Watching TV

God watches us on cable TV.

He’s like, “What the fuck?”

Sometimes He watches football but

He steadfastly refuses to cheer for Notre Dame

or impact the outcome in any manner.

He watches The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills and Atlanta and

He dislikes them all equally.

He loves The Price is Right.

He’s embarrassed when He watches The Bachelor

just like the rest of us.

God channel surfs.

He watches Aleppo on CNN and

wonders to Himself about free will.

He turns to ESPN,

watches in awe as LeBron and Stephen Curry light it up.

He prefers pop culture over high art.

He hates country music.

He feels bad about Prince.

He hopes Oasis get back together but

so far has been unwilling to intervene.

God watches Animal Planet, Hoarders and movies on HBO.

He likes Justin Timberlake, Dave Chappelle and Chris Rock.

God hates almost all of the Christmas specials

except the Charlie Brown one,

kinda.

God yawns, turns His TV off

with His universal remote,

goes into the kitchen

to make a snack.

-Copyright Tim D.

When Did That Happen

I woke up this morning and stumbled through the living room, to the kitchen where I fixed a pot of coffee, only a half pot, any more and I get heart burn these days. Then on my way to the bathroom I stubbed my toe on a bench in the dining room, as I hopped around the table in the dark attempting to grab my foot and find the light switch I found I was more disturbed not by the fact that I haven’t yet learned that that bench has always been there, but more so that I could no longer just reach my foot without straining my back. I don’t know when that happened, I used to be so limber. When I reached the bathroom and found my tooth brush, the paste and looked into the mirror, I was frightened. Not by my reflection and mussed up hair, but by the crows’ feet and the creases around my mouth, the amount of gray facial hair along my jaw and the traces of so many years passed in my gaze.

I looked at my hands and saw my father’s, how long have I slept with my eyes open I wondered? The days and weeks seem to fly by without discretion now and climbing a ladder these days provokes more cautionary thought than it used to. When did that happen?

I woke up this morning and realized I turn fifty years old in a few short months. I’m scared, I‘m not prepared for this, and I am certain I knew it was coming and still let it happen; even my shadow looks longer now.

Suddenly I looked around at work and I realized I didn’t recognize at least half the people around me, and most of them look as though they just wandered away from preschool without their parents. “Excuse me Sir” they blurt out as they pass me by never looking up from their phones or their tablets, as if they have somewhere important to be…I don’t it seems, not nowadays anyhow. Not anymore.

How cruel is time when the sun gets close to the horizon before you realize it and when the days get colder and fly by as if on a train to some place out of the way. I feel like I am on a bus that suddenly stopped aggressively and I have no idea where I’ve been or why I’m being told to get off now. What did I miss, when did I last speak with my children, and why does that damned Cat Stevens song make so much sense now?

Turning fifty is no joke, and it’s not for the faint of heart either. I sat on the side of the tub, head in my hands, frantically trying to think of clues I may have missed, I didn’t see that last sign, not until now, it’s like fog finally lifting and there standing in the wet grass is me, bewildered, confused, afraid but I don’t know what it is I’m afraid of, I guess maybe it’s the thought that I missed something, that I should have taken advantage of my youth and done more, gotten lost more, played more when I had the chance. It feels like there is someone closing in behind me, I can’t see them but I know they are there, I can feel them. I turn the corner and then run as fast as I can for as long as I can and then I turn around again because I swear I heard something right behind me, but again, I can’t see them.

The shadows are crawling up the sides of the buildings all around me now, the warmer sun light out of my reach, I can feel the cooler, lonely air creep up the back of my legs and I shudder. As I stand there feeling as though I’ve missed something and can’t remember what it was I look across the street and there is another, just standing there looking lost, as lost as me, but doesn’t want to acknowledge me and turns away but can’t decide in which direction to go.

I stand up and grab my brush again; I force the last of the paste from the tube onto my brush and continue on. Isn’t that the point, to continue on in the face of it all, to attempt to stay a step ahead? I can hear the voice of my old platoon sergeant even now, of all the things…”Stand up soldier, carry on, so long as there is a single breath in you”. But there has to be more than that I think to myself. Adapt and overcome, those are words I can fight on in light of. So soldier on I will, but by gawd this soldier will adapt and overcome, I will goes places I have not been yet, I will see things I have not seen. I am not done learning and will take advantage of every day that I have.

Then the door to the bathroom opens and it’s her, my Love, she doesn’t see the crow’s feet, she doesn’t see the loneliness and the fear. She holds me, my tired body, she lays her cheek against my back and whispers to me…”I love you, with everything, I love you”. And with that the cold melts away, the fear subsides a little and I feel stronger.

