3WW: Tension, Intellect, Corrupt

young men clothe themselves,

belt as a show not tension.

envious middle man,

faith replaced by intellect.

corrupt bureaucrat,

his bronzed fruit a paperweight.

3WW: Corpse, Damage, Knife

Classified: United States of North America: August 14, 2014

It was my job to 'flip the switch'. It must have been a phrase from some earlier time because it wasn't exactly flipping a switch, per se. It was more like hitting a key. 'Enter'. Others might call it a hard return. I called it flipping the switch.

First, we did the damage. That, we called 'zeroing'. We always zeroed before we flipped the switch. We'd watch them struggle, break down. Calling their banks, their credit card companies. 'But, it was there yesterday,' they'd exclaim. 'I'm sorry Mr. So and So. I have no record of that account.'

Second, after they had uncovered their stash or had sought the help of friends and family, we'd twist the knife. We sent those people we called jackals. It was innocent enough. A crackhead here. A transient there. Finding them in alleys and in parks. Sometimes in front of their families. Making them bleed. Making them hurt. Making them paranoid every time they stepped outside the house.

Third, we'd flip the switch. We gathered all of their records from birth - all of their electronic records, that is - and we'd delete them. The final key to delete was that 'Enter' key. No need to worry about corpses. Electronic death. Not at all messy. Just a fingertip to the key and it was done. They were dead.

Then I voted for the losing candidate.

I never thought it would happen to me.

Poefusion Tuesday Title: Blinking with Fists

Hell hath no fury
like a mother blinking with
fists of lavender.

Blinking with fists, he

tore his retina. Blindness

ensued with envy.

Sunday Scribblings: Bragging

To begin...

House projects. Putting up drywall. Plumbing. Carpentry of any kind. Laying carpet. Anything associated with electricity. Installations and removals. I'm terrible at all these things. Can barely wield a hammer properly without hurting myself, someone else, or one of the aforementioned housing projects. I can be convinced I've found a stud and then have the shelf I've erected from the ashes of oblivion fall right back to its former state. We tried to overhaul the kitchen in our home; we succeeded in destroying a few things. And then we succeeded at picking up the phone and calling someone who could help. Terrible!

In the process of bragging, I promise.

My memory. Lacking, to say the least. I can barely remember what I did yesterday. What I accomplished. What I ate for lunch. What I wore. It all flitters into the silence of the stars' hazy light.

I can barely sing one octave. My voice cracks on the high end. And it rasps into obscurity on the low.

I think I'm right most of the time. Obnoxiously so.

And speaking of being obnoxious, I'm one of those who corrects grammar. A grammar elitist, you might say. 'It's not between you and I, it's between you and me,' I expound confidently. And it's 'to whom should I send the letter, not to who'. 'I spoke slow? No, I spoke slowly.'

I am afraid. Everything, it seems, proves an obstacle that I hesitate to pass. I would both love and hate to pack myself into a small room full of books and never talk to anyone again.

I have bragging rights to all of the above. Not monopolized by any stretch, I know. But rights nonetheless. Why, you ask?

Because I know all of these things about myself. And in knowing, I do something about each one. I may not always succeed, but I succeed a hell of a lot more times than I fail because I deny denial.

Poefusion Tuesday Title: I Shall Let the Wind

Painting by John E. Maguire

I shall let the wind teach me secrets.
How it pierces stony hearts in melancholy rhyme.
How it elevates the dying leaves in fleeting climb.
How it hastens autumn frost atop barren fields. I’m
Letting the wind teach me secrets.

Sunday Scribblings: In Which Era Would I Live?

When I saw this topic, I said to myself, self, you've studied a lot of history given you're a history teacher by trade, so of all those eras you've taught, in which era would you choose to live? Being a history teacher, I've heard the question before. From students, other teachers, parents, friends, family, those questionnaires everyone sends via e-mail asking what your favorite color is and the like.

I have the quick answer, the answer about which I can speak at length. The Enlightenment. France. Paris, to be exact. I'd have to be at university or involved in the intellectual life to some degree. And I'd have to be a white male. What an exciting time, I'd say. Yes, I know that I wouldn't have the technology. Yes, I know the cities stunk. Yes, I know that it most likely would have been a difficult life. But, the uncovering of points of view, the leap forward towards revolution would have been enthralling.

Those are the reasons I could give for choosing the Enlightenment. Those and so many more. But I choose that period also because I know the most about it. It is, in some ways, very familiar to me. A time with which I can relate, being a European mutt by ancestry.

