Death and Politics at the end of the world

(This is the next section of my WIP 'Death and Politics at the End of the World'. The first chapter can now be found at the top of the page under it's own page it you want to catch up. It might be helpful to know that you are entering an otherworldly realm as you journey with my character. In my last post, I was asked what genre I was writing in. My response wound up being "Genre... think magical realism meets surrealism meets Quantum Physics meets my imagination and the authors who have influenced me (including Jeanette Winterson!" things happen that are out of the extraordinary at times as a sort if so be prepared!! If you need to catch up, the first part is in the tabs at the top!)

Relative State

            If life were fair, the missing person would not be the genteel, affable woman who nourished the population of Key West. The MIA would be the detective in charge of the investigation. Alas…

His bearing is an uncomfortable parfait of govinator and Looney Toon stutterer as he ambles up to the veranda where we foxhole against the sun’s intense onslaught, the jaunty entrance invading our grief, faux royalty denying bona fide poverty. Hand outstretches, I reach out only to have his cool, dry foreignness enfold mine, a too-familiar caress pumps gently up and down, all the while eyes train on Dave, as the two exchange perfunctory greetings and my uncle asks for an update for my benefit as he slips to unawareness, clearly word weary.

“It does seem strange…” Nothing but the facts ma’am nothing but the facts … words hum, a noxious plethora of nothingness. “…but it appears she jumped over the bridge around twelve-thirteen Sunday night.” He completes the briefing, an anthropomorphic auto-attendant.

            “Did you fi--- where was she?”

            “The body?” He glances at the air over my head, then back at my uncle.

            “Body? My aunt.” I bite off the words, chafed at the reduction.

            “We haven’t found the body… yet,” His voice begins again, regurgitating evidence, snatches getting past the inner protests raging in my ear. “witnesses…”

            You don’t know crap! Idiot!

            “Left a note…”

A God-damned catechism

 “searched the perimeter…”

            We believe in

            “no trace”

            God the Father

            “no reason not to believe”

            The son and the…

            “it was suicide”

            “Holy shit!” A detonation of silence stiffens the room, then yields a mushroom cloud of resentment. “You cannot possibly believe that my aunt- Louisa Jean Cook- could possibly… She’s got a great life, a husband who adores…”

            “Your uncle tells me you’re a scientist?” Infuriating speciousness.

            “What has that got to do-”

            “Then you understand the difference between inference and actual data …” Condescending, patronizing presumptive pedagogue. “blah, blah-seem one thing-blah, blah-never know blah, blah get all the testimony-blah, blah- dope points to, blah.”

His Reaganesque “facts” were irrelevant. I am not one of those shell-shocked women who scream and cry out, refusing to correlate gun with hand, only later recognizing dark moods, caliginous silences, emotional meltdowns: Precursors of destiny. My eyelids lower, slowly shuttering out the incongruent, incompatible scene.

“blah- so very sorr-blah, blah …” There might have been a condolence amidst the disembodied syllables but it was lost in his candy-coated southern drawl.  “Best be going.”

Moving toward the door, the bereaved husband’s arm valanced the lawman’s shoulder as though he were the one in need of comfort, his low voice reassuring, even apologetic as he thanked him for his visit. The two men clasp each other gingerly, then turn to face their lives, one man’s stride cocky and insolent, the other ponderous and dilatory.

Words float back as he reaches his patrol car. “I’ll put ya’ll on the prayer chain. God doesn’t give us more than we can bear, but this is difficult, I know.”

I long to race into the yard to give an impromptu seminar for the protist on protocol, human relations and… “religious sensitivity!”

