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A jingle whispers in my ear as I sit on the patio listening to the dull thud of the kick drum in the café down the dusty street. It's Monaco in the summer. I've never been but that's where my mind is taking me right now. I look up at the sun, its rays beating down on me, heavy with intensity and warmth, charring my skin. It's like I'm on a grill grate, slow-roasting from the indirect flame.
Zzzzz. Zzzzz. ZZZZZ! The black-and-yellow striped devil, with its shiny eyes and murderous face seems to blink at me as it hovers for a second in front of my eyes. I sit, trembling, sweating, not so much from the heat anymore, but from the impending sting. I hope it doesn't happen. I hope it doesn't land on my nose, its spindly legs tickling my nostrils before shoving its red-hot iron poker into my face. ZZZZZ! Zzzzz. zzzzz. I stand, legs trembling, aware of the sweat beads lingering on my cheek and forehead. My locked jaw unhinges and loosens. I hear the hum and rattle approaching again. An explosion of sound and wind comes around the corner. The papaya-colored sprinter flies by faster than the blink of an eye, yet the whine lingers for what feels like minutes. Is the buzzing in my mind or coming from my shoulder? I stop breathing for a moment. Chest heavy. Lungs bursting. I slowly turn my head, timidly, inching my view closer to my shoulder's crest. What would normally take a split-second feels like an age. The mischievous face blinks at me once again. My ankles are chilly as it’s cold in this room
I should do my chores but I can’t find my broom There’s dust on each surface and grit on the floor Just a small path uniting me with the door There’s only one clump of coal in my basket To keep this place warm and fit to inhabit I’ve run out of milk there’s a hole in my pocket No tea in the pantry the fever is starting The shuddering of windows as the wind says hello I can hear all my children skip and play down below Their laughter’s a smile to my worn tender face Last evening they picked me some primrose and lace We had us some porridge and bread with some milk Our tummies wrapped gently in velvety silk The raisins a treat from the bakery on Main Street We may not have much but we have us a family A blessing together our happy retreat The cold of winter can’t chop down this tree We had us some porridge and bread with some milk Our tummies wrapped gently in velvety silk The raisins a treat from the bakery on Main Street We may not have much but we have us a family A blessing together our happy retreat The cold of winter won’t chop down this tree The cold of the winter won’t chop down this tree The cold of the winter won’t chop down this tree Brian Theoret 12/14/24 I am about the head out on a journey to a place that doesn’t require shoes or shirts and arms will be itchy and legs wll be sore and minds will be racing while I head out the door. There will be whispers among the willows and wakings from beds that sway in the moonlight a pillow under head. There will be sunshine in the morning give thanks for looking over us. Your warmth provides cushions from the coldness of the North. The edge of the darkness will wander around your feet while the path lit up ahead will stamp out a beat. Beautiful buzzing bees will dance from petal to flower us with honey, sweet and drizzly under our tongues. Your waist up to the water will be surrounding every inch and bog full of bull frogs as they cantor in the wind. The whispers among the willows once again will wake us from our slumber in the pine grove by the windmill in our minds.
I have stories to learn and lessons to earn in the confines of my mind.
I’ll take the line and sort out the moss on the rotted logs as I jump across rivers flowing rapid down the white water canyons of time. I’ll write the hymns humming in caverns like bearfoot whispers dancing in the moonlight. I’ll sing it out loud until my voice turns gritty, harmonies sung through the branches of a barren tree yearning for cover under moonlit eyes. A free write exercise. July 10, 2023 Writing Prompt - He learned the hardest lesson of his life and had the scars, both physical and mental, to prove it. It was the beginning of another week. Another day. Another month. He set out to make it be a different day then the last 273 days.
His mind had just begun wrapping itself around facts that haunted him for what felt like an eternity. Scars had developed behind his eyes so he saw them everywhere he looked. Not physical in nature but actual in their emotionality. What does that mean to him? What does it say? He wanders around the desert wanting water but he's carrying it all on his back. He could drink for days but he doesn't have a straw. He could walk out into the ocean but the salty sea would swallow him. He could wander down the path up the hill over the bluff onto the sand into the sun over the rocky pebbles of the wave battered beach. He should whistle but his lips are dry from parched conversations in the moonlight. He draws his wrist out in front of him, looking at the veins as they pulse. He knows he's alive but he's yet to live again. He's learned the hardest lessons but can't move away or towards them. He's stuck. He's stationary. He's unwaveringly undecided. He's wilting under the heat of the moment that painted physical and mental scars on his body and his mind. He's wondering what he can do. He's wondering what he can say. He's pondering the meaning of those lessons that he learned 273 days ago. 12 minutes pass and he hasn't blinked. 11 more and he starts to whisper. 10 minutes drag him up onto his feet. 9 leaves fall from the tree in front of him. 8 times he stuck his foot out from off the curb yet put it back down without moving ahead. 7 meals he ate alone without taking a bite. 6 rolls of the dice before he saw the eyes of the snake. 5 fingers ran through his hair and he relaxed. Finally. 4 minutes passed before their stare was broken. 3 beers between the 2 and they became 1 again. |
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