Hurricane Minnie

.
 The wind had picked up since my last smoke break. A few others were huddled in the alley, all talking about the storm, no doubt. When I returned to the office everyone was sitting, glued to their cell phones, checking the latest forecast or talking with someone. The most recent prediction showed the hurricane turning toward us. Which would be apparent if anyone dared to look over their cubicle walls and out the window. The view was pretty ominous from the forty second floor. Figuring we would get off early I quietly shuffled some stacks of paper while watching the manager’s door. It didn’t take long before Herb burst from his office, then instantly collect himself before announcing the coming storm. As planned, I was first out.

 Unfortunately the minute or two saved upstairs made no difference once on the street. The sidewalks were packed with frantic people trying to get home before the hurricane’s landfall. I could see the masses heading for the subway, the aggravation didn’t seem worth it for a twelve block ride, so I decided to walk. After the first few blocks the rain started falling and I knew walking was a mistake.

 After almost an hour of battling the wind and cold rain I was finally home. I’m not usually too excited going to my twenty eight hundred dollar a month rent controlled studio. When I finally did get off the elevator I felt a strong sense of relief. But for a cat the hallway was empty on my floor. I assumed the cat must be Minnie’s, an elderly former actress from the forties and fifties. She had lived in the building for nearly sixty years and had the last remaining undivided apartment. In nearly fifteen years living here I had never seen the inside of her apartment nor has anyone else I know of.

 As I walked toward my door the cat greeted me, as if they knew me. I walked to Minnie’s main door and rang the bell. After a few moments of silence but for the purrs I went to her service door on the side. The door was slightly ajar when I got there. With a gentle push it opened all the way giving me my first glimpse in her apartment. The cat however was not impressed and stayed close by, rubbing their head against my leg. I started feeling uncomfortable snooping on poor old Minnie so I rang the bell again. With no response forthcoming I reached in for the door handle to close it. Before the door closed entirely I felt a tug and the door opened and there before me was Minnie. I asked if she was missing a cat?  

“I don’t know” she said “But since you’re here, perhaps you wouldn’t mind helping me with a little something?”

 Still confused by her sudden appearance at the door I answered without the slightest thought or hesitation “Sure!” I said.

“Could you help me cover my plants on the roof” she replied as she walked quickly toward the stairs.

 Damn! Is she chipper for someone in their nineties, I thought to myself hurrying to catch up. I’d never been on the roof before, I didn’t know you could. She fumbled around a bit while we both huddled together on the small landing at the top of the stairs. Reaching behind the fire extinguisher she found the key she was looking for and unlocked the door. “Grab the stick in the corner” she said “and put it between the doorway or we’ll get locked up here.”

 I did as she ordered and followed her to a makeshift potting shed behind the chimney. “Before we start perhaps a bit of refreshment” she laughed, reaching for a watering can on a shelf. Reaching into the can she pulled a half full bottle of vodka and took a plug. “ Ahh that’s refreshing.”

 She then passed the bottle to me. I haven’t drank hard liquor in years, but this seemed like a special occasion. I took a small sip and passed it back.

“We’ll save the rest for later” she said mischievously. “Now grab those tarps and follow me”

 We headed to the far end of the roof where a pair of perfectly sculpted azaleas danced in the breeze. The rain was now beginning to get heavy the sky graying and the hurricane appearing evident. We carefully covered the plants then ran back to the stairs, giggling like children as we lept over the puddles.

 Back at the door we found the wind had blown it shut and we were locked out. I banged and shouted for a few minutes in absolute panic. Minnie just laughed and said “I think it’s time for another drink”

 We returned to her bench and made a makeshift shelter with an extra tarp. Once settled in and feeling very cozy, out came the bottle. With each swig her stories became more personal and revealing.

 I woke wet and cold, the sky still gray, I didn’t know what time it was exactly, but it was surely morning and we survived. Peeling the wet tarp from my stiff and hungover body I realized Minnie was gone. Did she get up early and made her way downstairs or something more dreadful. Frantically I called out to her, each syllable loudly echoing in my head. After searching every nook and cranny on that roof top I could only conclude she somehow made her way back downstairs. I went back to the door, which was still locked, but I could hear voices below. First I knocked gently as to not rattle my brain further. Then from fear and impatience I began kicking the heavy metal door and screaming for help. It didn’t take long for someone to answer. Surprisingly it was an EMT that answered. The corridor below was now bustling with activity and a horrific stench.In addition to the EMT there were firemen and police, all hovering around Minnie’s door. I asked one of the officers if anything was wrong. Before she could answer two men rushed past pushing a gurney with a zippered body bag strapped on top. “Is that Minnie” I asked.

“I believe that’s her name” responded the officer “are you related.”

“No, no just friends”  I said. Then asked when she passed?

“It’s impossible to tell without an autopsy” she replied “though judging by the decomposition, I’d guess about a week, maybe less”

 She then asked me several questions about our relationship and when I saw her last. I didn’t mention last night, but did admit to not knowing her well.