Some Things Get Better With Age

“Some things get better with age,” thought the internet tycoon as he stared at the unopened bottle of Ancient Roman wine. He stood backstage awaiting the curtain call of the great revelation. The bottle rested gently on a red satin display under a plastic cube. The spotlights were ready to be turned on and, on the other side of the red curtain, a cameraman was preparing to take footage of the event. To the side of the display, on a small mahogany table, atop a hand sewn silk doily, there was an ornate piece of stemware – a wine glass.

Dressed in an unblemished tuxedo, the tycoon stood and listened to his guests file in and make polite conversation in the grand ballroom of his mansion on the French Riviera. His mind began to wander. He reflected back to the discoveries, first of the sunken ship and then of the wine bottle in the Mediterranean Sea.

For the breadth of human history and pre-history, there has been a fascination with the sea. Mankind has fashioned his watercraft, sailed the sea, and sunk to the bottom of it for thousands of years. Much has been lost in these aquatic catastrophes – gold, gems, pottery and so on. The real prize to the true collector is the preserved perishable items. Finding clothing is rare, but to find an unbroken bottle is exceptional. To find an intact bottle of the famous Roman wine, the wine sung of by the bards and written of by the poets, is absolutely inconceivable and beyond belief.

One the hobbies of the super-rich is deep sea scavenging and salvage. They can afford the diving teams, the latest equipment and the finest toys. Many graduate students and doctors of antiquity are eager to find patronage with these private collectors. However, the internet tycoon employed no one. He was in business for himself as a sole proprietor and amateur treasure hunter.

 

Walking to the backstage window, the internet tycoon looked out to see his parking lot filled with luxury and exotic cars. Young women, with their furs and dapper dates, had made their way to his palace entrance, the last of which were entering now. The internet tycoon continued musing, his mouth watering in anticipation. He reminisced with pride as he thought of his fleet of submersible drones, casting a radar net over the ocean floor. He felt the giddiness again of the discovery of the radar blip in the channel between Corsica and Sardinia. There was the competitive rush of adrenaline when he realized that diving teams from the British Museum and Cambridge were nearing his discovery. He was there first!

He had sent a swarm of drone submarines to the radar blip and turned on the search lights. What a discovery! Such a well preserved Roman wreck! He had to keep them away. As the scuba divers neared the wreckage, the internet tycoon released additional swarms of miniature tactical submarine drones armed with electric shocks, similar to cattle prods. These undersea bees were relentless to the diving team. Helplessly, they tried to swat them away, but the friction of water makes everything happen in slow motion and salt water is a great conductor of electricity. Eventually, the drivers surfaced to lodge a complaint, which was promptly forwarded to the attorneys.

Meanwhile, beneath the sea, the drones carefully searched the Roman wreck. In the cargo hold, its stopper and glassware intact, sat the prize. With extraordinary care, he sent in his extractor subs. The subs carefully removed the bottle and placed it in a pressurized container to eventually return to the surface and be carefully depressurized. After another pass of the wreckage, he took the gold, jewelry and gems. He even took the remainder of an old Roman sword with him, since he had some extra room in one of the containers. He left the remainder of the pottery and junk to the divers that would come back. He even knocked over one of the pots, not of clumsiness, but out of spite, as he recalled his drone submarines.

 

As the red curtain opened, the internet tycoon felt a surge of pride and accomplishment as the display lights came alive to reveal the ancient bottle and its liquid contents. This was his bottle. He owned it. Critics would demand that he hand it over to a museum, let scientists and researchers study it, but it was HIS. What he would do with this wine from antiquity would be the most blasphemous, heinous crime in their eyes and they were powerless to stop him. For this was his bottle, found and salvaged, and he owned it.

The internet tycoon gave his presentation to a packed house. He was broadcasting live across the internet, where the self-righteous trolls spat upon his decadent ways. After an hour of self-aggrandizement, the moment came. He lifted the plastic cube and held the bottle in his hands, displaying it for all to see. Next, he removed the stopper from the millennia-old bottle. He did this with the aid of one of his modern contraptions so as to neither damage the stopper nor the bottle. Finally, he poured.

Thick, black syrup oozed out of the bottle and into the fine crystal stemware. He put the glass to his lips and tasted. As the internet tycoon swished the Roman wine syrup in his mouth and swallowed, he allowed himself to reverie on a life well spent. He closed his eyes, breathed in and held it.

