A Thought

My head holds stories that I think I ought to be told, but my hand is sluggish to let the narrative unfold.
Why is that, do you think?
Do you know, dear reader,
how lucky you are that these words were released from their prison through my pen?
I'll venture a guess that it has something to do with success.
Michal taunts from above each time I'm stirred by a Dove.
Well, watch my pen dance!
I may be self-conscious, but I have another Conscience too, and between Him and you I'm better off snubbing you.
Don't quiet me down; listen up instead:
I'm not a poet, but I'm a stone and a vessel; a priest and a branch. So watch me grow, nourished right from the vine.
I rant and I rave and with each line I grow brave. So come out, little stories, don't let criticism hold you back. Take it in and grow strong. I won't be far away to mend what I  can and send you back out for more. Promise me this: don't lose sight of what we're fighting for.

Tick Tock

Tick... Tock...

Gertrude shuffled out of her bedroom and into the empty hallway where only a large wooden grandfather clock watched over the windowless tunnel.

Tick... Tock...

She shuffled into the kitchen and prepared her morning coffee. What would she do with her day today? She looked at the large wall clock. It read 8:45am.

Tick... Tock...

Gertrude glanced over at her floral wall calendar hanging above her puppy page a day calendar. October 17. Four days from now would be her ninety-second birthday.

Tick... Tock...

Ninety-two years, and what did she have to show? Not much, really.

Tick... Tock...

She couldn't remember everything, of course, but she wanted to think of some great accomplishment of her own over the last several decades. Nothing came to mind.

Tick... Tock...

Tick...

Tock...

Glory

"Jerry, open your eyes. What do you see?"
I opened my eyes and looked at the world around me. It was sunset. It was a crisp, clear autumn day, and a large tree stood between me and the sun. The tree looked like it was on fire. It blazed and burned with a fierce passion in that light. The trunk and the branches were black; molten red and smoldering orange pierced between the web of twigs to meet my eyes.
"I see glory."
Jack harumphed in response. "Don't get all poetic on me, Jerry. I'm talking about that road sign right there. We finally got the advertisement for the country club on the sign. Now instead of Water World as the primary attraction on this exit it says "J. Ainsley's Country Club." Jack gestured somewhere ahead of us to the left. I could see his hand out of the corner of my eye, but I couldn't see the sign. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't avert my eyes. As I stared longer I began to see the glory pulsating behind the tree. Its passion wasn't dwindling, but the smoldering moved down the tree. Jack continued speaking, but I have no idea what he said.
"Jack, don't you see the glory?"
"Sure, it'll be glorious to get visitors from off the highway. We'll have to think about extending our gift shop hours."
Jack and i were in different worlds as the glory continued to blaze. I soaked it in; it didn't dip under the horizon. I was filled with the glory as we turned around, drove away, and returned to a darkened suburb.

Three Days

Three days. Seventy-two hours - or less. 


Where did you go for that time?
Did you know I was alone?


Or did you know that I left you first.
You knew I would leave you; you told me yourself.


I thought I was stronger. I thought too much of myself.


But you still showed me grace.

*     *     *

Charlie opened his eyes and saw the bland white ceiling lit by the early morning sunshine. Tears filled his eyes; another day here on earth. He had already put in 87 years, 4 months, and 17 days. When could he go home? This decrepit body was a prison cell for his soul that had served an interminable sentence on this planet. A soft knock on the door triggered a soft sob from Charlie's chest. He didn't have the energy for this any more. His family came to see him every weekend now; they all knew he didn't have much time left.

"Grandpa?" A gentle voice followed the sound of his door opening. Why did the retirement home staff allow grandkids to have keys? "Grandpa, are you awake yet?" His granddaughter tiptoed into the room. "Did I wake you up?" She asked when she saw he was still in bed.

"No," he whispered through the tears, "I just haven't got up yet."

"Don't worry; take your time." She backed out the door, "I'll wait downstairs with Mom and Dad. I just wanted to see if you were awake." The young girl paused. "I love you, Grandpa," she said quietly before closing the door. 

