Timeless Birth

The waves of eternity crash against the rocky coast of forever. The rays of love and acceptance are setting, but still wash a warmth over all. Soon it will be replaced with the blue moon of peace and serenity.

A never ending cycle in bliss.

A soft whisper caresses the consciousness. “This is the point between two places. It is here you must decide to stay or go. To leave the peace and love of forever and go back into the turmoil of life.”

The whisper points attention to the obelisk defaced by a single black door.

The door inspires horror and fear.

The whisper no more uttered the sentence then the air around is felt, still questions swirl. Thoughts dip in and out. The potential to live again hums like a long forgotten desire.

Consciousness has come this far, it could travel no farther until answering yes or no. Here and now a decision was possible. In the timeless void counting second and minutes, days and years was meaningless.

Life was what once was. Maybe an empty candy wrapper is an apt description. A wrapper that has been licked clean. Once was. A memory gone, but for which the longing for has never disappeared.

At the start this was fine. A void in which to play. To make sandcastles on a beach that the surf never washed away, but eventually the remnants of chocolate disappeared from the wrapper and nothing could replace what the tongue craved and now Consciousness is here facing the pain of birth, of life, of wound and disappointment, all so that he can fill a need to feel the more again.

He answers yes.

His next thought is pain.

His eyes sting under bright light and his lungs burn, stuck painfully closed. Sticky gloves abrade his soft skin. His mouth opens to scream and can’t. He yearns to breath. To live. A concussive blow to his back. Nothing. Another and he sucks greedily at the cold air and sends the breath back out in a terrified scream. He is swaddled in warm blankets and laid under the softest most loving set of eyes he has ever known and all else about his existence is forgotten and time begins to tick once again.

 


 

obelisk

Photo courtesy of :

Sue Vincent’s  #writephoto

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Poor Chickens

Thomas wears a grey tweed suit that matches his pallor and limply hangs on his tall thin stooped frame.

He stops and eyes the tour group while laying a hand on a red button next to a rolling door on the front of a giant warehouse.

He states, “There are over fifty billion chickens held in captivity world wide and long ago most of them were beaked, meaning the hard keratin shell that covers the the upper-maxilla and lower-mandible has been removed.

An old lady in the back gasps in horror.

“Its okay my dear, its supposed to be painless and reduces chicken cannibalism,’ he says in a soothing voice while hitting the red button and turns to face the rising door.

A cloud of ammonia scented bird guano seeps out along with the sad moan of depressed clucking.

Hitched

The desert air smells like burnt tire rubber and dried mouse turds. From a hundred feet away Harold can hear the whoosh of cars on 15 heading either to Vegas or Los Angeles. The heat hasn’t dissipated by the lack of sun. It’s just dark now and he still feels wrapped in a hot oven.

He hitched a ride and got dropped off here on a dirt road in the dark. He’ll find another ride tomorrow when the sun comes up.

A coyote howls in loneliness.

“I feel ya buddy,” he answers back.

Having nothing better to do he starts walking, but shortly stops when the failed seam along the outside of his left boot, which exposed his sockless foot to the elements, picks up a sharp pebble.

He takes his book off to shake it free.

With boot in hand he is startled by the sudden intrusive vroom of a 12 piston German manufactured engine and bright halogen lights bearing down on him.

 

***

Fritz is drunk and has forgot he is even driving as he stares down at the library of music on his phone.

He wants a wicked beat to enter California with.

Something sick.

His foot sinks further down on accelerator and the back end of the BMW skids on the dirt as he hits play on a bass and drum piece pumping his fist.

 

***

The good news is Harold doesn’t feel the car slam into his body. Only his weak heart exploding in fear.

 

Old Times

At sixty she got stuck with a mind that refused to function like it should. A mind that forgot more then it retained. Yet everyday she thinks of France. She fantasizes about fresh baked baguettes smeared with soft creamy brie, and rude waiters talking down to her as if being American was a disease.

“We should go.”

“Mom, you’ve been to France. We went last year.”

Then she remembers.

Her daughter is 20 and getting married.

Thirty with kids.

Forty and no longer visits.

That her life is almost done.

She forgets all this again and tomorrow longs for France anew.

 


 

sandra-crook-1

Photo by:

Sandra Cook

Lightning

lightning-over-the-gulf-of-mexicoA red sunset fades into the blue-grey waters of the Gulf of Mexico replaced by a wicked wind and the flash and sound of a coming storm. The flimsy brush on the small island whips wild. The tent flutters mad. The boy’s dog cowers on the small seashell covered beach illuminated by the boom and crack of a bolt of blue lightning streaking from out of a sudden hostile sky.

Rain falls hard.

Ropes of deadly electricity fall violently from the sky.

Thunder rolls loud and obscene.

The tiny dots of yellow lights from the shore, a half-mile away, disappear into the blackness of the squall.

It could be midnight in Hell.

Then the storm is gone.

Replaced by a sweet cool breeze and a star speckled night and a dog glued to a thirteen year old boy’s leg as if born there.

An Attack on the Heart

With maniacal laughter, George Talbert slices through another tree. His fat arms quiver exhausted and the chainsaw buzzes mad, as if on the verge of breaking down. Talbert has felled about fifty trees so far. A whole livelihood of maples in fact. The air is pungent with revenge, sweet-sweet mapley revenge.

The tall tree begins to fall with a crack. He releases his finger from the chainsaws trigger and screams a sarcastic, “Timber!”

He wipes cold sweat from his bald scalp with shaky fingers and turns.

He smiles, jaw aching, at the wide fierce eyes of farmer Brown.

Talbert stares back,  black splotches forming at the corners of his vision. This man’s reaction, trussed up, ball-gagged and fuming, is his reward.

“Didn’t have to come to this,’ Talbert wheezes. “You could have dammed the river elsewhere.”

The ache in his chest grows into an inferno of pain. He collapses to one knee, mouth working around a suddenly fat useless tongue. He is desperate to gloat more, but can’t, and dies.

 


 

photo-20170501154634901

 

Photo by:

Loretta Notto

 

 

That One

She’s an angel

that devil

A red dressed vixen with the limbs of a goddess

the smile of a muse

the eyes of perfection

whims that set men and women all a flutter with desire to please

She is the fire of want

the burning insatiable hunger of need.

Trouble and turmoil

scorching passion

A fix away from happiness

a mess in need of cleaning

She broils

scorches

scars

She does

because she can

 


 

fgArt by:

Kevin Carden