“He’s only trying to be helpful, Alex.” My uncle’s eyes hold a gentle reproach, then settle back to enveloping sorrow.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t really mean to… I wasn’t… He shouldn’t say that shi... To assume… helpful?! … What an ass… unprofessional. It’s wrong!”  Vocal chords compress producing a raucous graunch. “If there was a god…”

A death mask faces me and my soaring passion hits the ground, wings abruptly clipped. “People do the best they can,” He recedes into unoccupied space. “Doing the best I… we can…” He wanted consolation, consideration, rather than the breaking storm of skepticism. The endeavor of inhaling, exhaling, heart pumping, limbs moving are all he can sustain, the added weight of my turmoil too much.

“You don’t really think… it’s impossible, not her at all. You don’t believe it?”

“Yes, What choice? I don’t know. No. I never would have thought, it’s not something she’d do, never in a thousand years… But it’s there, her last words. She loves,” He disappears into the framework of their memories. “loved. She loved me…” The final words float back, nearly absorbed in the gulf’s tender breath, as he lumbers up the front steps of the small conch home the pair shared for over half their lives.

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Don't forget to check out Meanderings of a Wandering Mind! I've written a blog featuring our favorite (but missing) MSNBC political commentator, Keith Olbermann! "He's Back!"

The lie I told...

SPOILER ALERT: If you are here to read the challenge, I mistakenly linked to my blog in my haste to figure out what I was going to write and missed Rachael's directions to link the post so click here  to get to CHALLENGE #1!.

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OUT MY WINDOW

A flutter of paper-white wafer
quietly filtering onto the ground
the single flake quietly
evanescing into earth 
to be quickly followed
by another and another
until the air is aswarm with alabaster crystals
Quietly they find their way 
down 
to where the earth cradles the white flakes 
producing a dappled landscape 
until the browns of winter are asphyxiated, 

leaving behind a stifling blanket of white. 

The hold of darkness is released and the earth glows, 

producing an ethereal beauty that can be felt 

in the silence of the soul. 

Artists and poets attempt to capture the somber beauty 

but their efforts fall short 

resulting in a copy of very poor relief.

With the ascending sun 

the broadcast of school closings! 

the Silence is broken. 

A collective shout for joy is heard 

among the children of the community 

as they anticipate a day full of adventure... 


But to my older, weatherworn frame
with the snow 

comes temperatures that benumb the bones

and freeze the toes

days are short 

and the SAD days of the past are fought off with an effort

The roads are afright 

and the traffic's a terrible plight
in spite of the beauty  

or the poetic nature of the fluffy whiteness that bedecks the

trees outside my window 
I will tell you

I HATE SNOW! 

Lisa Potts did indeed get it correct! As did Anonymous who shall remain anonymous... 


P.S. to all those who guessed Einstein... Einstein's name was used for creative license only so you weren't wrong obviously I could not literally argue with Einstein as he is a dead man unless I am a medium and channel him (which I am not and do not!). But I do have an annoying habit that if I feel that I am right about something, I will not let it go, I will argue about it (and I will research it to find out if I am right to make sure- if I am wrong, however, I generally admit to my incorrectitude).

P.S.S. to any who guessed stage fright-- you are right, I do not. I was not describing stage fright but rather a quirk that I have- I am a singer and I visualize the sheet music in my head as I sing. However if I lose my place while I am singing I am doomed! I have to start over or stand there completely speechless-- which has happened a few times to my embarrassment!!!

P.S.S.Yes, I do go a little blotto over an unfinished puzzle. I enjoy doing them so much that we have to make rules in the house to leave it alone or I'd sit and finish a puzzle in no time. I guess that's a sort of secret. I haven't ever told anyone that before although it's known in our household. My darling Mo makes me promise not to finish the puzzles while he's out if I'm home alone.   

Death and Politics at the end of the world

(This is the next section of my WIP 'Death and Politics at the End of the World'. The first chapter can now be found at the top of the page under it's own page it you want to catch up. It might be helpful to know that you are entering an otherworldly realm as you journey with my character. It is not fantasy nor is it magical realism although perhaps that might be a helpful touchstone... things happen that are out of the extraordinary so be prepared)

Relative State

The house gapes at me in surprise as though a stranger were climbing out of the rental and starting up the walk rather than the woman from child who once magic carpet rode down the stairs and swung on grinning screen doors. I launch myself up the wooden stairs and through the front door, silence wrapping around me in smothering folds. The contentment and tranquility of homecoming that bolstered me as I drove onto the island has been achingly stripped away and I stand alone in a sarcophagus of destitution.