Charlie sighed when she left. He couldn't remember her name. He loved her, but he couldn't remember her name. He couldn't remember her mom's name either. Her dad was his son, his son Peter. Charlie could remember that. He could remember the day Peter was born. It was a sunny day in April and the hospital wouldn't admit Elaine until they had a name picked out. Apparently too many babies had been leaving the hospital without names on their birth certificates. Charlie and Elaine had talked about a couple of names, but they hadn't decided for sure on one yet. 

"His name is Peter." Elaine said confidently between deep breaths. 

Charlie had been too stunned to respond; three days before Elaine found out he was having an affair. She should have called him Judas, but she shouted that his denial of her was like Peter. 

Sixteen hours later Charlie was holding Peter in his arms.

"Charlie, do you love me?" Elaine asked softly.

"Yes, E, I do."

"Then help me raise my son."

Five minutes went by before she asked the question again; an hour later she repeated the words.

"Yes, sweetheart, I swear I do." Charlie began to cry when she questioned him the third time.

"Charlie, learn from Peter."

Why Shoes?

Alice opened the box with building delight as she dug through the packing paper to discover her treasure. She gingerly held up the red sparkly heels to the light. Each red sequin playfully tossed a ruby sliver across the room. These shoes could take Alice where to other pair could.


She slipped off the brown Mary Jane's which were slightly stained from her last adventure through snowy forests. Alice wiggled her toes in anticipation as she then slipped on the kitten heels she had just received. A new adventure began when the slippers were secured on her feet. Alice hopped up from her chair and skipped to the bookcase to find Frank Baum's world where these shoes would take her. She pulled the weathered yellow volume off the shelf and clicked her heels together. Only Frank Baum's book could take her to Oz, but only these shoes could take her on this journey to Oz. 


Now that she had the right shoes for her journey she danced across her study to flop comfortably into her large arm chair. Alice lived in a noisy apartment building in Los Angeles, but when she opened the book the shoes and the pages took her where, "Dorothy lived in the midst of the great Kansas prairies..."

Faithful Words

Emily watched the words come out of her mouth in slow motion. For a brief moment she thought they might freeze in the cold February air, drop to the ground, and shatter into a thousand little pieces. Those words weren't faithful; those words weren't right. They were deadly weapons launched to attack Madeline. 
Instead of freezing they continued steadily on their dreadful course. Emily tried to reach out and grab them, but her arms were like lead, and her fists stayed motionless at her side. Her eyes widened in horror as the moment of impact approached. The first word sliced Madeline's cheek and dissolved behind her. The next two hit in rapid succession, actually drawing blood. Madeline reeled back as she was bombarded by the series of words. By the end of the sentence several thin lines of blood criss-crossed across her face. She squared her shoulders after the attack was over.
"Okay, Emily, that's good to know."
There was only one thing Emily needed to do to undo the wound she had carelessly inflicted. Two words would remove the bloody lines. Three syllables would create a balm for Madeline's stinging face. Emily was stupefied, and stammered a response.
"I-- I'm--"
It was difficult to get the appropriate phrase to come out after the self-gratification her first sentence brought. She was gagging on the remedy. 
"I'm sorry," She finally gagged out.
The two words took incredible energy, but Emily watched in satisfaction as they rushed to Madeline's face to soothe the pain inflicted by her thoughtless words a moment before. 

Falling Up

Melanie stared out the classroom window and watched snowflakes tumble down and fall back up into the sky. Gravity had no effect on the frozen flecks; sometimes she felt like gravity had no effect on her. Junior high was impossibly difficult. Everyone around her seemed to have developed an identity over the summer and hardened into a clique by the winter. Melanie felt like she had missed out on this miraculous transformation, and rather than being a social butterfly who could navigate through the school, she felt like a snowflake pushed aside by the force of some proud butterfly's confident wings.

When the bell rang to end class she stepped through the doorway among the throng of thirteen and fourteen year olds rushing to enjoy the flaky precipitation. The other students were screaming and shouting in delight. A snowball fight broke out within seconds, but Melanie was on the outskirts of the battle. Even now as her peers rushed through the door to ravish the snow covered playground they pushed past her, tossing her to the sidelines of society. The snow still flurried from the sky and Melanie watched the kids influence the path of the snowflakes by simply running past.

She didn't like that other kids could influence the path of her own life simply by running past, but she had no idea how to change that unfortunate insecurity. How could she discover her identity?