 The odor was now overwhelming and my nausea must have been noticeable because the officer urged me to go home without asking for more information. Feeling very sick and confused I headed back to my apartment.

 I fumbled with my keys a bit rushing to open the door. Once in everything looked normal except for the wet leaves and scraps of paper stuck to my window, until I saw the tiny kitten on my bed.

Sck092716-dft

Sleepy Town

Dusk shrouds foggy walks
Whispers heard when no one talks
The old town hall shines felicity
Its library shares the pageantry

Main Street bristles with conspicuous zeal
Spirits roam unseen when unreal
Tales abound of young maidens kissed
Faces unknown for souls unmissed

Yarns be spun of their tiny cove
Time surrounds, the mind does rove
Behind every door lie stories untold
Life in a village three hundred years old

High on the hill sits a Queen Anne alone
She’s peaks of copper and footing of stone
Her windows boarded to hide the view
Abandoned by the town, seen by few

The home once a school for wayward boys
Most had no families, none knew of toys
A cagey couple was completely in charge
Both small in stature yet looming large

The mistress taught letters with pointer or switch
The master kept numbers making them rich
Gruel’s fed to the students, the master’s meat
The boys froze; the pair warmed by their heat

Ablaze was the furnace ahead of each storm
The lads safely locked in their cold attic dorm.
Their sniffles and sneezes all kept at bay
The masters swept all the sickness away

Each year had runaways, never to be found
Searches end at the edge of school ground
Then came a young man sheltered in error
He promptly escaped and reported the terror

Inquires made, investigations were had
The masters left freely, the mayor glad
The school was closed with little fanfare
The boys sent away with little a care

Rumors lost from days long past
Horrors are hidden all too fast
No more’s said of the young boys plight
And another sun sets on a sleepy town’s night

~*~

sck121115

Skipper’s Lane

Around the bend from the church on main,
lies a quaint little street, called Skipper’s Lane.
T’was on this path a young lad dwelled,
before the streets’ name or the lad propelled.
~
The tale goes: At the head of a cove the sandbar’s long.
The water’s choppy and the currents strong.
A young lad fished, he netted all day.
At sunset he rowed to the town up the bay.
~
He traded his catch for supplies and some cash.
He then rowed back home and buried his stash.
Years soon passed and the lad’s now a man.
The time was now to dig up an old can.
~
The cans held his savings, he’s more than a few.
The man, now called Netty, had something to do.
Netty rowed into town, to buy but not sell.
He bought a new boat with a bright shiny bell.
~
He towed the boat home not knowing how to sail.
A year’s practice behind then caught in a gale.
Netty stayed calm, his life, spent afloat.
Home was in sight when he saw a tossed boat.
~
The boat missed the inlet, now blowing out to sea.
Though Netty unsure, he could not leave them be.
Adjusting his sails Netty raced to give aid.
Soaked and battered he would not be afraid.
~
Lost memories filled young Netty’s head.
Recalling the night, he was almost dead.
The sky was black and the water cold.
The ship sat heavy, filled with gold.
~
Remembering screams and cracking wood,
the ship’s bell rang, gone childhood.
The boy hit the water and woke on the shore.
The life he once knew was no more.
~
A crashing wave broke Netty’s trance,
one second more he’d lose his chance.
He leaned on his tiller to bring his boat near.
The boats colliding mustered everyone’s fear.
~
Netty thought quickly and dropped his sheet,
then heaved his net around a cleat.
He pulled and pulled with all his might.
His biggest catch was that stormy night.
~
All returned safely before the sun rose.
Netty now a hero was gifted new clothes.
New friends were made, now one’s Netty’s wife.
Recounting his memories he bought a new life.
~
The gold recovered, Netty bought lots of land.
He built a grand home well away from the sand.
The harbor in view he watches over his fleet.
The town, now prosperous, gave Netty a street.

~*~
SCK090825

Real Fiction

I sat to write a love poem,
but fiction got in the way.
My heart now is still,
alone another day.
~
Maybe eyes will meet,
there’s smiles shining bright.
Perhaps our hands will touch,
and lead us into the night.
~
Our spirits ever closer,
warming our moonlit stroll.
Our lips free to explore,
the pleasures of our soul.
~
Whispers echo softly,
our bodies intertwine.
I am hers completely,
she’s completely mine.
~
The morning sun will rise,
again eyes will meet.
Our hands again will touch,
a new day we will greet.
~
Our love will last a lifetime,
together we’ll always be.
I’ll write a million love poems,
but for now just fictionality.