            I pause, straining for the creak of a floorboard or water meandering through pipes. “Hel--lo?” The vowels rice crispy crackle in my throat. A rushing stillness swarms into the room in reply and I glance around, claustrophobic. I back toward the door anxious to escape suffocation, frightened of the flesh-eating feeling that runs up and down my arms.

            Interminable seconds later, a mattress spring groans reply and a rhythmic thump marks time as someone makes their way toward the stairs. The familiar scuffle of tattered Cookie Monster slippers make their way to the the landing until they slip finally into view; a long, audible breath escapes the confines of my lungs. The quantum dose of relief that has begun to trickle down my spine quickly evaporates as our eyes lock on the reality of sorrow between us and a tidal wave of emotion floods the room. His lips contort into familiar patterns but the customary syllables echo and bounce around the room as he stumbles forward and collapses onto my shoulder. He slides into a mournful skiffle that caroms with unintelligible lyrics. The scattered words I comprehend are lost in an echo chamber of confusion. The room swirls into turmoil, walls sway, floors arc, chairs waltz in a dizzying maelstrom of mayhem. A trio steps out from amidst the undulating drywall to accompany the lament, repeating the descant “she’s gone” in a low, solemn murmur.

            “There must be a mistake,” refusing the rain of anguish, I interject evasion. “I just talked-- she was on the phone, I told her I was coming. Everything seem- was fine. Don’t you think-”

            “NO!”  His response coagulates into intelligible words but snatch at me with disconnected tendrils “missing…days…  jumped… no body.”

            “No mistake! She’s go-o-o-ne, oh why? She’s gone” the chorus repeats contrapuntally as their arms extend in Temptationesque choreography. My gaze narrows on the ethereal centerfold and she backs off timorously, gripping her fellow crooner’s arms, quietly receding back and out of focus. The bizarre aria fades and the singers dissolve into the floorboards. The walls slink toward me, leaning silently inward anticipating my collapse. 

Pieces of a Man

It's s a sublime moment of irony, that moment when we stand by helping someone who is incapable of doing the task at hand (or seemingly anyway), yet insists they are going to try anyway. It might be our child, just learning to ride a bike, "let go, Mom, let go!" and we reluctantly let go and watch as the bike tilts and wobbles, rolls a few yards then falls to the ground, the child's knee scraped and bruised. An angry tear or two is wiped away but the child climbs back up onto the bike and heads off again, shaking off the aching knee and advice with a shrug of the shoulder. In a child's case, riding a bike is a rite of passage and while painful to watch, it is part of the parent's responsibilities to let the child go off on their own, learning to ride the bike, however painful it might be to watch the lesson of learning unfold.

But when you are showing a deaf person the way to the books on CD or a blind person how to use the computer, the line becomes a trifle blurred which is the spot Seamus* is in when he is loading the clay bird for his blind boss, King Cole**, as he sits on the beach shooting at his target. As he aims wildly into the air, missing at each launch, he explains to his young protege that he was given the gun because he had spent his youth with the now deceased Bertram Stoddard on this very beach, loading the trap, making .10 for an hour's worth of launching but given a "lifetime between the powder." And when his eyes were going, Bertram had asked the doctors to save them, so that the boy could grow up to be a newspaperman.

Seamus nods. Whatever. It still seems ridiculous to him to be shooting clay birds out into the sky so that a blind man can shoot at them, missing them over and over again.
But the command comes again. "Fire" Seamus slingshots the disks into the cerulean blue skies over Key West. The bullet finds it's mark and Cole launches himself out of his chair with his indigenous laughter, waves his arms and firearm at the heaven in celebration,


"Did you see that Bertram? They mighta kept the eyes but we got that clay bird! Oh Bertram, we did it!"  

