through setting, is one I find most intriguing.

One approach is to start with character first and let the story emanate outward from them. I could make a loose comparison of what’s now become mired within our literary vernacular, presented as a question for authors, Are you a Plotter, Panster, or some other hybrid creature?

The great Russian author Ivan Turgenev would start with characters first and story second. So, through the demonstration of a character’s actions, there would be greater congruency. His characters behave as they should behave as opposed to how he, as an author, wants them to behave.

I find both literary techniques especially useful when melded together. Begin with a character, then wrap them within a work of Flash Fiction; it can be as a back story. Even to something unrelated to some other tale of yours. The idea is to add greater overall depth to your literary work by starting with your character. And whatever actions he or she might take are based on how they should behave as opposed to how you would expect them to.

 

WTF Do I Know

by | Readers, Flash Fiction, Freethinkers

white trailer truck on road

A creative thought? Perhaps. A - musing? A must! A would-be rumination? Most definitely. A call to act? Yes, but when? But when...? After our how. Then we can begin! With A creative thought....

We’re sitting outside, having our early morning coffee. Our hideaway is on State and Main. From inside, we’re looking out. Beyond the town’s embrace, just past some well-tended hemp fields, we can still see and appreciate the ghostly “Fog pockets”; as they’re desperately trying to conceal themselves from the morning sun. They struggle to hide within the crevices the hills provide. There’s only one switch-back road. It’s a trucker’s secret. It allows for safe passage, making their way here, from somewhere way over there.

What if, while relaxing, drinking our morning brew, and shooting the s**t, we notice a truck careening down the hill; and it’s going way too fast? The driver’s aggressively blowing his horn. He’s still a good mile away, but he can’t go unnoticed by us, anyway.

However, others have noticed nothing unusual at all. Remember, ours is a small town and everyone else is just going about their daily business. That you and I are older now gives reason to take notice of the minor changes that nature, or rather life itself, gives to us; it’s obligatory.

Concerned. We don’t know if the driver will get his brakes back or run off the road. End up in a gully! Maybe go off a cliff. Or worse, what if he comes barreling through town? What damage or carnage can he inflict? Who knows? All we know is that we’re scared; other than that, we don’t know Jack-s**t!

And neither do you! I control the narrative, but that means nothing anymore, as most people don’t even know how to read. Nor are they inclined to learn. Young people today, all they know how to do is trim their thumbnails. Prove me wrong! Another privilege of getting older. We’ve earned the right to behave like two cantankerous old coots, haven’t we?

As a child, I remember when my father sat cross-legged on the dirt in the middle of the only town intersection, w/ a blinking street signal. I sat on his lap. He claimed we were sitting in the exact middle of the Continental United States. He said, “My bottom was sooooo big — it covered all four corners of the country.” Only to go on and tickle me until I begged for mercy. Trying not to beg, I went as long as possible. I never wanted him to stop. I miss him. Anyway, where was I? Where am I going? I’ve lost my brakes.

In some places, things change too much and too soon. Ours wasn’t one of those places; we lived and loved in our peaceful little town. Change was natural and inevitable, but metered; by whom, or what, I don’t have a clue.

So we need to warn people! And get the children out of the street. Let the shopkeepers know there’s a truck careening out of control. Coffee time is over.

That truck, — well, it’s your (F***’N BLANK). I think I may have seen him, her, it, them… before. Look! He’s trying to blend in with the ghosts on the hillside. Yeah, that’s not working for them. Even worse, it’s not working for you and me. Come join us for coffee; bring a friend! See what’s coming for yourselves.

F.Y.I.

There’s a rock w/ a dial on it, — it’s in the Berkshires. Located where New York, Massachusetts, and Connecticut border—I’ve sat on that rock. Maybe you should too; it’ll cleanse your chakras. 

You may not know WTF is wrong with you, let alone what you need to do, to find out about your “Self”’ but at least you’ll come away knowing that there’s room for acknowledgement, and that’s the first step! It’s hard to see yourself when your mirror’s broken into a thousand pieces of shard glass. 

To reconstitute your soul is akin to putting together those pieces of glass; don’t be surprised to find a few pieces have gone missing. Step back, squint your eyes. What you’ll see is a mosaic. The image that surfaces will be better, more complete than before you let and led others to destroy your “Self”.

