B-r-r-r-r

Frosted Glass on Flickr - Photo Sharing!

Just joining me? Catch up on the Greyhound Summer story here.


I think the seasons must have changed a couple of times before we got to Sam's trailer. Walking through his door was like walking into winter; I could feel hoar frost forming on my skin. Of course, he tipped his head back and said ahhh, while I was looking around for a parka. An air conditioner big enough to cool the Capital Center was jammed in the living room window.

I'd already sent Mia a text letting her know, I was staying with Sam tonight. She could have warned me about the polar conditions.

"Where do you keep the snowsuits?" I couldn't stop my teeth from chattering and the words came out in little bursts like a bad cellphone connection.

"I'll be your snowsuit."

"That sounds like it will require getting naked." I hugged myself tighter and his arms went around me.

"That little bit you're wearing can't be making much difference one way or the other."

Which was true, a tank top and Mia's little denim skirt didn't cover enough of me. And after the ride home in the van, there wasn't much Sam didn't know about my body. I leaned into his warmth.

Sex is okay, but getting naked and going skin-to-skin with someone is so stressful that the pleasure rarely makes up for it. I just keep thinking about things like my boobs being too small or my hip bones jutting out like an old cows. If I don't make any noise he'll think I'm frigid. If I make too much he'll think I'm a slut. The only plus this time, was that I didn't have a backpack full of neglected homework assignments too worry about. With all that going on, it's hard to throw yourself into sex. Guys don't seem to have that problem.

Sam was kissing my neck and I couldn't get the picture out of my head of that little boy in the Christmas movie that gets his tongue stuck to a lamppost.

When Sam spoke, his voice made a pleasant vibration, right where my chest pressed against him. "You're thinking too much again."

I nodded.

"I have a cure for that."

"Death?"

"Only if you say it in French."

"Huh?"

He led me back to the bedroom. There was another, somewhat smaller air conditioner churning out frost. I figured the cure must involve freezing my brain cells.

The hall light illuminated the room enough for me to see a blanket on the bed, the thin summer variety, but I was beyond getting picky. I kicked off my sandals and dove for the bed as Sam peeled back the covers. Only instead of drawing them up over us, he was tossing them toward the floor. I made a quick grab and latched onto a corner of the blanket before it could disappear.

There was a brief tug-of-wills. Sam had one corner of the blanket and I had the other. He gave a little tug and I tugged back. He flipped on the light switch without letting go. That's a handy thing about trailers, everything is always within arm's reach.

He gave me an are-you-okay look. I gave him a please-don't-take-the-blanket-look. I don't think he understood my look.

---

Good news!!
The Editors at textnovel.com selected Greyhound Summer as an Editor's Pick. If you're enjoying this story, help me make it into the finals of the competition with your vote. Just click this link and vote me up by clicking both the thumb symbol and cellphone symbol next to my story. I know it's a pain to have to create an account, but it's free and you'll gain access to all the great novels on the site. You could be helping this author toward a publishing contract. TIA

Stopping Time

LED Stoplight (on) on Flickr - Photo Sharing!

Just joining me? Catch up on the Greyhound Summer story here.


I didn’t love him. At least not in the van.

I was nervous when the guys carried that last equipment out the back door, and Sam turned to catch my hand in his. He’s one of those people who like to touch all the time. I’m not.

When Sam took my hand all the words in my brain clotted. When he tugged me closer, until we were chest-to-chest, put his arms around me and just looked down at me with that smile, I think my blood clotted too. There wasn’t any getting to my brain. I had that buzzy-bee feeling your brain gets when you stand up too fast after having too much to drink.

He pressed his forehead to mine. Our noses touched, but he made no move to deepen contact with a kiss. His hands didn’t roam. If he’d done any of those things, my heart might have kept beating, but it went still, because it was more than sex he wanted. I couldn’t give him more than sex and anything less than where he was headed held no appeal.

You’re taking us up, too high, is what I wanted to tell him, we’re headed for a plane crash -- no survivors. But I didn’t say that, because no one ever says what they are really thinking when they are thinking about getting naked together.

“Breathe,” he whispered.

I did.

“You think too much,” he said.

I grinned at that.

He rocked with me, his hips, pressed to mine, a sway like a dance without moving our feet. He turned his head so his cheek rested against my forehead. Thinking was getting harder and so was Sam.

“I’m leaving Monday morning, Sam.”

“This is, Friday night,” he said, turning and leading me to the door, “Monday is a hundred years away.”

Maybe he was right about that, because the drive back to his trailer took a week. There were seven stoplights and it took a day to get through each one, because Sam kissed me through the duration of each, with one eye on the lookout for green, while his tongue and his hands stopped time.