When I saw the question posed on Sunday Scribblings, I got to thinking about it more. Would it really be the Enlightenment? Or would it be some other time? I needed to try to think outside the box.

I could say that I was born in exactly the right time and place. That would be true. I enjoy my life, and if given the chance, I wouldn't live at any other time. But, for me that steals the fun out of the response. I kept thinking.

The 20th century? Nah. Not really into world or cold wars. Outside the box... I could have lived in another country that wasn't too much affected. Like which, I responded to myself, Mongolia?

Back in time. 19th century? Certainly not the U.S. China, maybe, before the significant interactions with the West. Or even Japan. To be a part of Japanese culture before 1868 would have been truly interesting. But too strict. Too totalitarian.

Ha! you may say to me. Try to find a situation in which a society was NOT too totalitarian in history. Some African tribes. Some Native American tribes. The Vikings, though too decentralized for me. There were plenty.

So, when and where?

After some research, I settled on the Navajo in the southwestern U.S. BEFORE the arrival of the Europeans. In reading about their nomadic culture and their love of the land and everything the land gave them, I would have to say that - although I would have no conveniences - I would be a part of a tight-knit matriarchal community that understood the truths of history and the future.

Why the Navajo? Too much further north, and I would have been freezing. Too much further east and I'd have been annoyed by the humidity. Dry warmth is my idea of a good climate. Why not the Mayan civilization or some other in Mexico or South America? The government was too centralized. Some of the dictators in Tenochtitlan and the other Native American centers were just as bad as any Asian, African, or European dictator.

Why not the Hopi, then? Okay, fine, I'd consider being Hopi too.

Just as long as - I reemphasize - I would have been long dead before the Europeans came.

3WW: Thrash, Effortless, Vindictive

The flow thrashes their porcelain skin with effortless abandon, its vindictive force scouring the bloody remains.



‘Mom, I’m done with the dishes!’

Sunday Scribblings: Forbidden; Matinee Muse: Abuse of Power

‘If you must,’ his wife acquiesced. At the young man’s nod, she ushered her two sons upstairs.

The two young men stood, obviously bracing themselves for what was to come.

The father, his plea unheard by his wife, decided to try a different tack with the two gentlemen. He breathed deeply and calmed himself before speaking. “Look, guys, I don’t know what this is about or what my voting has to do with it, but I think we can talk about this. Sound like a plan?’

The two young men actually chuckled. They now flanked the father, to the left and right of the chair in which he sat. The taller one spoke. ‘Sir, we were interested in talking, but you wanted to be difficult. And in front of your wife and kids. You’ve just proven that you’re a bad influence. We’re here to help you, your family, your neighborhood, and your country. We are here to start teaching you about patriotism.’

‘Patriotism? Are you saying I am not patriotic? I believe in the Constitution, the American flag. Everything that this country has stood for since its founding. I believe in checks and balances. Executive, legislative, judicial. I believe in…’

‘Sir, we don’t particularly care about your views of American history. Or about your beliefs. We care about your actions. And according to those, you have opposed the ideals of this country. Now, please stand and make this easier for us.’

He sat, careful not to make any rash movements. The two young men obviously outmatched him in strength. And they had him surrounded. He grasped the arms of the chair, about to rise.

There came from the front door a knock. His wife descended from her perch atop the stairs, intending to answer, but the short, stocky man held his fat hand up to her and made for the door. He opened to find an old woman who the husband immediately recognized as the odd Miss Oneiros from down the street. The families on the street knew little about her, except that she enjoyed her evening walks with her two Pomeranians, Bia and Eris. She had moved into the neighborhood about six months earlier and she kept to herself.

‘Hello, young man. Is the man of the house at home?’ she asked.

‘Uh…’ The young man stuttered for a moment. ‘He is not available, ma’am.’

She glanced inside at the husband. ‘But he’s sitting right there,’ she spoke matter-of-factly. ‘Why are you fibbing to me?’

‘Excuse me ma’am. I said he is not available. I suggest you leave.’

She began to speak, mumbling at first. As if she was having some kind of autistic episode. Those listening caught only a few incoherent words. She finished. Then, she began what sounded like a rehearsed speech. ‘We are the Sons and Daughters of Liberty. Your abuse of power has ended. What you have forbidden, we will do. What you have given, we will take. What you have taken, we will redeem. The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants. It is its natural manure. ‘

‘Look, lady, I’ve been patient. I’ll only tell you once more. Get the hell outta here.’