 Take solace, not umbrage in the fact these are or soon will be gone. And remember, I’m an old man, prone to ramble. I’ve earned that right! Hopefully, one day, you too will have your rights restored, you know, the ones you just recently gave away.

 

No Choice w/the Voice

by | Writers, Freethinkers, Readers

” The voices in my head, jumped out and made my bed! “

No Choice w/the Voice 1

No choice w/ the voice, persona or tense

 

 I’m trying to find my voice for a recent writing project. Initially, I was vacillating back and forth between going with a first-person narrative point of view (POV). Where the story is told by my main character.

Or, a third-person omniscient, limited POV. Here, the narrator follows and becomes a part of the thoughts and actions of only my main character, who is also my protagonist.

I ran with both POV’s. In the first and last chapter, I’m using the third person omniscient, limited voice. I’m beginning with the first half of my ending, a.k.a. my resolution; ending with the second half of my resolution in my final chapter.

Beginning in the second chapter, my main character, who is a “Ghostwriter”, tells a story. His voice remains up to and through the end of the climax, in the second to last chapter.

Easier said than done! When I began this approach, right away, I felt something wasn’t sitting right w/me. Frankly, I was thinking I couldn’t pull this formatting technique off. (I can see why writers drink). I then stepped away from the work and let it breathe for a while.

About a week later, I came across a video interview; with Mark W. Travis, an accomplished screenplay writing consultant. He talked about how to engage the viewer or my case the reader, in such a way they allow themselves to become immersed in the actual story. This means that his emphasis is on tense. Specifically, in the present tense. Working in concert w/ POV.

This allows the reader to choose to become immersed in the story itself. I thought this technique was brilliant. It was straightforward and honest.

Even though I loved what he had to say, I also realized I was making things harder, not easier, for myself as an author. My confidence level (in my abilities) was now even lower than before.

Then Ms. Serendipity paid me a visit. On Thanksgiving Day, I was with my son. We had already eaten and afterwards we went and shot some pool,

(Digression #1, I’m so fortunate and have good reason to be thankful— as far as sons go, he’s the best son a father could ever hope to have).

I was telling him about the world-building aspect of my novel. I said how I drew inspiration from my father, (who passed away in 2001— He was an artist, architect and set designer in the motion picture industry).

A long time ago, my dad worked on two unique projects. One that housed the Spruce Goose (a large wooden framed aeroplane) under a geodesic dome in California; and another, a geodesic sphere in Epcot Center, in Florida. It’s here I could draw inspiration from his accomplishments and contributions,

(Digression #2, Similar in effect, to my son, my father was the best father a son could ever hope to have).

So indulge me, as I describe a coffee lounge where my main character works as a barista.

“The Dish”, as most regulars called it, had an odd shape. It’s worth remembering the interior design. It had a masculine edge, and a spartan feel. That was invigorating! 

The smooth concrete floors are dangerous when wet. So be careful where you step. If you spill your drink, it’s up to you to clean up your mess; and before you leave, you’re responsible for bussing your table. Both the workers and patrons alike take pride in keeping the “Dish” clean. This is a popular place.

The main room itself is circular. One has to love the wainscotting, as it wraps around the entire room; it provides an arena feel. All wanna-be gladiators are welcome! 

At the four-foot level, the curvature of the wall serves to embrace all who live within, underneath the dome. There’s even a ten-foot oculus atop its center. With glass prisms, allowing for natural light to be refracted and evenly distributed downward, on the floor below. 

The acoustics are both accommodating and irreverent. You can hold a conversation with a friend standing clear across the room. Simply cusp your hands, lean into the wall, speak and listen. 

Opposite the entrance, we have our stage. In the center of the room is the coffee bar with its “Silent Running” espresso machine. To order your drink, step up on the floor of the rotating bar. If you take a minute and look around, you’ll see how every table has a lava lamp. There are black, rounded art déco tables, accompanied by their metal and black plastic chairs. They’re taunting and daring you to sit and imbibe. There isn’t a ninety-degree angle anywhere to be found. 

Structurally, a dome is heavy, and the Romans addressed this engineering challenge by adding broken glass, wood chips and other materials to lessen the weight and reduce the stress levels.

Today, the composition includes Hempcrete*, which was used instead of concrete. It’s roughly eight times lighter than cement. Between the dome walls was a geodesic*, skeletal framework.…

 

Here is where the magic lies. As I was describing the “Dish” to my son, I noticed he fell into the scene. He grew enamoured and allowed himself to become part of the story; only to catch himself, and awkwardly struggle to slip out of his stupor.