---

Good news!!
The Editors at textnovel.com selected Greyhound Summer as an Editor's Pick. If you're enjoying this story, help me make it into the finals of the competition with your vote. Just click this link and vote me up by clicking both the thumb symbol and cellphone symbol next to my story. I know it's a pain to have to create an account, but it's free and you'll gain access to all the great novels on the site. You could be helping this author toward a publishing contract. TIA

That Tune

Just joining me? Catch up on the Greyhound Summer story here.

I went back to the table,  grabbed my purse and checked my cell, sure enough, there was a text from Mia. 

“Went home. Sick  kid. If Sam can’t give u a ride call.”

I ducked out front to call and found out it was nothing serious, just an upset stomach. I didn’t want to drag her back out to get me, so that meant I was spending the evening with Sam and the band.

I learned something -- Sam was absolutely the kind of guy to take advantage of a situation. He used every tool in the seduction techniques book and he made up a few more. He used the audience to help him get me back on stage with him. He used music to sway me. His hands lingered every time he got a chance to to touch. His eyes were never anywhere but on me.

By the time we were playing the last set, my head was so far up in the clouds, I couldn't remember why I was resisting him. Then we got to the last song. That song!

The song was so old my grandparents probably danced to it in high school. And when the first line of lyrics brought the rest back to memory, I knew why he couldn't tell me what it was.

I picked up the harmony and Sam looked right in my eyes as he sang. The band knew, the audience probably knew, it was an invitation, a question: would I?

The answer was something I wasn't sure of anymore.

---

Good news!!
The Editors at textnovel.com selected Greyhound Summer as an Editor's Pick. If you're enjoying this story, help me make it into the finals of the competition with your vote. Just click this link and vote me up by clicking both the thumb symbol and cellphone symbol next to my story. I know it's a pain to have to create an account, but it's free and you'll gain access to all the great novels on the site. You could be helping this author toward a publishing contract. TIA

Carry on Tuesday: Hero's Journey

FIRE on Flickr - Photo Sharing!

Hero's Journey

This is what I wanted: a hero

someone to help me
put out the little fires
that crop up around a life

I got: you

teaching me arson
fueling flames that licked my skin
singed my ideals
consumed and scattered them
like glowing embers across a sooty sky

This is what I wanted: a warrior

someone on my side
someone at my back through life's battles

I got: you

teaching me to sow conflict
to beat the plowshare to sword
to embrace its glittering blade
like a woman sheathes her lover
turning submission to power

This is what I wanted: a savior

someone to pull me up
when life overwhelmed
someone to keep me afloat
when I was too tired to go on

I got: abandoned

dropped in the blackest sea
sucked into the depths of depression
left to sink or swim in my own tears
to claw my way back from the shipwreck
of all I dreamed you'd be

This is what I wanted: you to be my hero

I got: the hero in me




I wrote this in response to the Carry On Tuesday prompt:

"Welcome to Carry On Tuesday. Our prompt this week is the opening lines of the Charles Dickens tale David Copperfield.

Whether I shall turn out to be
the hero of my own life......

Visit Carry on Tuesday to see what others wrote.
.

Poetry Train: Simmering

Simmer Down on Flickr - Photo Sharing!


Silver mists drape the oaks
in a gauzy morning wrapper.
The sun peeks between the folds.
Mourning doves coo seductive approval.

My eyes open into yours.
Heat, a moist blanket unfolding, settles over me,
weights my limbs with a peaceful presence
that could so easily be stirred to passion.
And stir you do, one finger, dipping in, languid circles.

My gaze takes a slow journey to your lips,
watching you lick and suckle,
your eyelids drifting down to savor,
like a chef over a delicate sauce,
a wicked grin as you invite me to taste.
I catch the scent and flavor of my own desire,
wriggling closer, inviting your pleasure.

You withdraw leaving me with
your unswayable smile,
the one that promises,
that despite a bit of simmering,
waiting will be worth it.

On the back burner
dreams and fantasies bubble together
blending, melding, merging
creating something bolder,
more developed, exotic.

Heat clings as the sun sinks
behind blue mountains
and you rise ready above me.
This moment has sizzled in us all day.
A feast awaits.

We smile together at the brink, knowing.
This won't be polite.
This won't be civilized
This won't be proper
It will be worth the wait.

Visit the other passengers on the Monday Poetry Train Revisited.

One Single Impression: Inner Voice

Translation Needed

She doesn't speak in words,
this inner voice of mine.
She takes the long way 'round,
the scenic route.

She leads me through forests dressed in moonlight,
and past fields of dark-eyed flowers.
She comes from a land of feathered trees
and heart-shaped butterflies.