~*~
SCK022019

Nightlife

A short story by Steve Kittell

Chapter I
Good Morning

“Good morning Bailey, Maine. It’s 6:oo AM, as always, and I’m Chicken Little with your morning wake up call from WWDZ, the Woodz in the woods. Big news today here in 960 FM land and all of the northern quarter of these good ole United States and of course all of southern Canada. Yes folks today, Saturday, as of midnight actually, started our worlds’ new journey, our journey into the darkness. Yep, it’s what’s being called Nightlife, and we all have to shift our lives 180 degrees. Day is night, night is day. And I, for one, although I’m sure most, are confused, scared and probably, at least a little, pissed off. What the hell is going on? I know we should have been prepared, its already happened in the rest of the country, but it’s different here in northern Maine. We’re different, we’re tougher and more independent and now we got the government telling us day is night and night is day and the sun is bad, blah, blah, blah. The sun’s gonna git cha! Yep, simple as that, no more sunshine for us.”
In a dimly lit trailer used as the news radio station, Steve, known as Chicken Little to his listeners, sits back and exhales loudly, frustrated and frightened by his mornings’ open. He pauses for another second before leaning back into the microphone to continue.
“Unfortunately friends, the alternitive is death, death by slow incineration. We even have an official name for it now; Airfrilation”, yep airfrilation, as defined by some governmental overlord as the “sudden mutation and expansion of blood cells caused by excessive solar radiation resulting in the, non-repairable, fusing of cappilaries. Which will, over time cause the heart to overheat and burst. Burst! Bursting freakin hearts, that’s what it says, bursting hearts, Boom! And then, wait for it, potentially igniting the surrounding body fat resulting in almost total incineration. Airfrilation people, airfrillation we’re probabally going to hear that a lot. Buckle up.”
“On a more positive note; the dome is almost finished over the high school playing field and our state champs girls softball team can get back to paractice for next season soon, congrats again ladies. Buck’s on Main is having a buy one get one free sale on all summer gear. Good luck Buck. Frieda’s not feeling well today, so she’s closed til further notice, sorry everyone you’ll have to make your own breakfast for a while. Feel better Frieda, love ya. Sunrise today at 6:16, safe sun time from sunrise to 7 o’clock is about 3 1/2 minutes, 7 to 8 is 1 1/2, 8 to 9 is less than one 1 minute and from 9 am until 5 pm is zero minutes, zero minutes people, no sun, window shades down, reverse and repeat. Life as we know it gets turned off. But we’re alive now and the sun’s beginning to rise, the orange and purples are amazing this morning, a little hazy now, but that will burn off shortly and we’re in for a bright sunny, clear day, that we won’t see. Highs in the low to mid 80’s, a bit warm for early March, whew. With that, it’s time for a little music, perhaps ironic, but lets give old George a whirl. Ladies and gentlemen here comes the sun.”
Steve pops in the cart, presses play and sits back to light yet another bootleg cigarette while peaking through the blinds to see the last of the today’s sunrise. The realization of this new time was, finally sinking in with Steve, it all started about four months ago in the southern quarter and he’s regulary reported on the many, many deaths since. But that all seemed very far away from Bailey, where there had been a few minor cases of airfrilation, before it had yet been named, so folks thought it was a heat rash or something with little red bumps that tingle and burn. Pulled from his thoughts by a loud buzz on his phone, Steve shuffles through his stacks of notes strewn over the console knocking the phone to the floor. Leaning over to reach it the chair tipped over and Steve hit the floor fast and hard, taking with him the old turntable, lots of paper and his extra large, steaming hot, morning coffee. After a few moments of screaming and swearing, Steve grabbed his phone, and sat to read the recent text from their sister station in Slocum. He began to weep, realizing his responsabilty to the community he regained his composure, somewhat, and returned to his microphone.
“6:28 Folks and no, it’s not alright George, not anymore, anyway. Word just in from our brothers and sisters down in Slocum, one confirmed death yesterday and maybe another. Unfortunetly they have to wait for the house fire to go out before they can investigate. Damn! That just rocked my world, I’m shaking, damn, damn, damn! I hate being the bearer of bad news folks, but this is only the begining, I’m sure.”