“Wait, wait pops! This is all make-believe, isn’t it?”

“Yes”, I replied

“Oh my God, we were just talking as if this place existed, yet I knew it didn’t. I lost my way…”, he said, with a laugh and a beaming smile.

That’s when I knew I can move my reader into the scene, w/ the present tense. And my vehicle is the setting.

I’ll use my settings for frequency. POV for energy; and tense with vibration. Thank you, Ms. Serendipity, and also please thank Tesla if you see him around.

Yet, even after all this, I was still feeling a little insecure and, frankly, a little afraid to try something that’s so far removed from my comfort zone. Do you believe in omens? If not, I hope to change your mind!

First, I was looking, or rather yearned, for validation of my ideas and feelings; but where do I look? I did not know.

To clear the clutter of the mind; to regroup; all to regain some sense of control— many will go to the gym, others will meditate, smoke pot, sleep or eat.… I’m a bit of a closet nerd. I usually will grab a book— not just any book. I want to be taken away, yes; but not too far and not so quickly.

My old standby— A Dartmouth Edition of Emerson Essays, (and reading for only the twentieth time) Essay III. The Poet. pg. 55. and I quote:

“… poets, are natural sayers, sent into the world to the end of the expression, and confound them, with those whose province is action, but who quit it, to imitate the sayers. But Homer’s words are as costly and admirable to Homer as Agamemnon’s victories are to Agamemnon. The poet does not wait for the hero or the sage.”

I found my validation. Here, Emerson proves that, to engage the reader, simply invite them to stand w/in a moment’s pause; allowing one to realize there’s no time for time to matter. Other than w/in an exhale of a moment’s breath.

Even a moment, when torched by irony, can resurface and forever remain, evergreen.

*Points of View (POV)

  • First person is the perspective of the writer; 1st person uses words like “I,” “my,” “me,” or “we.”
  • 2nd-person is the perspective of the reader being directly addressed by the writer; 2nd person uses words like “you,” “your,” or “us.” ; and
  • 3rd-person is the perspective of a different party who is neither writer nor reader. 3rd person uses words like “she,” “his,” or “they.”      (Source: https://writingcommons.org/section/rhetoric/rhetorical-stance/point-of-view/ )

** Third Person Omniscient Limited

  • As w/ a third person POV, my narrator is neither the writer nor reader. Here the narrator follows only my main character around. He’s able to get inside  the head of my Protagonist only. If I remember correctly, an example of this, would be 1984, by George Orwell.

Alexandre Dum(b)as(s)

by | Writers, Off the Deep-end, Readers, The Meandering Muse

man in black and brown suit

Only in jest, can we rest!

Is this just my way of describing another date with Ms. Serendipity? As if knitting a sweater, am I creating something using threads of coincidence, weaving together unrelated characters, places, and events? Am I taking advantage of my not-so-literary license as a creative writer? I like Ms. Serendipity, but whenever we get together, that Murphy character always shows up and lambastes me about my exploits. Right in front of her, to boot! What’s up with that?

It’s when I’m half asleep that unusual things occur! Just the other night, shortly after I went to bed, I was restless. My conscience was channel surfing with my subconscious. I was extrapolating old memories, trying to bring them to a new reality, a realm, somewhere, sometime, in someone else’s future. Akin to Poe’s poem, I too was a captive within “A Dream Within a Dream.” As matter moves along, riding the waves of nothingness, then nothing matters. However, once we can observe nothingness, then nothingness becomes everything that matters. If I couldn’t come to terms with a pop-up image, then I would discard the old faded Polaroid memory, go back to my thought hamper, and once again, rummage through my past.

I knew not to fight the process. The more restless I became, the more I tossed and turned, the greater the impact of my soon-to-be-discovered epiphany would have upon my being. Only then could storing it within the edifice of my psyche even be possible. The worst thing I could, and often used to do, was just to roll with it. Even while in my slumberous stupor, I would lie to my “Self” just to appease my yearning to go back to sleep. “Oh, I’ll remember to write about this in the morning. I won’t lose the feeling I have. And I can hold on to the clarity of my thoughts, purpose, and panoramic vision… At least until I sit down to think and write out my vision(s) through reasoning. I can hold on to these feelings for at least a week…” Whenever I failed to get up and write down my feelings and capture these passing moments, the next day, I would find my “Self” abandoned. All that remained was nothingness, absent all the matter. Within that moment, I became the void!