I speak to her in the simplest sentences,
subject-verb-object.
She answers in riddled landscapes.
I don't know what we mean,
but I bet she does.

See other impressions on Inner Voice.

Sunday Scribblings: The Plan

I am hopelessly plan proof. The best way to insure a plan won't get follow through is to write it down and plan on it. But if I keep a secret from myself, hide it in my subconscious and let it find an organic path to fruition, I can realize a goal. I don't understand this side of myself, but I am learning to live with it. I wrote the following scribbling right around the time I decided to make peace with my planlessness.

Siletz Bay wildflowers montage with a beautiful Oregon sunset by ComputerMiracle

I envy the beauty of a formal garden.
I imagine appearing neatly clipped, colors coordinated.
What a wonderful thing it would be to think in tidy paths
that take me past each important element.

All my blooms would open at the proper time,
in proper order, and in their proper place.
All would arrange themselves around an exquisite centerpiece
of good sense and logic.

I'm more like a tangled wood,
honeysuckle vines and thorned blackberries marking my borders,
tiny violets hiding in my shadows.

I'm a web of branches and green growth,
reaching for sun and sky by day,
moon and stars by night.
My roots burrow into a rich carpet,
hidden things that feed the growth.

At my center -- a twisting, babbling stream of moods,
ideas, desires, and dreams.
I envy the order of a formal garden, but my soul knows it could never grow there.

You can see other Sunday Scribblings here, or join us by
adding your own thoughts on: "The Plan" to the list of contributions.

Waking Up

Don't wake up already by monsieurlam

Just joining me? Catch up on the Greyhound Summer story here.


Finishing a song is like waking up. I opened my eyes into Sam’s. In that moment I didn’t hear anything but the beating of my own heart, didn’t see anything but Sam, that smile, and the way he leaned in, a kiss hovering just out of reach. Then the clapping started.

Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised. We were on stage -- sort of -- and there were mikes close enough to pick up the sound. I thought we’d been playing soft, knew it had started that way, but we must have gotten louder when we were lost in the music. Still, even when the band is onstage and playing, everyone just goes on about their business, talking and walking back and forth. So finding all the attention focused on us was a shock.

More shocking than that, no one knew who I was. They weren’t clapping because I was Nick’s little girl. They just clapped for me. Pleasure washed through me and warmed my blood like a shot of whiskey. It was as if a woozy glow passed from the smiling faces in the room right into my brain.

I smiled gave a little wave. Sam’s band crowded around, all talking at once.

“Sign her up Sam.”

“That lead you played blew me away, baby.”

I didn’t remember picking up the lead. I know it will sound cracked, but it’s like you play in an alternate reality and when you are back in the real world the details aren’t there, they melt away like a dream.

“That was freakin’ amazing,” the drummer said pounding my back like it was a bongo. The guys had closed in and I was starting to freak in the tight quarters of stage equipment and male bodies. I handed someone the guitar. Sam was laughing and trading insults with the guys. It hit me then, peel about twenty-five years off my father’s band and you’d have these guys.

I needed to find Mia and escape. I nudged my way between the drummer and the keyboard player.

Mia was nowhere. I searched in the ladies room and in front of the club in case she was out there making a phone call. I had to get away before Sam caught up with me. She wouldn’t just leave…

---

Good news!!
The Editors at textnovel.com selected Greyhound Summer as an Editor's Pick. If you're enjoying this story, help me make it into the finals of the competition with your vote. Just click this link and vote me up by clicking both the thumb symbol and cellphone symbol next to my story. I know it's a pain to have to create an account, but it's free and you'll gain access to all the great novels on the site. You could be helping this author toward a publishing contract. TIA

Clay Pigeons

Man feeding pigeon on Flickr - Photo Sharing!

“You pick one of the three," Sam said. "If I can prove that one, then I get the next choice.”

Well that was safe enough. He couldn’t turn me into something I wasn’t and it would be an easy way to end this. Still, I chose the safest of the three options.

“Okay, I don’t do music.”

His fingers laced with mine. I let him draw me from the chair and lead me to the three steps at the side of the stage.

He had two acoustic guitars there, set in a rack at the back of the stage. I could feel sweat beads trickle down my ribs and back, that cold clammy feeling like day old oatmeal lodged in my stomach. I couldn’t play in a club full of strangers. That thing on the bus doesn’t count. It was an emergency and no one expects something tapped out of an iPhone to be good.

But Sam was expecting Nick Moon’s daughter. He didn’t understand that when I played, just my Dad and me, I was my mother’s ghost and I could do no wrong.

My hands were shaking when I took the guitar, I could barely finger a chord. No effort needed to win this bet; my body went to jitters.