There is a beauty in this moment that causes a tear to well each time as I watch Pieces of a Man (episode 5 of 'Key West'.) He has overcome adversity to become the person he was meant to be. He did not need to shoot the clay bird to overcome his blindness. He already was a newspaperman! But the last symbol of his being all that he wanted to be and that Bertram Stoddard had wanted for him was symbolized by the gun and shooting the clay bird- he could see everything he needed to see without his eyes.

*Fisher Stevens
**Ivory Ocean

The Challenge & reaching 100 followers!

Today while I was busy writing my challenge I reached the big  
ONE HUNDRED FOLLOWERS 

(WOOHOO!!! THANK YOU!!! THANK YOU!!!) If I had crept up to it more slowly, I'd have been prepared! There would be prizes and... champagne!!! But having so many terrific new followers from the Crusades has meant things have been going very quickly recently so I just really have time to say thank you to all of you and this looks to be a fun challenge!!!!

Soooo... 


Reading today’s challenge
I was beset with a sudden urge to regurgitate
I’m supposed to tell
the dark meanderings of my soul
with nary a blade to defend myself?
And why, I pondered, would the tiniest rabbit,
care to know 
whether I obsess over puzzles
as they’re lying out on the table in their incompleteness
that I swoon over sunshine
as it gleams through my bedroom window
and delight in the fluttering descent
of snowflakes on the windowsill?
Who would believe
in the darkest recesses of their mind
that I might spar with Einstein
just to assure myself of my own mental acuity
all the while knowing
if I were to stand up on stage
I could be bereft of words,
a fuliguline sea duck looking more intelligent than I
as I stare helplessly 
into the SPOTLIGHT
But the years have not left me
completely wanting of words of wisdom
I am capable of offering 
an understanding or two 
for a friend caught
in frustration
But I shall bloviate no more
pontificate no longer,
especially as one of the things
which I have shared with you
isn’t strictly
true,
can you guess which one?    

Inspiration

February is a difficult month for me. There is a whisper of spring in the air on a certain days (which certainly keeps me going!) but we are not yet out of the woods for snow and cold. Some of our worst blizzards come in March and I weary of winter pretty quickly (let's be honest... I weary of winter as soon as it gets here). So on these days, the writing of adventure and faraway places are what keeps me going and this is a poem that Maurice shared with me a few years ago. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do and to further your enjoyment, you can have Sean Connery read it aloud to you with some lovely background music.(located at the bottom.) 

As you set out for Ithaka

hope the voyage is a long one,

full of adventure, full of discovery.

Laistrygonians and Cyclops,

angry Poseidon—don’t be afraid of them:

you’ll never find things like that on your way

as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,

as long as a rare excitement

stirs your spirit and your body.

Laistrygonians and Cyclops,

wild Poseidon—you won’t encounter them

unless you bring them along inside your soul,

unless your soul sets them up in front of you.

Hope the voyage is a long one.

May there be many a summer morning when,

with what pleasure, what joy,

you come into harbors seen for the first time;

may you stop at Phoenician trading stations

to buy fine things,

mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,

sensual perfume of every kind—

as many sensual perfumes as you can;

and may you visit many Egyptian cities

to gather stores of knowledge from their scholars.

Keep Ithaka always in your mind.

Arriving there is what you are destined for.

But do not hurry the journey at all.

Better if it lasts for years,

so you are old by the time you reach the island,

wealthy with all you have gained on the way,

not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.

Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.

Without her you would not have set out.

She has nothing left to give you now.

And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you.

Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,

you will have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.