Over the years, I‘ve learned to be proactive. I get out of bed, grab a pencil and a pad of paper or go to the computer and jot down my thoughts and feelings. When I come back to the piece the following day, or even later, I may still ask myself, “What was I thinking?” or I may say, “Okay, there’s something here.” Either way, I endeavor to decipher the message I had just received from the cosmos. After that, I can then figure out what to do with it.

Recently restless, I got up in the middle of the night to capture another elusive moment. It was a strange experience, imbued with several feelings but absent any signs of an impending epiphany. As I once was a predator, now, I am prey!

While sitting at my computer, fussing about, waiting for “Gadot”, I noticed I had a book right in front of me. I use it to elevate my keyboard. I’ve never even opened it up and flipped through it before. Though, as with many of you, I was familiar with the title. It was a copy of “The Count of Monte Cristo”, by Alexandre Dumas.

A brief digression… The last meandering thought and the reason I was tossing and turning was that I repeatedly asked myself, “If I had to guess who I might have been in a previous life, who would I’ve been?” Not who would I want it to be? If I had that option, I’d probably choose Buddha, Jesus Christ, or someone like that. I certainly wouldn’t choose Genghis Khan, Rasputin, Jack the Ripper, or you.

Anyway, at least a dreamscape of sorts was forthcoming. I don’t control the process at this stage. Time to get my lazy self out of bed before the feeling dissipates.

Where was I? Oh yes, as I sat, bewildered, I continued to entertain the question. It was a tough one; I had trouble staying focused within my quest. Once again, I meandered into my trove of old memories. I looked at some characteristics, traits, and things that I liked and didn’t like about myself and others. I took a deep dive; when I came out of my trance, I was still staring at that book.

I thought I would allow myself to get distracted, but for just a minute or two; what can it hurt? I opened the work with a short preface. It was about Mr. Dumas and told about how his art, with his melodramatic literary style, was congruent with how he lived his life. Hmmm, I can relate. Then I discovered how he was well-to-do, up and down financially but always remained overly optimistic. Mr. Dumas ‘… died penniless, but hopeful. Saying of death, “I shall tell her a story and she will be kind to me.”

As I write, everything that I write about unfolds with a constant sub-theme. As our tagline in our magazine “Kandavo” clearly states, “It’s about finding truth within fiction.” And lately, I have had a strong interest in learning all about and writing what I can with Historical Fiction. Mr. Dumas once asked “What is history? It is the nail in which I hang my novels”, he replied. Again I can relate.

And though I’m embarrassed to say with making money, I’ve made more money for more people than anyone I know. Yet on a personal level, money was not my god! And, like Mr. Dumas once boasted, “I have never refused money to anybody; except my creditors”, I too can relate all too well to the aforementioned passage. And if I am not careful, I too could die both broke and indigent.

Even my father would preface many a conversation with a joke, like the one— “When those close to you pass, your friends, neighbors and relatives… and they stand in front of St. Peter, just outside the pearly gates. He’s going to ask them one question. And if they get the answer correct, they go right into heaven. Spell the word, Love. Your relatives respond in kind, ‘l-o-v-e’ Correct! You’re in. Next, it’s your friends and neighbors; and you find everyone gets in. Now it’s your turn! This should be easy, you’re thinking… ‘Ok, says St. Peter, I just need you to spell one simple paltry word…’ Ok, let’s have it,” I said. ‘Spell Chrysanthemum…’ Ok, that wasn’t what I was expecting, so I’ve decided, metaphorically speaking, while I’m alive, I need to work on my spelling.

Okay, there may be some similarities, but to even think I may have been Alexandre in a previous life is ridiculous. Just because I once was an extra in an old Michael Keaton movie, and my name was Dumas.

Just because, like Alexandre Dumas, I too epitomize the would-be character in that old colloquial phrase “A fool and his money will soon part ways”.

Just because I told my son about a week ago, I have a calling to learn French. That doesn’t mean I was once a Frenchman named Dumas.

If it were true, it would certainly be both a blessing and a curse. A blessing, that he was a successful writer who led a very exciting life. A curse because I’m British; for an Englishman to go to bed one evening and when he awakens, he’s a Frenchman! Well, let’s just say that would go over like a loud fart in church.