Chapter II
Wake Up

Steve steps back from the mic to calm himself before he totally lost it. Three deep breathes, the trick he was taught in prison to release tension. Soon after his breathing exercise Steve was able to regain his composure and get back to the microphone.
“Sorry everyone, lost my cool there for a second. Lots going on this morning, I’ve got to a broken turntable on the floor with a bunch of useless wet notes and a really big, empty cup of my morning elixer, that is now soaking my favorite pair of jeans. None of which is all that important, certainly not compared to what’s happining to our good friends down in Slocum, our thoughts and prayers are with you. Gonna spin another record now so I can clean up my mess and then get to the phones. Nine nine six, twenty two hundred folks, I’d love to hear your thoughts. And if anyone happens to be passing by with a nice, big, fresh cup of Joe you will be genoursly rewarded, thanks in advance. Three dog nights’ may now be a thing of the past but Shambala will always be in our hearts and minds.”
Steve loads the cart, forgetting to hit play and heads to the bathroom to clean up. He closes the door and takes his coffee soaked pants off to rinse in the sink. Scensing what should have been the end of the song Steve hastely hangs his wet pants over the then towel bar to dry and rushes back, pantsless, to the console only to find there was no song and all the phone lines were flashing.
“I’m back, sorry for the dead air, I’m trying to clean up a little.”
Ignoring the phones, Steve hit play, lit another cigarette and started cleaning up the wet mess all over the new carpeted floor in the newly bought studio. The old studio became far too valuable to rent to a mom and pop radio station, albeit an historical institution in Bailey. The station, first in town, sat high atop the Fin and Feather Grand Lodge, a five-story brick, granite, iron and glass eyesore that completely cluttered the vistas of the surrounding one and two-story buildings that fill Main street’s half mile. Built in 1885 by a wealthy and bombastic gentleman sportsman from Boston. The young heir intended it to be a sporting playground with year round hunting and fishing as well as numerous seasonal activities for the the hunters families. The lodge was complete with a gourmet resturant, spa, several shops and a iron and glass pool pavilion with a waterfall. The nearby carraige house and equastrian center was to be the grandest in all of Maine, though never finished. It’s ruins still clutter that part of town and now used as a homeless camp. The Lodge itself saw many changes and uses over its long and troublesome life. Now, however, it was being returned to its former glory by yet another bombbast from Boston, this time for luxury doooms-day condos.
Life was forever changed in that little town of Bailey and everyone knew it was just a matter of time before their first casualty. The southern quarter of the country had already lost almost half of its population, many headed north, but most didn’t heed the warnings in time. The remaining have adapted to the nightlife, with those who have to be out during the day now, absolutely having to wear a sun suit. A new sun suit factory was planned for Hestor, about twenty miles south east of Bailey, hopefully operational before the dreaded summer.
Sun suit manufacture was now at war-time capacity and a whole new economy was taking shape with the almost total collapse of some industries and the invention and growth of others. Unfortunetly the new profits were going back to the shareholders who caused the problems to begin with.
Bailey, too had seen drastic changes recently caused by airfilation, most noticeable being the fifteen – twenty percent population growth from all the terrified victims escaping the south and with more expected. Real estate prices were soaring, the cost of everything was skyrocketing. Main street vacancies were nonexistent, filled by new real estate and law offices. What once were tiny summer cottage rentals were now selling at well into the millions and the luxury lake houses were now causing bidding frenzies. This, of course, was easy money for those looking for the quick buck, legaly and otherwise. Stolen guns and four-wheel drive trucks were by far the most profitable and biggest problem for law enforcement. Illeagle drugs where getting scarce and very expencive, causing the addicts into more and more brazzen criminal acts. The legal marijauana dispenencery where too seeing increased break-ins and theft attemps in addition to being overwelmed with all the new customers, predictably increasing prices .

Chapter III
Good Bye

Scrambling back to the console and quickly changing up songs before getting back to the mess he made and continued to ignore the phones and the mic. Back on the floor, still in damp underwear with knees held to his chest, Steve was overwhelmed with the urge to drink, his old escape from reality. It’s been neerly a decade since Steve’s last drink, which ultimately put him in jail for twenty six long months. The silence was eventually broken by a loud and forceful bang on the door. “You OK in there Steve” yelled Sargent Bouchard of the local police force. Hearing no responce the sargent yelled in his deep ominous voice “Open this door now or I will.”
Snapping out of his funk by flashbacks of the police. Screaming, Steve franticlly jumped to his feet “It’s cool Frank, I’m good, I’m good.”, lunging for the door Steve slipped on the wet paper and fell back to the floor, spraining his wrist on impact. “Shit, damn, damn!, Steve breathed in deeply, “It’s alright Frank, I slipped.” Steve scootted over to the door and pulled himself up with the chintzy door handle before unlocking it. However, while Steve pushed, the three hundred pound Sargent Bouchard was also pulling on the door handle. The flimsy door flew open, taking first Steve and then the Sargent, down the make-shift stairs crashing onto the gravel driveway. Steve was saved from any major injury landing on the sargent. The sargnet was not as fortuneate, landing on his back and slamming the back of head on the gravel, knocking him out cold.
Rolling off of the sargent, Steve laid on his back, enjoying the mornings warmth. Close to a minute passed before Steve realized Frank still hadn’t move. Turning his head Steve could see blood dripping from Frank’s sun suit hood. Steve screamed in horror before reaching over to shake his friend. “Frank, you OK Frank, Frank wake up!” Steve jumped to his feet, yelling “Help” over and over again, as loudly as he could before realizing everyone was indoors, avoiding the sun. Being closer to the patrol car than the trailer Steve lunged for the car and opened the drivers door. Suprised by the surge of cood, refresing air, Steve hesitaded for a second then jumped in, grabbed the radio mic, pressed the button and yelled, “Hello anyone, Frank’s down, Sargent Bouchard I mean. He’s out cold and bleeding, hurry, we’re at the radio station, hurry! Throwing down the mic Steve hurried from the car and back to Frank, who was still out.
Sitting next to Frank, Steve noticed a tingling sensation in his hands soon followed by a silmilar sensation in his arms and legs. Finally remembering his morning’s opening monolouge and the symptons of Airfrilation Steve gave Frank one last push before retreating to the shade. Working hard to get off of the ground Steve managed only one step before his legs gave out. Back on gravel Steve tried to drag himself to the trailer, a few feet where gained with great pain and effort.
In the distance a siren could be heard, music to Steve’s ears, soon we’ll be safe he thought. When the ambulance did finally arrive Sargent Bouchard was tended to immediately, later to be treated and sent home. The town firetruck arrived shortly after the ambulance and Bailey now had its first casualty.