~~C.P. Cavafy

Death and Politics at the end of the World

(Having made her way down through the Keys, my main character is finally arriving onto the island. If you want to review you can find the first part of her drive here and the next part here. Perhaps it might be helpful to know that you are entering an otherworldly realm as you journey with my character. It is not fantasy nor is it magical realism although perhaps that might be a helpful touchstone... things happen that are out of the extraordinary so be prepared!... a reminder that my formatting is different in Word. I have far more freedom than I do in Blogger and formatting is part of the text. I use formatting and fonts to promote a mood or to have the words show more than might be shown in simple text formatting. )
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Bells over my right shoulder, I glance over, startled to spy a stout, charcoal-skinned grandma in full gypsy garb, hobbling off the curb just as the Conch Tour Train rattles up to the light. She leaps nimbly backwards, the fluid motion in sudden and surprising contrast. She lifts her fist and shouts, face contorting as though uttering a curse as the train rambles obliviously on around the corner. A tall broad-shouldered… woman? adorned in a floral, foo-foo tutu and flowing hot pink boa hangs out the door of the train, shouts back to a thick-chested man leaning against the back window sporting a leather bustier, one thigh-high booted leg draped casually down the side of the car. The passenger-laden train is blossoming with men outfitted in a bouquet of taffeta and silk. A rowdy rooster struts down the sidewalk, confident in his own colorful array, raucously punctuating the human cacophony. He flutters onto the sidewalk, inches from the tire tracks of a swimsuit clad couple, sporting matching full-body tattoos, brattling by on scooters, weaving in and out of idling traffic.

            “… more like a carnival.” I ease my vice grip on the wheel, clicking the red ruby slippers of memory. “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.”

             Involuntarily, yet necessarily

drawn to the water,

I drive.

            Past the turn in to an abandoned bar;

                                                past palm and pond;

            past bougainvillea and banyan;

and finally,

 past the fort . . .

past the past.

Bread crust colored shoreline nearly deserted.

The gulf breeze tousles my hair

I come to myself, agape… 

Here are your waters and your watering place…

deep calls to deep …

A woman and child face each other in the water, modest swimsuits quaintly reminiscent of an innocence long forgotten, capturing my attention. “Allie, put your face under the water! It won’t hurt you. Now blow bubbles…” The girl's shoestring arms cling then flail. Her moon-shaped face dips, arcs, mouth gapes in a desperate gasp, then sputters and coughs.

 frightening depths…

thought I would die…

terrifying baptism…

“It’s all right… won’t hurt you. Just a little water! Here.” Clutching, they buoy in the waves until the child’s laughter peels over the sonance of wave, wind and wings.

 Water…

generated soul…

drink and be whole again… 

“So you come to the end of the world, Child,” a lyrical voice breaks my reverie. “What you think you’re going to find here?”

  The question hovers, a sparrow caught in a headwind. My gaze flitters back to the pair still bobbing in the waves. I know them… how?

  “Trying to find yourself?” Her voice holds tangy lilt that exposes the question’s banality.

  I squint, amused that she is so dispositioned to entice consumers, approaching them regardless of their susceptibility. “What are you selling, Grandma?”

   Her fake grin dissolves. Thick webs of tangled braids oscillate around her counterfeit affability. She smiles wryly. “Lookin’ to tell Martha Money how she will meet the love of her life.”

   “I’m not interested in having my fortune told. Save it for Martha and the rest of the rubes.” Where did they go? They had been by the rocky outlay. On the beach? A lobster-colored young couple lies motionless side by side. An elderly woman creeps to the concession stand. Underwater? Gentle waves lap onto the beach undisrupted by thrashing limbs.  

            “You’ll find many things- here - at the end of the world, child…” Her voice blends into the music of the beach.

            I turn back to the parking lot and search for the duo on the road:      

exiting the park???         …              

gathering bicycles???              