Just because one of my favorite travelers of old, was Giuseppe Garibaldi, an Italian general who sported a flaming red beard and like Alexandre, he had many an adventure (some, or should I say, most were questionable) and many tales to tell (again questionable, with many outlandish embellishments)

Please excuse my digression: Did you know the state fish of California is called the Garibaldi? It’s flaming orange, and thank goodness they recently took it off the endangered species list. By the way, I’m just saying, it’s been my favorite fish for the last fifty years; why is that?

Maybe the only similarity to Dumas, Garibaldi, and others is that I too have an overactive imagination. I could boast of many an adventure with old friends. The problem is that most are still alive. And as a judge once said to me, “Mr. Tanner, maybe you should go to work for the Mafia! At least they know their secrets are safe.” It’s akin to that phrase about ‘What happens in Vegas…

I’ve just gone through life as a Dumb-ass and not a Dumas. Maybe there’s no such thing as reincarnation, maybe, maybe, maybe… who knows? Well, on that note, all I know is that it’s time to go on another adventure.

Fiji anyone?

MGTOW! BEGONE!

by | Creative Writing, Flash Fiction, Literati Matters, Short Stories, Writer's Retreat

man and woman sitting in front of furnace

MGTOW! BEGONE!

“The Rule of Law has become unruly”, said the defendant. As he’s about to be taken away.

“Wait! You have one minute to speak,” said her Honor.

“All it takes is a woman scorned to destroy our legal system.”

“You’re going to lecture me! On the fragility of our system? Alright, I’ll bite. Continue.”

“I used to believe you were innocent until proven guilty. That the burden of proof falls on the prosecution. Today, things have changed. It’s the defendant who must now prove their innocence. Ms. Goyle recently called. Taunting me on how she could force me to defend myself, not only for a crime I didn’t commit but also for one that never occurred.”

“So you were framed?”

Yes! I’m so naïve.

“Naïve?”

“How does one defend against a false negative?”

“I’m not buying into your petulant attitude. That’s why you have an attorney. Back to the unruly part,” said the judge.

As the judge became distracted by her clerk. The defendant received a gaze of empathy from the bailiff. Her eyes conveyed her belief in innocence and attraction. The two were like a pair of magnets drawn together. Until one magnet flipped, the poles reversed, and they repelled away from each other.

“Continue”, said the judge.

“Allowing prosecutors to shift the burden of proof to the defendant can make anyone sound guilty.”

“Enough on that point! Is there anything else you want to cry about?”

“I’m done with women! Laws are clearly against men.”

“Okay already! You win, ramble on if you must,” said the judge.

“Women are always accusing men of objectifying them. Today, it seems women are putting themselves out there deliberately, to become viewed and possessed as objects. And as men, we’re complicit by encouraging and enabling them to behave this way.”

“Complicit! Tell me more.”

“By allowing ourselves as men to become Pussified.”

“Pussified! That’s an interesting word choice. Continue,” said the judge.

As his tirade, or truthfully speaking; as my soliloquy was ending. When I looked across the room and saw the pain I had inflicted upon my now-former, one and only supporter. I realized she was done with me!

“I’ve been patient. And have listened to what you’ve had to say. I get it! You believe you’re innocent,” said the judge.

“And framed.” I blurted.

“Enough!”

“Since you’re a misogynist, I’m giving you what you desire,” said the judge.

“Misogynist? No! I just want to go my own way,” I said in angst.

“I see. You’re one of those. There’s a name for men who think like you. Bailiff, what do they call this movement?” asked the judge.

“MGTOW, Men Going Their Own Way,” said the bailiff.

“Ahhh, so you’re just a guy who wants to be left alone. So you want nothing more to do with women?” asked the judge.

“All of my troubles are because of women,” I said.

“Well, as I just said, I can give you what you deserve. I mean desire. You’re to serve your four-year sentence in a low-security prison. You’re not to have any interaction with women. Including any visitors, phone calls, and letters from any women. Also, no girlie magazines, or reading materials that make any mention of, or provide any depiction of women, under any circumstances. Do you understand?” asked the judge.

“I understand”, I said, as two guards then whisked me away, and take me to my cell.