What the audience saw was his collapse on the red felt carpet. Paramedics were called, but he was dead. The cause of death was poisoning. When medical science got ahold of the remainder of the wine, they discovered that it contained an ancient, lethal and forgotten foodborne illness that had also been preserved in the bottle. Centuries of dormancy beneath the sea only heightened its lethal potency. The internet tycoon had been cursed by his own ancient wine.

The Blessing

In his well worn and weathered left hand he held a bundle of sage, between his right forefinger and meaty thumb he held a single wooden match. He stood among the tall grasses and wildflowers at the edge of Minnehaha Creek, closed his eyes and listened to the songs. He heard the bubbling of cool dark waters rushing over rocks as it caressed the shoreline near his feet. He heard the rustling of the leaves in the Oak trees on the rolling hills around him. He listened long and silently, hearing the celebrations of Sparrows and Mourning Doves. And whispers from spirits haunting the wooded acres surrounding the Burwell Mansion, good spirits, wholesome and kind, spending their days dancing in sunbeams pouring through the canopy over the property and swinging on the tender branches of the willow trees next to the bridge over the wandering creek.

When again he opens his eyes the morning sun begins to warm his neck. He scratches the match against a rock and it ignites with a searing note, a flash and then a flame. He touches it to the sage bundle and flames begin to crawl over the end of it, he pauses, watches as the flames lick at the open air and then blows it out. The bundle smokes now, thick and sweet, he raises it above his heart and out in front of him and pulls a large turkey feather from his pocket. To the North he nods, and waves the feather in back of the sage, embers glow and the smoke travels out and swims away on currents of air over the gardens and among the trees. He begins his prayer…

“Smoke of air and fire of earth,

Cleanse and bless this garden and earth,

Drive away all harm and fear;

That only good may gather here.”

Then he turns clockwise towards the East, raises the sage and wafts behind it with the feather and repeats his prayer, a blessing…

“For the garden

For the land

For Mother Nature and for the spirits.

Smoke of air and fire of earth,

Cleanse and bless this garden and earth,

Drive away all harm and fear;

That only good may gather here.”

Afterwards turning clockwise to the South and finally to the West, each time sending smoke from the burning sage into the air, watching it swing around above his head and float off into the trees, over the grasses, through the flowers, over hill and dale and delivering once more his entreaty to all that live and thrive in this place, all whom shall enter here, pass by and meditate upon its rolling and wild hills.

As the sun hovers high above him now, he gazes out over the rippling waters of the creek as it flows towards him, he steps through the tall grass, his bare feet sinking into the mud at the edge of the water, and he sets the Turkey feather and smoldering sage down on a rock and then steps into the water, he takes a few more steps to the center of the creek and turns facing the water rushing against his thighs. The pressure threatening to push him over and swallow him up, but he stands, strong and proud and lets his old fingers trail in the stream. His mind wanders to a different time, a different place, his chest swells with a spirituality that engulfs him, his eyes shine with the sparkling reflection from the sun.

His jeans are soaked, his legs cold, he touches his wet fingers to his face and his lips, and the water is sweet and tastes like iron. Off somewhere in the distance he hears his ancestors singing above the rising current, he closes his eyes and begins to hum, and then his lips part and he sings, he sings loud and he sings true. He raises his arms skyward and the sound of many drums echo in his mind as a single tear rolls from the corner of his eye and falls into the water, he leans his head back and he falls, the water consumes his body quickly and he disappears below the surface, the creek carrying him away.

And upon the afternoon breeze all along the creek today, under the rustling leaves of the poplar and the oak, against the sounds of the creek and the birds in the trees you can hear drums, and somewhere among them he sings, if you close your eyes you can hear him standing strong against the current singing the songs of his ancestors, and if you taste that water, it tastes sweet, and hard like iron, and pure like the blood of Mother Nature.

Pain

This is not a cut that makes me wince, a bruised muscle
that makes me too stiff to move in the morning,
or a joint that sends stabbing pain through a nerve
making me cry out in pain.  No, those are now nothing
in comparison to what has happened to my body.

A fire burns deep into layers of skin and muscle
spreading like lava to places the scalpel never touched
searing white hot, a soldering iron held to my chest,
and I slip into darkness.

Glass shards grind along every nerve, churning like waves.
My nerve endings scream when I cannot. Steel claws
rip at me, a beast sporting with my limp body and I have
no will to survive, only a desire to escape the cruelty.

I rise and fall to the surface without will, unable to see
past the blackness that everything is. Falling back into
nothingness is surrender, freedom, not knowing,
not feeling.  Let the claws rip at me, let the fire burn.
I will sleep, unaware, unconscious.

Copyright Mar 2017
by csherar
wordfourword.blogspot.com

The Piper

Who follows the Piper on the greyest of days?
When far off, the wind carries the notes that he plays?
Calling those orphaned, forsaken, or lost amid tides,
Those who’ve been shunned, disparaged, or cast aside.