Sam touched the side of my face, I could feel each finger land lightly, the calluses there. I looked up at him. “Something happens when you play," he said, "like a light glows in your face. It was like someone lit a candle inside me when I first watched you play.”

I took a deep shuddering breath. “I don’t know how, Sam. Really. It’s like everything I know about music just runs from my brain in front of strangers.”

"It's not about the people, sugar, it's about the music, how you feel it. Pick a song you love, walk through the words, the places it takes your mind, then let it have your fingers. The rest comes on it's own." He tapped a finger against the center of my chest and an altogether different jitter took hold of me. "This is the only audience that matters -- your heart. Forget bets. Forget proving anything. I just want one song, one time, here for me."

I guess it's like swimming. You know when you hit that water it's gonna be cold so it's better just to dive in and get it over with. This was gonna be a huge belly flop.

I was sitting on the top step, Sam sat on the second leaning so his back rested against my right leg and the warmth of him penetrated the fear chills running through me. I couldn't think of a single song.

He started picking. "I bet you know Clay Pigeons?"

Even sitting a step below, Sam was tall enough that his head was nearly even with mine. My awareness of anything but Sam, and the soft sound of fingers teasing notes from strings, started to fade. My own fingers found the chords, found the rhythm of the picking, and when it was time to sing my voice joined his in a harmony that startled me. I'd always preferred this song solo, just the bare voice of one singer and an acoustic guitar, but singing with Sam, changed that.

So we sang about riding the Greyhound from one day into the next and the next day after that. And you know what? A Greyhound ticket started sounding like a good thing.

When we hit the third verse Sam's voice dropped out. I thought maybe he'd forgotten the words, but I was feeling them, every single one right down to my toes. There's a way a song has of coming alive in you. I guess you could say possessing you. It takes you somewhere else and you don't know what your hands are doing or what your mouth is saying. If you think about it you'll screw up every time. You have to be the story you're in and that's where I was. Sam kept playing and smiling, his harmony picking up again when we hit the chorus. That's when I knew it was deliberate, that he was telling me that part of the song belonged to me.

Those words were a gift from him to me, a way to see myself, to understand in a way I hadn't before. It's scary, because I think that if there were such a thing as love, that would be what it is supposed to do.

Poetry Train: Widow's Waltz

Mist the Oak Tree by wabberjocky

I heard a chuck-will call
through the dark of morning,
his song never failing
even as the first light
made ghosts from last night's rain.

So rare, the chuck-will's call.
I'd mourned him years ago and given up hope
of hearing his bright flute pierce the predawn,
summoning misty dancers
to a solo waltz through the oaks.

Their luminous gowns swirled in perfect time to his ominous song:

Chuck-Will's-Widow
Chuck- Will's- Widow

Catch the Poetry Train and see what other passengers are
sharing.

To do or not to do

I wanna hold your hand by batega

Just joining me? Catch up on the Greyhound Summer story here.


I was trying to calm down. Really I was. Mia might not go about things the right way, but she does them for the right reason: she thinks she's helping someone she loves.

“How many You Tube videos do I star in, Mia?”

“Just the one," Mia said, "you know, that really fancy wedding. What were you twelve?”

I tried to remember. My father had so many wives they've become a blur. But I did know what song it would be, the one we always played together at his weddings.

I put my hands to my temples and rubbed. And I thought the date with Wade was a train wreck. This wasn’t even a date and it was topping that.

Mia, the coward, plucked her phone from her purse and waved it at me. “I have to check in with the babysitter. Be right back.”

Sam slid in even closer. Our knees bumped and his hand settled over mine in my lap. “You want to tell me what’s up?”

I wanted to tell him a lot of things. The intimacy of his fingers draped over mine, with the fingertips just resting against my inner thigh, sucked all the air from my lungs. The weight of our hands caused my denim skirt to ride up and the calloused tip of his pinky rested on my bare skin like a hot poker. I had to grab my anger by the ankle and drag it back into my brain before I could manage to speak.

“Mia set all this up and she knew better. I don’t do public performances. I don’t really do music. And no offense, but I don’t do musicians.” That should have offended him. He leaned in and kissed the tip of my nose.

“Liar.”

What could I say to that? It didn’t even make any sense. I pushed his hand away and dropped my napkin on the table. “I need to go now. It was nice meeting you, Sam.”

“Arie, give me one shot, to prove you do at least one of those things.”

I knew where this was headed. “And which would that be?”