 

II

Halfway into my sentence. The boredom amongst the guards, the prisoners, and everyone else was pervasive. For added entertainment, some would come by my cell just to tease and taunt me. Guards would partially reveal from a brown bag a photograph of a female body part, from a gentlemen’s magazine. Once an inmate offered me a stiff, crusty old tube sock cast in a yellow hue. Leaving me to lust and loath, with nothing to behold! When caught masturbating under my blankets, the patrolling guards were in a better position to monitor my room activities. As they would Sound the handheld Blow Horne; always just in time to deny me any hope of having any form of abject release. It seemed as if every Dreamscape was a travesty in the making. If someone sinned, then who was it?

I’ve never had anything against women. I’m not a misogynist. If anything, I’m the opposite. Women are beautiful. There’s that inner and outer beauty thing, but also, many have that vibe or aura emanating from within. They have a lot going for them. Too much, if you ask me. The problem is, they know it! Regardless, they still make life worth living.

 

A friend once told me I expect too much out of life. And it’s probably true. There are plenty of things to be had, and places to go. Still, they don’t amount to very much. He then said, “Men need women, but women don’t need men.” I’ve now come to realize that he’s correct.

 

Then, one day, everything changed. I was sitting on my bed, in my solitary cell, reading a censored version of “Seth Speaks”. Then I heard some people entering the cell next to mine. I placed my ear against the wall and listened. First, I heard the jailer barking out his silly little repertoire of commands.

 

Then, ever so softly. I heard the whispers of what sounded like an angel, with an ever so delicate feminine voice. Often, there’s a natural cadence, a tempo to be embraced, when a woman speaks. Why is that? Have you ever noticed? Or is it just me wanting it to be so?

 

III

 

How could this be happening? Surely the guards know I’m here, right next door! Maybe not. Either way, I must reach out. Why not? What’s the worst that could happen? After all, I’ve done nothing wrong, it’s not my fault! If I could only speak with her. That’s all I want.

 

After the guard left, and with the passing of a fair amount of time, I knew I must reach out. For us to talk and have her want to listen to me. What if I could just make her laugh? To tell her a silly little joke and hear her giggle. That’s all I want.

 

Good fortune had finally arrived. We were both very careful, as we found our way. Our conversations went into the night. Days turned into weeks, maybe even months; I lost track. All I knew was that we were falling in love. For her to love me. That’s all I want.

 

If only we could meet. We would embrace, kiss, and get lost in each other’s eyes. Just like a pair of magnets drawn together. Have I spoken of magnets before? It’s of no matter. I can’t wait to see her, hold her in my arms, make her laugh, and have her love me. That’s all I want.

 

It must have been four, five, maybe even six months into our affair. It was morning, I must have overslept. That’s when the guards came into my room and rustled me out of bed. They took me to a staging area.

 

“Did they find out about us? Or maybe I’m I to be released? Either way, the outcome cannot be good.” I was anything but grounded. There I stood, in the waiting area, somber and stilted. I was clearly out of sorts. Even now, as I hold this message in a bottle. I am kept on a leash, frozen within one vivid memory. The only one I can see and feel. All other memories remained blurred, faded, and were telling of a man’s life. A life not so well lived.

 

(First Ending)

 

They instructed me to turn around. There she was, facing the wall. As I approached from behind, I held her in my arms. She laughed a little. And I knew she loved me. She’s all that I ever wanted. As he turned to face me. I knew we were to remain apart. A lover’s folly, perhaps? Not sure. We became just another pair of repelling magnets.

 

(Second Ending)

… telling of a man’s life. A life not so well lived. 

 

Once in the staging area, they offered me a soda and asked if I wanted to sit at the table. I hadn’t seen this officer before. He was very polite. Though armed. I wasn’t sure why he was there.

He told me they’re going to be dramatic changes coming. He said he had heard about the guards and inmates giving me a hard time. And said, “no one should ever be treated that way.”

“It wasn’t so bad,” I said.

“Well, it was worse than you think,” he said. He then placed his cell phone on the table and played back several intimate conversations between myself and my new lover. As if things couldn’t get any worse, he told me how our conversations played over the prison’s loudspeaker system for everyone to hear.

It devastated me. Not so much for myself, but for my newfound lover. What will she think? I was told she was on her way from her cell to the staging area, and that we were both about to be released.

It was at that point, reports came in that there was a disturbance going on in the yard. This was highly unusual for a low-security facility. Still, the officer took off his gun belt, grabbed some riot gear, and made his way out. The buzzer for the other door opened.

She walked in. She was not the woman to whom I gave my heart. It was Ms. Goyle, the woman responsible for sending me to jail, the narcissist who felt scorned! She had been taunting and role-playing with me this whole time. Even then, she mocked me as she slipped into character. As she was feigning the voice of an angel, I knew what I must do.

