WTF Do I Know

by Scott Tanner | Creative Writing, Flash Fiction, Freethinker, Readers, Writers

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 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 charred 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.

Let’s see…

by Scott Tanner | Creative Writing, Off the Deep-end, Poetry & Prose, Uncategorized

Thursday / November 18th / 2021

I almost killed someone today, and for no good reason.

Is there ever a good reason?

No, not really.

What about in self-defense? What if you are trying to thwart off an enemy? What if, and what if, and how about what if…?

No.

How about if we need to sacrifice just one, maybe two, okay — say three others, whomever they might be, for the greater good?

No.

Of course, it’s okay to kill under the guidelines set forth in Sun-Tsu, isn’t it?

You mean if it’s something you must have to survive, such as water or clean air; or again, in self-defense; or if victory is a foregone conclusion? No, it is not.

It’s okay to kill or die for a cause you truly believe in?

No.

It must be okay to kill or die for a cause that others believe in, and especially if they order you to do so!

No, you are incorrect

What about those who are so very different from you and I. Their skin is of a different color. They’re uncultured. They are rude and ruthless. Their hearts are so far removed from ours.

No.

And what about those religious zealots? Surely many, if not most, deserve to be killed, don’t they?

Okay then, what if you’re just pissed off? Who cares if you’re an ignoramus, psycho-path, have D.I.D., posttraumatic stress syndrome; or you’re an idealogue, a narcissist, have a low I.Q. — If anyone of the aforementioned group came along and killed a close friend or family member. YOU HAVE THE RIGHT — YOU must KILL THEM(?)(!)(.)

If you are you asking, demanding, or making a statement of fact, the answer is and always should be, No!

What about psychology, philosophy, or even the within the animal and plant kingdoms, or say the natural laws that are all around us? Creatures kill, creatures consume and creatures often celebrate life through killing. So is this okay?

No.

With whom am I speaking? You’re certainly are not God!

You’re correct.

Then who are you?

I am the one you want to be

You make me want to kill you. I don’t have time for this. Not right now anyway… Not when my mind is so preoccupied. I’m broke. They have diagnosed me with cancer. Someone has falsely accused me of not only a crime I didn’t commit; but for a crime that never happened. This is beyond belief…

As I sit in my car at 5:00am, I’m so cold, my windshield keeps fogging up. I am hungry. I really could use that bagel and coffee right now.

Okay traffic signal, I need to make my left; now stay green, stay green—man I need better glasses—next week; I need to remember to pick some up…

What’s that? A dog? It’s running across my path, or rather its path in the crosswalk. What’s that? An extended cable leach?

Can’t they see I’m trying to turn left? They…? Oh S**T, get out of my way!

Don’t they know I’m impaired? I cannot see. That I’ve never been able to see? Why is that, you ask?

Because I chose not to see!

When I look in the mirror, I believe I’m looking at myself? I have a high level of self-awareness. Does the image see me?

Could I be a fool? Could I be the image in the mirror — looking and believing I’m looking at my image, in a mirror?

If so, am I not justified and even required to shatter the mirror? Pick up a piece of shard glass and slit my throat? Let’s see, or maybe not.

Alexandre Dum(b)as(s)

by Scott Tanner | Creative Writing, The Meandering Muse, Writer's Retreat

Only in jest, can we rest!

Is this just my way of describing another date w/ 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 w/ 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 when unusual things occur! Just the other night, shortly after I went to bed. I was restless. My conscience was channel surfing with my sub-conscience.

I was extrapolating out old memories. I was 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 w/in “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 w/ 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 w/in the edifice of my psyche, even be possible.

The worst thing I could, and often used to do, was just to roll w/ 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. W/in 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 then 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 w/it.

Recently restless, I got up in the middle of the night to capture another elusive moment. It was a strange experience. Imbued w/ 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 w/ 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 Gigues Kahn, 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 ass 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 w/in 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 damn 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, w/ his melodramatic literary style, was congruent w/ 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 w/ a constant sub-theme. As our tagline in our magazine “Kandavo” clearly states, “It’s about finding truth w/in fiction”. And lately, I have had a strong interest in learning all about and writing what I can w/ 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 w/ 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 travellers 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 Scott Tanner | Creative Writing, Flash Fiction, Literati Matters, Reader's Realm, 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.

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 Scott Tanner | Creative Writing, Poetry & Prose

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.

For the Sake of “It”

by Scott Tanner | A-musing, Anecdotal Tidbits, Musings, Poetry & Prose, Street Smarts, Writer's Retreat

"For the Sake of "It"

Twenty something years ago, I made my first foray into the world of selling precious metals. Going into it, I admit I had cast a jaundiced eye upon the field. I had many good reasons to do so, but more on that next time, probably in a future post.

For now, what I’m simply going to tell you is much closer to a true Short Story than a piece of Flash Fiction. It’s about an encounter I had with a new prospect. I don’t remember his name, so let’s just call him Jim. That’s okay because what lies within this story is a takeaway; and once uncovered, it’s up to you to decide what to do with it.

When Jim called, inquiring about purchasing gold. And after we talked about the state of affairs of our country, the world, the precious metals markets, and life. Our talk took a bizarre, subtle twist. The conversation took a dialectical turn onto the road of reason.

Jim talked about his divorce, which occurred some five years prior to our conversation. He mentioned how he had lost everything. The house, furnishings, car, retirement account, savings, friends, and more. Yet, as he continued down that track, I felt something was amiss.

His attitude, the way he expressed himself, was light, jovial; incongruent with the evocations of what we should have felt within the confines of a short, sad story. Initially, I thought maybe he was just glad to get his troubles behind him. No, it was more than that, so I just had to ask.

“Jim, what you went through would have devastated most people! How do you stay so upbeat?”

His reply was elegant.

“When I was a young man and had only recently left home, my father gave me some sage advice.”

“And”, I asked.

“He said ‘Buy gold; for the rest of your life, regularly, take physical delivery, sell only when you absolutely have to; and don’t tell anybody! So I took his advice. “

“That’s it,”

“Pretty much,” said Jim

“So how’d that work out for you?”

“After losing everything; well, almost everything, I went to my stash. Over the years I had accumulated over four-hundred thousand dollars’ worth in gold…”

I then offered him a job.

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