She raised her cane and poked him in the chest. ‘Young man, you leave me with no choice.’ As he swung his arm to knock the cane from the woman’s hand, she pulled a hidden trigger at the head of the cane and watched as the young stocky man fell backwards, his head leaking blood.

‘Oh shit!’ the tall young man yelped. He pulled his concealed weapon but didn’t have the chance to fire. Another shot came from outside killing him instantly.

The husband sat in the chair staring at the old woman.

‘Well, I dare say you’d better come with me, Paul. I don’t think you’ll be safe here. Will your family be joining you?’ Miss Oneiros asked sweetly.

This entry is meant to stand alone, but it is also part of a developing story.
See Part 1
See Part 2

3WW: Intervene, Deliberate, Nourish

He sat on his bed cradling his head in his wrinkled hands. Remembering that night when it happened, when his family was torn asunder.

He, his wife, and their two sons were watching an episode of the twelfth season of American Idol when he heard a knock at the door. He found standing on his stoop two young men dressed in white shirts and black pants. Mormons, he thought.

'Good afternoon, sir,' the tall dark-haired boy spoke clearly, confidently. 'Do you have a moment to speak with us?'

'No, I'm sorry, I'm enjoying some rare family time with my wife and sons,' he said hoping that they might respect family time.

'This concerns them as well,' said the shorter, stockier boy. He took a deliberate step forward, positioning himself in such a way that the door would not be able to close.

'Look, I'm really not interested in what you have to say. I don't wanna be a Mormon.'

The two young men chuckled. 'Oh, we're not Mormon. We'd just like to have a word.' They simultaneously stepped into the welcome mat inside the house backing the father into the living room.

'Honey,' the father said, 'We've got company.' His wife emerged from the den.

'Oh yes,' she said. 'These two young gentleman said they were going to return. Did I not tell you?'

The father shook his head.

'Please sit down,' she said to them. 'Can I get you something to drink?'

'No, ma'am. We are just here to speak with your husband, but you and your children are welcome to sit and listen.'

'Oh that's fine. Let me get the boys.' She walked from the room.

The father sat in his chair and looked at the young men seated on the love seat. Something wasn't right; he felt it. When his wife and kids were seated on the couch, the young men commenced.

'Do you agree that you need to nourish young children's hearts, minds, and souls?' The dark haired boy started.

'Yes,' the father said uncertainly. The mother, meanwhile, was pumping her head vigorously with approval.

'We feel the same. We are concerned that the young people in our country are not receiving the proper direction. And according to your neighbors, your family is at risk.'

'What?' the father asked. 'Why? What are you talking about?'

'We are here, sir, on behalf of your family and friends to intervene. We work for a government agency that ensures that families are protected from harmful influences.'

The father looked over at his wife. 'Do you know what they're talking about?'

'Yes, hon, they told me about this last week. It's for your good and for the good of our family.' She said matter-of-factly.

'Okay, look. I'm not abusive. I've never been abusive. I love my wife. I raise my kids well, I think. I've raised 'em to think for themselves and be who they wanna be. I worked hard at my job. I mean, I know I've been laid off, but I'm looking. I love my country. I vote; I'm an active member of the community. A den leader. A dues-paying member of the Democratic party. A softball player. What am I doing wrong?'

'Sir, for whom did you vote in the last election?'

'What? Are you kidding?' He saw on their face their utter seriousness. 'That's none of your goddam business!'

'I'm sorry, ma'am,' the stocky young man directed his comments at the wife, 'I think we're going to have to bring him with us.'


Please see this previous 3WW post for part 1 of the story.

One Single Impression: Fleeting

The shadow, as dusk

gives way to night, stealthily

fades from his master.

New moon masked in black

absorbs silent shadows from

dying broken souls.

A bird too young to

know chirps at the newborn sight

of fleeting shadow.

Sunday Scribblings: Wedding

I made a mistake last night. And I can't take it back. I'd never had that much to drink, but honestly, when it's your 21st birthday, you're supposed to let go. Still, I should have known better. I'm not like everyone else. Well, I am like everyone else except that I have a skeleton in my closet that will haunt me for the rest of my life, whether I allow it to dangle in all its bony glory outside the closet or push it behind the shoes and jackets inside.

It's about my parents. And when I told my friends the truth in our tiny dorm, they didn't say anything. They just awkwardly made excuses and left. My roommate, someone with whom I could talk about anything, told me he was tired and rolled up in his bed.

But it's my fault. I always want to get to the punch line first. I'm a bad comedian. But also a terrible storyteller. Perhaps I should practice. Do you mind if I practice with you?