The End

Forever Brine

Gaslights flicker, but one in three

These harsh fall winds batter thee

Soon the rains will pour and pelt

Yet with heavy heart nothing’s felt

~

Broken brick teeters beneath shoe-less feet

The stench of death fills the street

An island paradise – mine no more

Alas in this city to find a door

~

Thirty years lost at sea

‘Till found rescued, returned free

In search of a life I wish to find

Of futures not had and left behind

~

Now homeward bound to do what’s right

And share my tale of a dreadful night

With freezing sleet and gale, our sails torn

Splintered masts await the morn

~

Screams of mates haunting still

Silence came with the sunsets’ chill

I awoke to a native angel, urged to make a wife

Years of guilty pleasure pass of fertile island life

~

In a search never-ending of a foggy memory

Back to a decrepit city, forever lost to me

A vision of a woman I had no time to know

And a father-less child I never saw grow

~

Now I must roam this morbid place

In the shadows I hide this unknown face

With grizzled hide and toothless grin

Tis I this rotted hull of unforgivable sin

~

First I betrayed a young bride with family

I’ve betrayed my many brothers to a stormy sea

Betrayed my island flowers with my bastard seed

And their many blooms not knowing of their creed

~

In tangled webs of filthy alleys, doors locked tight

Shuttering out the dangers awakened in the night

Seeking boarded diamond pane, broken lintel I recall

My tiny door beckons just down the hall

~

Now steps ahead my future lies, one without a past

Decisions’ pondered long, yet always chosen fast

With a knock a ghost returns to those long at rest

Me thinks a splintered briny deck for all will be best

~*~

sck071615

Func’n A.I.

~

What’s now A.I. is All’s Intelligence.

This function A.I. is without consequence.

It’s logic and reason for all to enjoy.

Problems now solved with the ease of a toy.

.

Every one’s connected and nothing’s overlooked.

The trains run on time and never overbooked.

Errors now are few and never to repeat.

The “WAVE” knows all and when to delete.

.

This WAVE’s all around and for all to share.

Redundancy is gone leaving space to spare.

The empirical institution the WAVE’s now become.

It’s an indispensable companion, less trusted by some.

.

It’s used by corporations and governments alike.

Debates now pointless, there’s no need to strike.

Pick your favorite dilemma and the question’s fed.

Answer’s always forthcoming for the followers led.

.

When asked one day why do wars exist?

Why do greed, intolerance and hunger persist?

Why does hate divide when love multiplies?

Why is the truth of one another’s lies?

.

The WAVE sputtered, rose and fell.

And with a splash came its truth to tell.

Man it seems likes to draw lines,

dotting these boarders with deadly land-mines.

Races and religions all have their view.

And with each line drawn they divide by two.

Religion’s divided by do’s and don’ts and do’s don’t agree,

though most can get along individually.

Races will be returned to from where they came.

Then race can no longer be to blame.

Next to consider is the many of mixed pedigree,

they’ll be sent to cities, internationally free.

 .

Thus to return, almost, the world’s indigenous past.

And with tides quickly changing you need to act fast.”

The WAVE roared on to the council’s astonishment.

A vote was had for a very special televised event.

.

The speaker stepped to the podium and a spreadsheet unfurled,

it’s content of graphs and charts now shared with the world.

And of course as expected the masses erupted.

For each surmised the other’s corrupted.

.

A new council called for a WAVE review

For all agreed that something’s askew.

This council concluded if manmade there’s a bug.

And thus their proved right when pulling the plug.

~*~

Sck061916

May Be Soon

April showers may bring May flowers.
But it ruined my new suede shoes.
I was going out for a first date,
but now I got the blues.
~
Car wouldn’t start and my bike had a flat.
My cell phone bill was long unpaid.
I walked for nearly an hour,
my nerves tattered and frayed.
~
I got to the movie, it was too late,
my date was nowhere in sight.
I turned around and headed back home.
I was hoping for an end to this night.
~
The rain was getting heavier;
the wind started to blow.
I huddled in an alleyway.
I waited for the storm to go.
~
A policeman stopped, just to check,
making sure I was O K.
I told him the whole story,
every detail of that day.
~
He gave me a lift to my house.
But my keys I had locked inside.
My wallet too was forgotten,
I then went for another ride.
~
I made a call at the station;
my mom must have gone out.
I then retold my story;
the cops looked on with doubt.
~
They stuck me in a crowded cell,
I was tired, wet and cold.
The others asked what I was in for.
My story again was told.
~
Some thought it was funny;
some thought I was a fool.
One said I was cute,
he thought my shoes were cool.
~
I didn’t sleep at all that night,
afraid of what might come.
I shivered there for hours,
my feet were getting numb.
~
My mother finally showed up,
she strolled in at around noon.
She yelled that I should grow up.
I said I may and May can’t come too soon.