---

Good news!!
The Editors at textnovel.com selected Greyhound Summer as an Editor's Pick. If you're enjoying this story, help me make it into the finals of the competition with your vote. Just click this link and vote me up by clicking both the thumb symbol and cellphone symbol next to my story. I know it's a pain to have to create an account, but it's free and you'll gain access to all the great novels on the site. You could be helping this author toward a publishing contract. TIA

One Single Impression: Recursive Logic

This is my impression for this week's prompt on thinking. There's a loop hidden in my loops.

Argument: Recursive by Librarian Avenger

Logic bends back on itself, the way day bends back into night. Night yawns into darkness as infinite as cyberspace, where my words spread out in lines that loop back on themselves, rerunning thoughts through the human processors of life's infinitely looping program.

Program a mantra, a ritual, a fearless loop that will march words from my brain to my fingers without the worry that the prose isn't perfect. Perfect my imperfection until no flaws inhabit my lines, until there is no risk the lines mirror back a personal flaw reflected in the third word of the fourth paragraph's fifth sentence.

Sentence me to soulless loops that curve around my deviations, that line me up and fill my pages with clear, impenetrable logic.

See other bloggers' impressions on Thinking.

Indulgence

LITTLE ORANGE MEN by Jackson Boyle

I attack thick rind,
Pierce rubbery armor with my nails.
It parts on a ripping sigh.
Droplets sprinkle my nose and cheeks,
Sting my eyes.

My tongue can taste him.
I swallow the craving,
Patiently pulling him apart.
I line the sections up
In analytical rows
On white paper.

The fruit weeps,
Big tears that pool and spread,
Darkening the toweling.

I select a slice,
Bend it till it breaks.
Teardrop bits shiver
Between thin membranes.
I bite down.
Pulp explodes.

I crush the marrow,
The core I labored to find.
Sweetness bleeds out on my tongue.
I won't cry.

Check in on the indulgences of other Sunday Scribblers.

How to have a bad surprise, semi-blind date

© Robin Ervolina, funkyfotography

Just joining me? Catch up on the Greyhound Summer story here.


“She hates musicians, Sam. Your little surprise sunk your boat.”

I coughed and washed down the last bite of catfish with tea. “Mia I will—“

“Hate musicians?” Sam didn’t seem disappointed so much as confounded. Forget avoiding trouble now. “But she’s Nick Moon’s daughter, she’s more of a musician than half my band!”

He looked at me, forehead puckered, “There’s a joke here somewhere?”

Oh there was a joke -- on me. I skewered Mia with a glare, while I fished for details about what kind of games Mia was playing.

“Sam,” I said, trying to hold a lid down on a percolating volcano, “how do you know who I am?”

It wasn’t like my dad had legions of fans. It wasn’t like my dad had any fans after they sobered up.

“I recognized Nick Moon in that You Tube video Mia showed me. You playing with your dad at his wedding.”

Mia was suddenly busy digging for something in her purse.

I smiled.

“I’m on You Tube. The whole world is watching me play. How nice.”

Sam still didn't get it. "It's one of the most touching things I've ever seen, you and him, the emotion between you so clear, so raw."

I couldn't find words.

Mia looked up, trying to smooth things over. “Just a few people, Arie. Not the whole world.”

“Sixty-two thousand last time I watched” Sam said.

I was twisting the napkin in my lap, thinking of Mia’s neck. “Mia, bless your heart. When we get home,” I said, making my voice sweeter than the tea, “I’m gonna snatch you bald.”

Sam moved closer to me, as if he thought he might have to tackle me to save Mia. Very perceptive.

But, I'll be honest: it wasn't Mia's manipulations that gave me that broken-in-two feeling.

---

Good news!!
The Editors at textnovel.com selected Greyhound Summer as an Editor's Pick. If you're enjoying this story, help me make it into the finals of the competition with your vote. Just click this link and vote me up by clicking both the thumb symbol and cellphone symbol next to my story. I know it's a pain to have to create an account, but it's free and you'll gain access to all the great novels on the site. You could be helping this author toward a publishing contract. TIA

Smashed

Flickr Photo Download: Joe Algeri smashing a guitar

Just joining me? Catch up on the Greyhound Summer story here.


Maybe it was an artistic statement or maybe it was LSD, but back in the sixties, rockstars were insane. I saw some of the old-time concerts during PBS pledge drives. Could art drive them to smash their guitars at the end of the performance? It was an ear basher of screeching chords and splintering wood, the scream of steel strings severed. It always made me cringe and look away. I couldn’t watch the dismembering.

When Sam turned toward the audience and started to play, I felt like one of those guitars, slammed into an amplifier and scattered in pieces over the stage. So, I guess it wouldn’t surprise you that I wasn’t drooling over him and begging for an autograph when the band took a break.