Lonesome notes drift, then swell in their veins
In soft bleeding colors that haven’t a name.
An ancient, melodic, passionate story is told
For those willing to listen a promise unfolds.

What have they to lose in the grey spray of mist?
Where now the sinners and sailors both coexist?
So they follow the Piper across moor and sea
Trusting, and trading their heart for eternity.

Copyright Mar 2017
by csherar
wordfourword.blogspot.com

Fogy Lovers

Author’s Note: This story is a bit of a stretch assignment for me. I rarely venture into erotic fiction, but today’s characters and writing prompts led me in that direction. I’ve italicized the writing prompts so you can follow the glide path of the story. Please judge kindly – Thanks.

You would think that investing your life in a neighborhood or community for 27 years would get you somewhere, but with the recent string of drug arrests made, Vidalia’s home value plummeted. It was time to sell the house and move to a condo, but to even get a reasonable price, the house needed repairs.

Out of the fog, there emerged a balding man with a tool belt and a toolbox. He wasn’t much to look at, so he went largely unnoticed. He performed maintenance at the low income high rise, but with so many tenants returning to prison, he would walk the neighborhood to perform minor repairs on his free time. Vidalia invited him in to discuss the repairs the realtor said were needed on the house.

The smell of lemon cookies floated into the room when Handyman Ralph entered Vidalia’s home. She handed him a sheet of paper with the recommendations from the realtor. She said, “Excuse me” and walked back to the kitchen to check on the cookies. “Have a look around.”

Ralph walked to the bathroom first with his face buried in the sheet. He stood at the threshold and slowly looked around at the out of fashion wallpaper, the cracked tile, the tarnished faucets and the peeling laminate countertop. Next, he shuffled his way downstairs. He glanced at the old water heater and the ancient furnace. He looked at his feet and sighed over the asbestos tile, half hidden under faded carpet. He took another look at the realtor’s requirements and he shook his head.

Vidalia called from upstairs, “Would you like a cookie?”

Handyman Ralph ascended the stairs and sat at her small kitchen table as she poured a cup of hot orange tea and set a plate of warm lemon cookies in front of him.

There was no way to foresee what was coming next. It began innocently enough. Handyman Ralph sat at Vidalia’s table, sipping the hot tea and enjoying a morsel of lemon cookie when she touched his hand. It had been so long since she had a man in the house. She didn’t even realize the hunger until she stood over him, massaging his broad shoulders.

Ralph realized that it wasn’t just the tea heating up the room. He turned. Their eyes met. Then their lips met. Ralph turned his chair. Vidalia leaned in closer.

She touched his chest and moved down. Their lips met again and he closed his eyes. She glided onto his lap and touched the tools on this toolbelt one by one, playing with the Double D inscribed in the leather.

Ralph’s powerful, calloused hands gently grasped her sides, moving higher and higher towards her breasts. Her light sweater was soft to the touch. Together they shared the pubescent passion of feeling love with their clothes on. Her body had softened with age. His body was hardened by his daily toils, as chiseled as the tools around his belt and as unyielding as the tools in his toolbox. She could feel the knowledge inside him. She knew that he carried within him the tricks of the trade and that she only needed him to reach into his toolbox and have him begin his work. She cradled his head in her bosom.

They may have been sharing a dormant passion, but he felt the aged putty in his hands of this forgotten woman from the past. She was the spinster aunt who always arrived alone to family gatherings, which resonated with the lifestyle he had also fallen into. He opened his eyes and saw in her lightly creased face a reflection of himself and a prophesy of his near future. What was it that this balding man and this woman named after an onion were doing?

His hesitancy vanished as he leaned into her face for another kiss. His arms cradled her like a piece of sheet music on a music stand. As the conductor, he raised his baton and began counting off the measures to start the symphony. She felt it and, like the silent air of the concert hall, she was ready to be filled with the beautiful music.

They were interrupted by his phone. Ralph moaned. The phone rang a second time. “Thank God it’s Saturday,” he said sarcastically. Vidalia touched his cheek and whispered into his ear, “I work from home during the week.”

The phone rang a third time and Handyman Ralph reached into his pocket to answer the old Nokia phone. Vidalia stood up and straightened herself after their passionate make out. Ralph continued to receive instructions over the phone. The caller refused to let him hang up the phone to say goodbye to his host. With the dour face that he entered with, Handyman Ralph left, carrying his toolbox in one hand and his phone in the other. Vidalia stood in the doorway and watched him disappear again into the fog from whence he came.