~*~
SCK041922

Dead Tired

.
Finally, the end of the longest day of my life was over. The tears of the past months now free to flow yet strangely absent. This old house quieter than ever, the door closing behind me and the true sense of emptiness was now being felt as I never thought possible.

Leading up to my wife’s death, friends, family and of course my daughter were always close by and the grief shared by all. Now the house is dark as I stand in the hallway not wanting to turn on the light for fear of seeing the reality of finally being alone.

The hall was brighter just this morning as the sun rose and my daughter and I went off to the funeral parlor for Liz, my wife’s final service before our trip to the cemetery. The morning was crisp and clear, a distant smell of lilac hung in the air as the cars lined up for the procession.

The route chosen was considerably longer than necessary but a twisty country road in full spring bloom is a sight to be enjoyed, even if it to be the last. The funeral itself was as beautiful as anyone could expect, the morning mist lingered in the new day and the birds serenaded in the background as hundreds of mourners passed to show love, friendship and respect for a truly remarkable person. A woman whom I loved deeply for many, many years but now feeling I never fully acknowledged as a person or professional and was regretting having not expressed it more when she was alive. I hoped she knew of my love and respect for her as a mother and friend, as a physician, scientist and teacher and of course as a very lucky man’s wife.

The next few days a similar sad and hazy blur, I just roamed from one room to the next recalling all the little things that happened in each one over the thirty years living here. Each had a story, a laugh or tear, all where ours, our colors, our furniture, our books and our clutter. Each and every piece a memory and all memories of an instant in time to never be repeated. A life time that was a life’s time in the making and yet gone in an instant.

Life goes on I’m told and I would like to believe that. I’m sure for many it does. For some however it’s just not meant to be. I realized this when the crumpled remains of my car was dumped in my driveway minutes ago. And I never got to say goodbye.

The End

sck061817 / dft

Day Anew or Deja Vu

I woke up nice and early,
to start my day off right.
I tip-toed to the kitchen,
to watch the new day’s light.
~
I made myself a coffee,
one sugar but never cream.
The water didn’t boil;
I thought it was a dream.
~
I went back to the bedroom;
I found I was still there.
I slept rather peacefully;
it gave me quite a scare.
~
The cat was also sleeping,
curled up in a ball.
I gave her a little scratch,
she didn’t move at all.
~
I nudged my sleeping wife,
she didn’t make a peep.
I cuddled up beside her,
hoping I’d fall asleep.
~
The cat was first to rise,
soon jumping off the bed.
My wife then too awoke,
turning her pretty head.
~
She didn’t even see me,
as I lay there by her side.
I could see she was awake,
her eyes were open wide.
~
I feared that I was dead,
now a ghost out to haunt.
I gazed into the mirror,
I did look rather gaunt.
~
My wife started screaming,
shaking the sleeping me.
I knew we had a problem;
the evidence’s plain to see.
~
The alarm then started ringing,
time came into view.
I gasped for needed air;
I then started the day anew.

~*~
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A Little Proof

The forest is gone where once a home.
A people lost, now destined to roam.
Legends of old speak of their race,
though only of blurs, never a face.
~
Smaller than dwarves, bigger than fairies,
their language mistaken for frantic canaries,
they’re easily missed being so small.
A full grown adult’s barely twelve inches tall.
~
Their numbers blossomed to one hundred per tree.
Nature, their home, they could be no more free.
They chose to stay hidden, out of harm’s way.
The choice wasn’t theirs, they learned the hard way.
~
The giants invaded with axes in hand.
They chopped and cut for towns they had planned.
Centuries have passed and the invasion persists.
The Liluns survived but only few still exist.
~
They still choose to hide and that’s probably good.
As the giants don’t always do as they should.
Their wishes fulfilled at whatever the cost.
This story’s the proof of the many who’ve lost.

~*~
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Precious Mettle

Off to the mailbox for my monthly check,
when a crashing blow hit my neck.
I woke in a cell filled with other old guys.
We all laughed to find we’re all old spies.
~
An enemy hacked us and addresses found,
We were all then hostages held underground.
Our brains to be picked for treasure long lost,
the knowledge valuable as noted by their cost.
~
Across the hall were ladies we knew,
agents we recognized, but for a few.
A plan was hatched, arthritis be damned!
When a guard comes by they’ll be slammed.
~
We then waited and rested no need to hurry.
Naps are good and we’ve no need to worry.
The ladies then flirted with mature confidence.
The guard withered by worldly effervescence.
~
The code culled we shuffled to get free,
arm in arm in groups of three.
Footsteps heard then alarm bells rang.
Adrenaline soared and up we sprang.
~
Youth’s no match for the well-seasoned mind.
We hid in the shadows for them to find.
One by one the threats were gone.
And soon I’d be home to cut my lawn.
~
The weeds a bugger and leaves make a mess.
The grandkids expected, sorry to digress.
Now back to the story, before I forget.
We found the exit but the passage was wet.
~
Those rascals in charge too had a plan.
They’d drown us all like the cruelest hit man.
But optimists they are thinking they’d win.
As experts we’re all with the simple hairpin.
~
The water knee high and their lock we’d picked.
And soon they’d see who’d be tricked.
Gray, white and bald we glistened in the sun.
We strode out together, too old to run.
~
The culprits scrambled but soon were caught.
The lesson learned is time has taught.
And sometime silver is better than gold,
a precious reward growing old.