I cross the blistering tar preoccupied with my hunt. My senses are awakened by the metallic melody of bicycle bells, the roll of engines, searing sidewalks, and piquant seafood. No hint of the familiar strangers. Dead ended, my curiosity dribbles off and the urgency that brought me across the country tugs at my sleeve again. I turn toward the parked car to finish my journey.   The tumult of a couple in the throes of modern love impedes my departure, the loci of the contention blocking the rental. Leaning against the car door, quietly hoping Heathcliff and Cathy note my presence and scram, I resume my recollection, ingesting the ambience of the beloved burg I experienced when visiting my aunt as a child.

Cathy’s voice rises over the sounds of the street, the words shrill, taut, faltering as a sob breaks through. Heathcliff steps forward, the timber of his voice low, controlled. Her sharp protests interrupt his words, their voices trip and collide.  “You said”“we were supposed””you are such”“to go after the show”“a liar”“I told you”“I hate you”“I was going to”“you told me”“you are such”“you loved me”“a bitch” ^{watch out} “Would you shut up and listen”^{what is not known} “You can’t”^{could kill you}...

            I turn, seeking the source of the third voice. Perhaps the Rastafarian fortune teller followed me…  then spot the old lady lingering in her booth, a black hole in the murky shadows. It echoed her voice, her accent, but distinctions coiled around the couple’s blistering words making it impossible to extract origins. The low bassy boom of a passing car… a radio?

            “Don’t expect me”“leave me”“take you home”“Bobby you said”“find your own way”“you loved me!” Her final words ring out as he strides past, brushing away grasping hands. She collapses onto the car, her back bowed, head buried. 

            I glance at drifting stratus and exhale, relieved there’d been no need to ask anyone the number for nine-one-one. The air backlogs, my cheeks balloon. A slight whistle escapes between pursed lips. Hesitant to break into her solitude, I nonetheless burgle.  “Umm, hey, I’m sorry. That, that was… uh, You okay? I, well, I was wondering… I just need to ask… did he tell you to watch out? Or that something could, um,  kill you?”

            She lifted her blotchy eyes to mine. A puzzled expression said more than the mumbled “What?”

            “Well, did you? I mean you didn’t say you’d… umm, kill him?”

            The cash register of her mind completes the transaction. “What the fu--”

            “Yeah, no… I didn’t think so. It’s just that I, err…Never mind…” I flee. Pulling out into the steady stream of traffic, I am only half aware of changing lights and turning cars as I measure my own lucidity.

Too much Moonlight?

Life is best lived when we have passion for what we do and when there is passion in the relationships that we have. When our passions do not divide us, then we carry on mostly serene in the life that lies ahead. But for others, like Seamus, life has not dealt quite so clean a hand. Passions divide and severe them into fragmented beings. Finally a choice has to be made- and when the passion for one thing is so overwhelming that it distracts from all else then heartbreak will ensue.

When Laurel comes to Key West to "light back up the fires" of her relationship with her former lover, Seamus#, passion is aflame all over the island. For his part, Seamus is glad she's there but worries that he is unable to focus on his writing and is hesitant to drown himself in reunion. When finally Laurel proposes hearth and home with Seamus, he finds himself getting advice from Key West's high priced hooker, Savannah*, (who is really the Moon Goddess personified) under the tropical moonlight, who makes clear the problem,

"Passion has a price but it can't be bought. Passion is a stern master. If you live in it's house, you will be it's slave." ~Savannah  in 'Less Moonlight' episode 4 of 'Key West'

*Savannah played by Jennifer Tilly
#Seamus played by Fisher Stevens


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Don't forget to give Meanderings of a Wandering Mind a peek! Today's featured article is by Bernie Sanders, the Progressive hero of Vermont! 

Strong enough?

Small town girl in the big city, fifteen and all alone. New girl... again

Walking home after school, a busy-ish street. 

Safe enough

A car heading to the curb, strange voice calling out 

words are garbled, is he lost?

She moves closer, realizes he is communicating in a foreign language

but his exposure needs no translation

she stumbles back in horror and shame

runs home, hating the city,
hating her life...

Big City girl in the big city, twenty or twenty-one and alone. Choosing solitude

Familiar corner, familiar neighborhood

Her town

She parks, gets a magazine and plots her course. 