Sam dropped into a chair between Mia and me. I could feel the heat of his presence reach out and wrap itself around me. I kept my eyes on my plate, focused on my dinner, but each savory bite, tasted like Sam.

I snuck sideways glances between forkfuls. For the moment, it looked like Mia was afraid to say anything. Sam looked from her to me and back. No slipping a train-wreck of an evening past this guy. He straightened his spine, put his shoulders back, as if bracing himself to get sucked into the middle of a squabble. His eyes shifted upward scanning back and forth, that look people get when they're searching for a safe topic.

“How’s the food,” he finally asked.

I lifted one shoulder and dropped it, keeping my mouth too full to talk. I should have known better. Mia is the queen of TMI.

---

Good news!!
The Editors at textnovel.com selected Greyhound Summer as an Editor's Pick. If you're enjoying this story, help me make it into the finals of the competition with your vote. Just click this link and vote me up by clicking both the thumb symbol and cellphone symbol next to my story. I know it's a pain to have to create an account, but it's free and you'll gain access to all the great novels on the site. You could be helping this author toward a publishing contract. TIA

Human Scribbles

Flickr Photo by tim.perdue


I never feel so humble,
or so human,
as when I toss my message-in-a-bottle
into the vast sea of words that is the Internet.

It must be something basic, human,
this need to scribble,
like long ago humans leaving messages on cave walls.

It binds me to past and future,
these thoughts I scribble and add to the volume,
like a voice to a choir,
like a glass of water to the sea,
merging into something bigger than my own small self.

I scribbled on this Sunday but lost my Internet to rain until Monday. You can visit other Sunday Scribblers here.

Poetry Train: The Last Layer

Flickr Photo by TLA8

The last layer frustrates
Him
Me
He wants to tear it away like wrapping from a present
I want to weld it in place like so much armor

The best is saved for last
Translucent silk
Peek-a-boo lace
Ribbons and garters
Do the contents ever live up to the wrapping?

I surf through naked photos of strangers
All the pale flesh, moles, scars, rolls hanging out
I respect the boldness
I don't envy it
I shrink from it

I think of wet cats
All that power and arrogance
Flattened
Shrunken
To gray skin and bone


I want to wrap them back up
In a persona
Give them back their
Hiss and Bristle
Watch that expressive fur
Ripple and fluff with their moods

Do I need to be naked
The last layer stripped away
Like the Lone Ranger's mask
Would I be bland as cardboard
Without the wrapping
Does the last layer stand
Between me
And who I am
Or
Is it me?


Visit other poets riding the Monday Poetry Train.

One Single Impression: The Stranger

This is my first impression for the One Single Impression poetry prompt. This week poets are blogging their impressions of: The Stranger. I've used a narrative poetry form I like to play with. Three parts, 69 words each, not counting the titles.

Flickr Photo Download: Good morning Mr. Toad

The Stranger

1. Wanted: One Toad

I know, right where I lost him,
the exact moment he slipped from my fingers,
landed on his head, and shattered our lives.

He didn’t want the hospital.
I should have listened.
They wheeled him away on a stretcher
and gave a stranger back.

I told the doctor I had someone else's pet.
She pointed at the wristband,
as if that plastic label could make him who he isn’t.

2. Not Wanted: One Puppy

My toad had a whiskey-spiked smile
that always got him his way.

He drove like a demon,
sneaking a hand up under my skirt,
as the cornfields sped by.

The stranger huddles in the passenger seat,
shivering like a puppy from the pound,
his eyes squeezed shut,
hands clasped white-knuckle tight,
while I drive slow.

In case you’re wondering: kissing a puppy won’t turn him back to a toad.

3. Living with a Stranger

He’s house trained, now.
He picks up his underwear,
puts the seat down,
eats with a spoon.

His smile is like a tail wag;
he offers it when he doesn’t know what I want.

I guess he will grow on me.
I will somehow learn to love
this obedient child.

But, what I really want
is my old green toad of a husband back.
This wasn’t a fair trade.

View other poets and their impressions here.

Blue-eyed Devil

picture by Sunfrog1 on Flickr

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“I didn’t know. I didn’t know,” Mia said. She whipped back around, her back to the stage her eyes panicked. “Arie, I swear I didn’t know.”

“You suggested we come here, Mia. Of all the places we could go for dinner, you pick this wobbling shack that looks like it could pitch itself into the river at any moment, and you want me to believe it’s just a coincidence that he is working here tonight?”

A waiter slid a plate of fried catfish and slaw from a tray to the table in front of me.

Mia’s shoulder lifted in a half shrug, blond hair fell forward, a gold path disappearing into the cleavage of her black sundress. I watched the waiter lift Mia’s plate, hand pausing just inches from the rise and fall of Mia’s bosom. His eyes were fastened there.