It was at that moment, both of us became enraged. She then looked down at the gun on the table. And so did I. Who knew what was going to happen next? I certainly didn’t.

“You’ve framed me, and even today you taunt me; but no matter what, I never have and never will have feelings for you,” I said, and then I continued by telling a little lie. “I knew it was you on the other side of that wall all along. The guards told me and asked me to play along with you just to help entertain everyone, and they would put in a good word to get me an early release. You’re the one who’s being played as the fool.”

Well, I may have taken it a bit too far. Ms. Goyle went into a frenzy. She grabbed the gun from the holster, took aim directly at me, and then pulled the trigger. Lucky for me, it was empty.

It was at that moment the sheriff and two other officers came in, and they explained what had just happened, was a test. The judge wanted to know for sure who the guilty party really was.

At that point, they released me and arrested Ms. Goyle.

I found out later that year from my new bailiff girlfriend that Ms. Goyle was serving four years for trying to frame me. Absent all contact with men.

 

 (The Third Ending)

 … telling of a man’s life. A life not so well lived. 

Once in the staging area, the guard gave me a soda and a place to sit. I hadn’t seen this officer before. I wasn’t sure why he was so polite. Was he here to pick me up and take me elsewhere, or what?

He told me dramatic changes were coming. He knew the guards and others were continually giving me a hard time. And said, “no one should ever be treated that way.”

“It wasn’t so bad,” I said.

“It was worse than you think,” he said. He then placed his cell phone on the table and played back several intimate conversations between myself and my new remote lover. As if things couldn’t get any worse, he then told me how our conversations played over the prison’s PA system for everyone to enjoy. “And your confidant, the woman that you fell in love with. Well, she knew what was happening all along. As you were being played”, he said with empathy.

“I am so naïve. I was hoping she was on her way here, and we were both about to be released,” I said.

“She doesn’t need to be released. She works for the department; and volunteered for the job,” said the Sheriff.

A report then came in over the Sheriff’s handheld two-way radio. I heard the operator say there was a disturbance going on in the yard, and all available personnel were to report to the equipment room, grab their riot gear, and wait for their orders.

As he was getting ready to leave. I asked, “Why?”

“The judge felt you needed to be humbled.” She also said, “Contrition wasn’t your strong suit.”

It was at that point the electric door from the observation room opened.

When she walked in and I saw her, I couldn’t believe it. There stood the Bailiff from my trial.

“It was me behind the wall,” she said.

“I just found out. Why? Was it Revenge,” I asked.

“No, guilt”

“Guilt?”

“Several months after your trial, we saw Ms. Goyle again.”

“And”,

“It turns out. You’re the third man she’s put behind bars. And one person she even drove to commit suicide,” he exclaimed.

“So, why are you here?”

“Before the court found out, she was a narcissist or something. I knew the judge wanted to teach you a lesson. So I volunteered to help with her stupid plan. “

“But why are you also that cruel?” I asked.

“It was the only chance that I would have to see you again!”

“And all those times we spoke, all those things you said, meant nothing,” I asked.

“No! I mean yes, I mean, I meant everything I said. I fell in love with you!”

“And now?”

“It’s time for us to leave.”

“That’s all I want.”

 

 

THE END

Life

by | Creative Writing, Poetry & Prose

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I wrote this poem when I was about ten, for my first love. The subject matter was simple. I spoke of life; I used a flower as a metaphor. Cadence was exposed within the rhythm; housing both within the edifice of a rhyme.

I wrote it out on a tea-stained soaked piece of paper in an “Old English” hand-scripted font. I also included a small twenty-nine-cent flower plant I bought from my local Newberry’s. Our kiss was my first. It was really more of a peck, but the moment cannot be framed by time. To do so would be unjust, a travesty of love. It’s funny though? I don’t remember ever seeing her again — Ahhh…, even a kiss can cut into the soul in so many ways—but you already know that, don’t you?

Life comes in winter and fall,

it shouldn’t mean just anything at all.

It also comes in summer and spring

and should mean just everything.

Life is in the future,

and will soon come your way.

So try to make the best of it,

before it flies away.

Life is like a flower,

glowing in the light.

Its swaying beauty brings to us,

a colorful delight.

Flowers live

and flowers die.

And like some people,

they too watch life go by.