She'll drive the twisting roads of... 285?

She opens the car door, jumps in, and starts the engine
nothing but blue sky and a beautiful day in front of her
She turns on the music
pulls the pins out of her hair
shaking the last of a long night's work
out of her curls

Pulling out onto the street

A hand comes up from behind, "pull over"

obedient, but defiant,
she stops

he fumbles with the seat latch
crawls out of the back

not waiting to see if he has a knife, 

not wanting to know if he will come at her with a gun

thunk, thud, fighting for her life 

she fights

then turns just in time 

a car pulling out from a nearby drive

District 4 police station a block away,
car heading out on duty

sees her waving, pulls up in time to ask

"what's going on here?"

(is that what he said? 

She only remembers pouring out that the man 

had been in the back of her car, hand came up 

told her to pull over...)  

"She attacked me. She hit me in the back of the head! You saw that!"
Poor sad sack intruder

as he's led away in cuffs

Not the way she would choose

to grow up 

to learn 

to fight for herself

but nevertheless

she will learn she is 

Strong Enough

(this is a true story-- I referenced the attempted carjacking some time back and had said I might blog on it but didn't want to just write the story... this is a better way to frame it because THIS is truer)

What is a Crusader?

I'm still kind of figuring the whole thing out but I read about Rachel's Writer Platform Building Crusade on Michael's post at In Time a week or so ago and hopped over to see what it was all about. It sounded like fun and a great way to make connections with fellow bloggers-- a writing community online, if you will. And looking over the list it was good to see some of the people I already follow and who follow me on the list so it sounded like a good fit! Of course life has a way of throwing all kinds of curves at us at once and just after I signed up, I was hit with a bunch of things at work so I am hoping that I can keep up!!! The first challenge is to meet 200+ or fellow Crusaders! Wow! (Although I have already begun and I've had the pleasure of a few dropping by here first! )

Drabble Dare hosted by The Burrow

In January, The Burrow posted a Drabble* Dare contest which I entered and then promptly forgot about *smiles* Fortunately, they didn't forget about me and some weeks later, I received an email from Rayna at Coffee Rings Everywhere saying I should check out their site on the 2nd of February! When I did so I found that, to my surprise, they had posted my drabble! It was too late to post mine to that it coincided with their post so I decided to wait a bit. So without futher ado and in the spirit of the upcoming most romantic of amour filled holidays...

Who gave you your first kiss?” backstage banter has gotten personal. 

“Ummm... I haven’t.” 

“Never?” Eyes wide in disbelief, he gapes at her for a long moment. 

She shakes her head, regretting honesty. 

“Never been kissed, hmm?” His tone changes to that of a hungry tiger. “And we’ve been doing a stage kiss....Tonight, the real thing. Just wait.” 

“Ummm...” 

“So you Maid Marian. Come here.” 

(The audience gasps as he kisses her- as does she) 

“A beautiful name for a beautiful woman. Hopefully we’ll bump into each other again.” 

The young woman is left alone, wordless before her audience. 

Check out The Burrow to read more of the Romantic Drabbles by other Dare takers! There is a romantic drabble (or 2!) for each day of the month!!!

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*A Drabble is a story told in exactly 100 words.  

Death and Politics at the end of the world

Sunday is the day I am going to be posting from my WIP so bear with me. If you are lost you can go back and read the first few pages here. The character is driving and this section is stream of consciousness so you are jumping right in to her drive down to Key West...(Thanks for any input you care to give!!) Little note: I think the paragraph immediately following this will be formatted differently... not in a paragraph. On the blog I'll leave it for now but visualize it as a chain down the left side of the paper with each shade and size of font on a different line. I think it works better...   