“Not entirely coincidence,” she said, oblivious. “Sam suggested this place when I said I was taking you out to dinner. He said the food was amazing.” With that, she flashed the waiter a smile and plucked a second golden hushpuppy from the basket in the center of the table. Despite my anger, my mouth watered. Sam knew good food. I think the waiter’s mouth was watering too, and it had nothing to do with food.

“We’re good,” Mia finally told him. He put down the plate and looked at me, his eyes clearly begging me to need something. I shook my head and he went away.

“I thought I made my feelings clear to you and him. I’m not interested. And you, you of all people, should have known this wouldn’t—" I broke off, jabbing a finger toward the stage. Sam ducked his head through a guitar strap, eased it into place as if he was snuggling up to a familiar lover. I didn’t trust myself to finish the sentence.

“I didn’t know he would be here. He said he had to work tonight. I didn’t know this place had live music. And, I promise you, Arie, I didn’t know he was a musician.”

Mia glanced back at the stage just as Sam flashed a smile in our direction. She stabbed her catfish with a fork and muttered, “Save it for a stone wall, buddy; you’d get a warmer reception.”

I snatched my napkin from beside the plate, snapped it, and tried to figure out just how my cousin’s mind worked. “Okay, you give the guy a key to your house, send him to pick me up, and you don’t know anything about him?”

“I don’t know everything about him, but I know he’s a nice guy.”

I snatched a hushpuppy from the basket. The calluses on my fingertips snagged in the golden fried batter. I remembered that nagging warning in the back of my mind, when Sam’s hands were under my shirt, when his fingers stroked my back. I couldn’t suppress a new shiver with the memory. Calluses on his fingertips. I had a matching set on my own. How had I let that get by me?

I tore the bread in half, watching steam rise from the soft center. I blinked, feeling split in two myself. Not only by Mia’s betrayal, but by Sam’s. How could he? How could he be, of all things, a music man?


“Don’t you think what a guy does for a living is an important clue to whether he’s a nice guy?” I popped half the hushpuppy in my mouth before I could say anything we’d both regret later.

I looked up, watching Sam lean in to hear while he and another member of the band tuned their guitars. His hair fell forward over one eye, gleaming in the stage lights. That tight knot was back in my throat. I washed the bread down with cold, sweet tea, but the knot remained.

“Arie, I know how you feel. I even understand why. The guy plays in a band. That doesn’t make him Satan.”

“Yes. It. Does.”

---

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Closing the Door

The Closed Door by kwerfeldein

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"I haven't felt right since you got off that bus," he said. "I don't know if it's heat stroke or that H1N1 flu thing has caught up with me." His finger traced the line of a speghetti strap down my arm and along the scoop-neck, sliding easily on moist skin. It was good he kept talking because my brain couldn't grab hold of a single thing to say.

"I know it started around the time you seared me with a frown while you shook my hand. It got worse when we were walking around holding hands, with you keeping enough space between us to drive a bus through. I get so dizzy when you touch me, I have to lean on something to stay standing. And that one time you smiled, when you asked about the song, I thought I'd pass out. 

Need flashed through me like heat lightening. I curled my hands into fists in my lap. I tipped my head back, just a little, trying to catch more breeze from the fan. It didn't help. His gaze traveled to my neck and lower to where his finger rested in the valley of the shirt's neckline.

"It's the heat," I said.

He cupped his other hand around the back of my head, leaned in, and brushed his lips against mine, "Liar."

Not only was he a truth teller, but a truth detector. That's a really bad combination in a man. Not someone you want to get tied up with. But I was tied up, tied up in the soft sweet kisses he pressed along my neck, in his fingers sliding along the ridge of my spine, tracing down over my shirt, then sneaking back up under it.

"Tell me you don't feel the same way," his lips murmured against mine.

There was something about his fingers running over my skin, something familiar, abrasive. A warning tugged at the back of my mind, but I was tied up in another kiss, and didn't want to leave that sweet drugged feeling to analyze.

Car tires crunched gravel in the drive outside. Boyish shouts and little feet pounding up the porch steps closed the door on the warning and the necking. We sat up and I tugged my shirt down.

Trev and Will burst through the door and into my arms, unaware of the meaning behind mussed hair and clothes askew. Mia, on the other hand, was not so innocent or unobservant.

Sam didn't look at them. His gaze was locked in on mine.

"Tell me."

I looked straight back at him, over the blond heads of three-year-old twins. They squirmed like puppies in my arms. I hugged them tight like a shield.

"I feel fine," I said.

I lied.