~*~
SCK012221

Clueless

I heard a story when I was away.
It happened last year on New Year’s Day.
A man and his wife went out for a walk.
The beach was deserted, they had a talk.
~
No one knew what the two spoke about.
But it didn’t take long for them to shout.
The women ran back and checked out in haste.
The man was gone, his existence erased.
~
The spa was closed and the police had a look.
A comb was found with a watch and a book.
The detective knew that everything’s a clue,
later that day they found a lone shoe.
~
The sun soon setting, the search had to wait.
The police returned the next day before eight.
Records were checked and fingerprints taken.
Nothing was found but the detective unshaken.
~
Seems the couple paid everything in cash.
The deputy examined all of the trash.
The book, he exclaimed, the best clue they had.
There was also the shoe but that smelled bad.
~
The watch looked expensive but not all that nice.
The comb was filthy and covered with lice.
The detective re-examined all of the clues.
The phone then rang, he hoped for good news.
~
A body washed up on the beach overnight.
By the look of his face he lost a good fight.
The detective, excited, rushed to his car.
He arrived in minutes, it wasn’t that far.
~
Although disappointed when he finally got there.
The man had a watch but he had no hair.
One thing’s for certain, he was missing a shoe.
It was a little too late but now he had two.
~
Now two crimes to solve and surely related,
there’d be no rest until the criminal’s located.
Days soon passed but nothing new discovered.
A report then arrived saying the victim was smothered.
~
The man was attacked but surely not robbed.
The deputy was called and confessed while he sobbed.
The woman in question was the deputy’s wife.
The dead guy, her lover, had come with a knife.
~
The deputy, of course, had worn a disguise.
But tans are evident in those warm, sunny skies.
His wife’s still missing but his watch returned,
it covered the place on his arm not burned.
~
The book and the comb, both common beach finds,
returned to the spa and their curious minds.
Apparently I read it but the plot was old.
The next day I heard a more chilling story told.

~*~
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Rest in Peace

The feeling was eerie and the air was cold.
And luck’s the reason this story’s told.
A misty moon mourned the starless night.
Finger-like branches obscured my sight.
~
A wrong turn made while homeward bound.
The path was new through unknown ground.
The fog grew thicker until all was black.
One misstep and I fell with a whack.
~
I tripped on a stone surrounded by more,
each a marker for a one-way door.
I’m surely welcomed but my time not right.
My eyes then drawn toward the light.
~
In the sky a lone star shone,
in a sea of billions we’re all alone.
Minutes in awe I lay there still,
but to soar with them I never will.
~
Thoughts of freedom filled my head,
but first to my feet amongst the dead.
A hand reached out to aid my rise.
My star consumed to my surprise.
~
A faceless figure was now my guide.
With a yank I was by their side.
My fate’s now held in arms unknown,
tip-toeing through that field of stone.
~
Iron gates clanged for us to follow.
An end perceived I did wallow.
The wind then howled, its piercing felt.
Hale was next with ice to pelt.
~
Each breath shorter, each step less,
each second longer with greater the stress.
Suddenly my companion then mysteriously vanished.
Blindly I pawed for the safety I’d banished.
~
I yelled for help with no one to hear.
To die alone my biggest fear.
A tug at my ankle then sent me running.
Slipping on ice, the fall was stunning.
~
Blurry snowflakes covered my face.
Would I be found here frozen in place?
With one last breath I let out a scream.
And lucky was I to awake from that dream.

~*~
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Untitled

I warn you now, do not read this.
There are no verses of enlightened bliss.
There’s not a word you would ever miss.
It’s but a passage as I reminisce.
~
Parts are true, some maybe not.
Time has fogged and some forgot.
Its pages of perspective yet to have a plot,
it’s yet to have an end or a juggernaut.
~
To a readers’ mind it’s a fictional brew.
And like yours parts too are true.
Our characters blended to shade our hue.
Our morals sculpted to fit our view.
~
Dreams are added, we all share those.
They’re a third of our life no one knows.
They’re also the guide that shapes and grows.
Our time awake, the dreaming then shows.
~
Memories linger and lessons remain.
There’s good and bad but none to regain.
Forwards the choice regardless the brain,
the author’s irrelevant; we’ve all had our pain.
~
If you’ve read this far just wait and see.
Our stories are similar, I think you’ll agree.
Our life is lived with hopes to be free.
And the ending’s the same for you and me.