Maybe I should call, has to be there has to be she can’t be gone—mistake has to be—missing? That can’t be right She can’t be. Missing Went for a drive and ran out of… or maybe just needs time. Time? Maybe met someone. Left Dave? No. Can’t be right! Loves Dave. Means the world to her. She’d never. Don’t believe it for an instant. But she’s… Missing. Time for herself working too hard stress restaurant not doing well… maybe.    Said “gone” right? GONE as in they don’t know where she is. Didn’t mean dea—not dead. Gone dead?  She’s MISSING… Murdered? Oh my go- NO It can’t be that! Too terrible Think logically, doesn’t make sense. Make Sense All right… She doesn’t just take off. Not a runner, a fighter. If things weren’t going well? she wouldn’t just… not a bird. NOT her But if she were taken by force she would fight and they might… OH MY GOD

                                    The median!

Pay attention, drive, can’t think about it right now.

                        Fifty-nine miles→already

Radio… distraction…can’t think… FOCUS   

Sailing away to Key Largo…

We had it all …

Just like Humfy and Bogall..  

Starring in our own la—

John may call…

doesn’t,

shouldn’t matte…

It’s over

Too many differences…

couldn’t work it out…

if I -- younger… prettier…

didn’t see it coming…

Finally, the Train Bridge: famous…  

calendar, paintings- palm trees, train track, ocean… postcard perfect…

                                                            oops, Original Overseas highway-

still a beautiful… umm, twenty feet.  

Just like Bogey and Bacall…

Watchin those old movies- fallin in love so ten-- tend --er…

                      er-rrhmmmm.  

Idiot.                                        Stupid love song IDIOT

                                 Too stupid to be believed- hormones.

Aunt missing, MISSING, MISSING

breaking up….

had to do it now, stupid man

 No more crying.

Seven Mile Bridge

  not a good place for car trouble

So high… swerve… Dive! Dive!

Eyes on the road—

A tiny key, Mini Key… Mini Mouse Key

…a piano with too many keys.

Breathe--- Breathe-- water’s beautiful… on and on. Read the signs.  

Hungry…

thirsty

Key Lime Daiquiri, Floridita--- Marguerita! 

Wastin’ away again. . .   looking for my mmm, mmm.

Banjo’s…

lots to drink...

dance,

sing…

stars…. 

End of the world… wizards and angels… 

Key West chooses you.

                     

Sunset Key.   

                                                                        hmmm hmmmm . . .

Searching for my lost shigger of salt-

Some people claim that there’s a ma-an-n to blame- Yeah there is---

It’s his damn fault.

His damn fau---

Nearly there.

God I hate Buffet…

What was that music…?     

                                     Something like…

So magical: Should have fairies,             

Palm trees … forget this

                                                            spray … forget that

Or, forgetting specialists, hmm---

In the real world…  bartenders

Six miles.

Drive right into the ocean…                                                   real dead end! 

Five miles to the BEST Key Lime pie

Number One Key Lime Pie…

Favorite Key Lime Pie…

Award Winning Key Lime Pie…                               Who decides these things? 

Key Lime cookies-

Key Lime cake-

Key Lime ice cream

Key Lime soup

Chocolate-covered Key-lime-on-a-stick

Key Lime off-a-stick

Key Lime Lemonade

Key Lime Margueritas

Key Lime edible underwear…    hmmmm

Some people claim that  

there’s a ma-an to blame

                                                        Song’s a virus

Hog’s Breath—God’s Breath—hamburger yummers!… with everything… fries, Bartender’s special drink---

P-Thingy.

Do these people know how to drive? For God’sake

Bone Island: Boner…

Boner Island?

Key-

Boner Key—Bonkey… 

Don key Otee.

move! I need to go!

“Land of the Free because of the brave”- MOVE, moron.

Left turn, right?

Right… Right?

No! left… right.

Southernmost Point

Southernmost Real Estate

Southernmost Hotel

Southernmost Café

Southernmost Bank

Southernmost Key Lime Pie

Southernmost oxygen.

Most Southernmost

turn…

Busy!

People everywhere.

It’s a zoo…