---

Good news!!
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Crossing the Line

Don't cross the line by russelljsmith

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You have to understand, having Sam off limits was my safety net. I didn't have to freak out about the fact that he could make me feel connected to him on a level I'd never shared with anyone. I didn't have to freak out about having to cut that connection on Monday morning. Sam belonged to Mia and I knew I'd never cross that line.

So when Sam said, "You've been hanging back from me all afternoon because you think I'm Mia's?" And he said it in the same tone he might use to say, "You thought I was a tree frog?" When he said that,
it was like he pushed me off a cliff.

When he threw down his shirt, stepped over the coffee table, dropped to his knees beside me, and grabbed me by the shoulders, it felt like one of those dreams you have where the demon that's been chasing you, finally catches up. Your legs turn to goo that won't take you anywhere, and when you open your mouth to cry for help nothing comes out.

Only in dreams, you would wake up at that point. But let's just say for a minute that you didn't wake up. Let's say the demon lowered his lips to yours. Imagine that instead of the cold scaly sensation you expected, you got firm warmth gliding over your own lips, his tongue inviting yours to dance.

Maybe if that happened you'd set aside the idea of running for a moment.You might savor the sensation of his hot hands sliding down your back and the way his thumbs hooked under the straps of your top to scrape a sizzling trail up and down your shoulder blades. His teeth might nip your lip in a way that made you shiver and kiss him back, kiss him like he was that cold drink of water you've been needing all afternoon. You might be willing to overlook the fact that he was nothing but trouble for a minute or two.

When Sam pulled away from the kiss, we were both panting. My hands were planted against that slick, bare chest.I could feel his voice vibrate when he spoke, the way Matilda vibrated under my hands when I plucked a song from her. The notes resonated, carrying the tone through my skin and into the bones.

"Anymore questions?" He said it in a deep lazy voice, looking from under eyelids lowered to half-mast.

"Why me?"

It was a silly question. A man picks you up and flirts with you, kisses you senseless a few hours later, he's hoping for sex. It's just that if he wanted a romp and no clinging, Mia would have been interested. It was just the kind of relationship she preferred: light, sweet, nothing too deep. I couldn't comprehend that he'd lived a few doors down from the beautiful and willing Mia, was friendly enough with her to have her key, and nothing had happened with them.

He settled on the couch beside me, put his arm around my shoulder and rested his cheek against the top of my head.

Here's the thing about Sam. He's honest. It would have been just fine if he'd lied, changed the subject, or gone back to seducing. But no, he had to tell me the truth.

---

Good news!!
The Editors at textnovel.com selected Greyhound Summer as an Editor's Pick. If you're enjoying this story, help me make it into the finals of the competition with your vote. Just click this link and vote me up by clicking both the thumb symbol and cellphone symbol next to my story. I know it's a pain to have to create an account, but it's free and you'll gain access to all the great novels on the site. You could be helping this author toward a publishing contract. TIA

Four Miles to Enlightenment

It wasn't something I planned out, or had even mentally committed myself to. I had clipped a notice from the paper about a women's running program that promised to teach non-athletes to run four miles -- and love it -- by the end of the summer.

Now I was never the athletic type. When we ran laps in gym class, I wasn't just at the back of the group, they could lap me once or twice. I never found a sport I was good at.

So, I didn't launch into running with the idea that I would win races. Quite the opposite, I started running as an anti-perfectionism project. Becoming a perfect runner was not an option, so this was one project that couldn't go from being about journey to being about product. I would reach that four-mile goal, one step at a time, one week at a time. All that mattered was that I finish what I started.

I did finish, but I was wrong about one thing; product did wind up mattering. In learning to run 4, then 6, then 10, then 13, then 26 miles, I discovered a product that wasn't about medals or trophies. I was the product, and the new me that came out of all those miles was an improved version.

This summer as I celebrate ten years of running, I've started a new anti-perfectionism project. It's not something I planned out, not something I was entirely committed to at first.  I launched a summer-long, interactive story on my blog. I have to update almost daily, so I can't spend a week obsessing about getting a scene just right. I'll log the miles of this cross-country journey one word at a time and the goal is to get to the destination by Labor Day.

Some days the writing comes as easily as two-mile run on a spring morning. Other days, I feel like I'm trying to run naked and barefoot through the Death Valley Trail Marathon. I know it's those hard mornings that will shape the writer who emerges on the other side of this summer.

On my office wall I have two bulletin boards displaying the record of every major event in my running. I look at them now and see evidence of a journey that has had monumental impact on my life and I wonder if the accumulation of words in this fiction blogging journey will change my life as much. Will I look back in ten years through the eyes of a new and improved me, and will the scrapbook of the writing journey record as many milestones?