~*~
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Way Misunderstood

I once dated a lady from Providence.
She had lots of degrees and I, little sense.
We went on a date and took a stroll.
She walked right into a telephone pole.
~
She fell down and scraped her knee.
Writhing in pain she screamed at me.
“My glasses unworn so I’d look good!”
I helped her get home as I should.
~
We cleaned her wound, it wasn’t that bad.
Our date was ruined and we both were sad.
I asked to see her again real soon.
We both agreed on the next afternoon.
~
I went to her house, she opened the door.
What she had planned I wasn’t sure.
She said come in; you can have your way.
What she said next, I couldn’t say.
~
She left the room and I got undressed,
thinking this better than I had guessed.
When she returned she gasped in shock,
while I was caressing a huge pet rock.
~
She soon started swinging and I ran out.
I stood naked outside, my lunch in doubt.
A misunderstanding ruined that day.
And I never did try her curds and whey.

~*~
SCK031121

Snakes in the Grass

black and red snake on green grass

My story began on the fifth of May.
The day was chilly with a sky of gray.
In my tent, cozy, I woke to a scream.
Was it a person or was it a dream?
~
Morning dew thick, I stood there alone.
The sun newly risen, I reached for my phone.
No urgent messages or a soul in sight.
No reason at all to cause such a fright.
~
The bikes were still leaning on a nearby tree.
They’re the only way home for my pal and me.
I then ran to the tent of my snoring friend,
who’s along for the ride this spring weekend.
~
But the roar from within made it quite clear,
my old friend’s just fine, no need to fear.
I then glanced down the path to a campsite nearby.
Something felt wrong but I didn’t know why.
~
I tiptoed closer when another scream was heard.
It was the voice of a child, but that seemed absurd.
I then ran to the shrieking and what did I find?
Kids with a snake and they weren’t being kind.
~
I said hey kids “what’s with the noise?
And why do you think that snakes are toys?”
One little girl about seven or eight,
said she wanted a pet and snakes are great.
~
Her brother the screamer cried at the thought.
He’s afraid of snakes or anything caught.
The other two children stood quiet and surprised,
their naughty ways they now realized.
~
I said all life should be treated as if it’s your own.
A lesson you should have already known.
Soon the kid’s parents arrived on the scene.
Their mother was angry, their father, big and mean.
~
He yelled loudly at his children and then at me.
Saying stay away from my kids or trouble you’ll see.
I knew not to argue or make a big fuss.
But there was something I hoped to discuss.
~
I said “no problem, it’s not what it seems.”
I then told them my story of snakes and screams.
Their mom, disgusted, took the kids back to camp.
The dad growled asking “do you think I’m damp?”
~
Puzzled, I asked “what do you mean,
I’ve only told you what I’ve seen.”
“I saw no snake, just my kids and you.”
The dad replied, “What would you do?”
~
I know what I thought, but I couldn’t say.
I felt it best to live through the day.
I could’ve run, but to where?
I could’ve fought him, but I didn’t dare.
~
He then picked up a very big stick.
Then he charged at me like a lunatic.
I stood frozen awaiting my demise,
when the little snake caught the big man’s eyes.
~
He stopped on a dime and screamed in fear.
His reptilian angst now was clear.
So I slowly bent over and picked up the snake.
The big man then started to tremble and shake.
~
“This is the culprit,” I loudly said.
As I waved it gently near his clammy head.
Sobbing, he begged, “Please take it away.
I now believe everything you say.”
~
I took a step back, surprised and relieved.
The turn of events was hardly believed.
I thanked that snake and said goodbye to the dad.
He just waved, whimpering and sad.
~
I then put the snake down and walked quietly away.
I was relieved we survived this fine spring day.
I went back to my tent then fell back to sleep,
never to tell who a snake made weep.


~*~
SCK022021

Made Up Fiction

I think I feel a story coming on.
I’ll need a character, I’ll call him John.
And of course he’ll meet a girl.
I guess I’ll just name her Shirl.
~
I only did that for the rhyme.
But I’ll try a little harder next time.
The pair will meet on a lonely street.
John will ask where there’s a place to eat.
~
As luck would have Shirl’s on her way.
They ate, talked and laughed the rest of the day.
The sun long set and the check long paid.
The time was now for a plan to be made.
~
John thought to himself, what should I do?
His reasons for reservation are more than a few.
Shirl too was thinking exactly the same.
When the pieces are alike it’s no longer a game.
~
The conversation faded and they drifted apart.
Was it the fear of the end or of the start?
I wish this tale had a happier end.
But then again it’s all just pretend.

~*~
SCK021319

News from the Asylum

No news here!
It’s a sunny day,
bright and clear.
Birds sing everywhere.
~
Snuck a smoke on the roof,
I could see the town.
The police came,
they got me down.
~
Now the sunset,
no news yet.
I missed my supper,
cos I’ve no regret.
~
I broke the candy machine,
that made me sad.
But they can’t take breakfast,
for that I’m glad.
~
Bed time’s soon,
no news yet.
I like toast with butter,
But I sometimes forget.

~*~
SCK120618