My parents have fascinating stories. My father was born and raised in Abilene, TX. He lived there for the first five years of his life until his parents were killed by a drunk driver. Killed instantly. My father had a sister who lived in Bellevue, WA. So, he and his brother - my uncle - got shipped up there and lived with who I consider to me my grandparents.

Meanwhile, my mother was born in Seattle. A crack baby. Daughter of a prostitute and a pimp. She lived with her mother for a couple years before - she told me - the cops arrested her mother and killed her father in a raid. Her mother was declared unfit by the courts thus effectively making her an orphan. Well, a kind man and woman from Bellevue fostered my mother starting at age four and then adopted her later on.

Well, my mother and father met and then came up through school together. Same grade. From an early age, they clicked. And by the time high school came around, their emotions had lead them to do the inevitable. So I was conceived. They talked about getting married, but they weren't sure it was the right thing to do. My father insisted; my mother hesitated. Then they brought it to their parents. The parents didn't take it well. So, they skipped the wedding, ignored their parents, and traveled down to Vegas where they married.

Knowing they couldn't go home again, they moved out here. Where no one knows that they share the same parents.

3WW: Dissolve, Trinket, Zest

He clasped his daughter’s small, cold hand; his wrinkled brow furrowed. ‘She’s trying to kill me,’ he murmured.

‘What?’ his daughter chuckled. ‘She’s not trying to kill you. She wouldn’t do that.’

‘She is. I know it.’ He played nervously with the trinket around his neck. ‘I abused her when we were younger. I know you didn’t know that. We kept it from you. And now she wants to get me back. I know it.’ The last word trailed from his cracking voice.

‘Dad, you didn’t abuse mom. You’re just having one of your episodes.’

‘No!’ he yelped. ‘Don’t you remember the bruises? She was afraid of me. She tried to shield you, keep you protected. But now she has me in her clutches. She wants me dead.’

‘Dad, look, you didn’t abuse her. You didn’t abuse me. The doctor said you’d have these attacks. Just rest.’

‘I had such a zest for life before I married her. I was popular. I was strong. I was uninhibited. Some might say I was unstoppable. Then I married your mother and wasn’t those things anymore. I was trapped. Like I am now. In this house. In this bed. At her bidding, I have to lay here in this bed. I’m not sick. She and the doctor are colluding. She’ll get my insurance money and run off with the doctor. That’s it. That’s what’s happening. She’s going to kill me and sell the house and run off with the doctor.’ He started shaking in the bed, gripping the mattress as if holding on for dear life.

‘I’m going to get mom.’

‘No, wait. She’s already done it.’ He glanced at his side table. ‘Do you see!’ he yelled, ‘do you see! There.’ He pointed to a glass of clear liquid. ‘I knew it tasted funny. I knew it. She dissolved the poison in my drink. I am dying. My insides are burning. I am sorry.’ He ceased shaking and sat listless, his eyes closed.

His wife entered. ‘What’s all that noise?’ she asked.

‘Oh mom, you have to put him in a home. You have to. He’s completely lost it.’

‘Am I trying to kill him again?’ she asked wryly.

‘It’s not funny. You have to.’

‘C’mon honey. Let’s let him rest a bit. I'm just gonna make him comfortable. Why don't you go downstairs and get a drink. I'll be down in a sec’. Her daughter left the room. She sat next to her comatose husband and spoke sweetly while stroking his hair, ‘I’m not gonna kill you honey; that would be too kind.’ With that she walked from the room and closed the door behind her.

Sunday Scribblings: Invitation

I'm just returning from vacation with my buddies. Sunny Mexico. Beautiful this time of year. Hell, beautiful anytime of year. Better than Las Vegas. No guilt. No witnesses. No rules.

I've been making the trip for years now. Since those spring breaks with my buddies back in the day. We see how many women we can get in bed. We have competitions. See how many women at once. How many women in one night. How many times with the same woman. It's awesome.

We buy some real potent shit. We just put it in their drinks and watch 'em fade. Load 'em up into our rentals and bring 'em home. Yeah, it sucks getting 'em back out after we were done. But, hell, that's part of the challenge. A few times, they've started to come to in the car and we've had to dump 'em real fast.

Now, I'm back. Getting ready for church with my family and then my son's peewee football game afterwards. I have to get my lesson plans ready for the week. A test for Thursday testing polynomials. Easter's coming too. I need to get the kids their baskets. My wife and I will have to go Wednesday night after my daughter's dance practice. Maybe my parents can babysit them.

I sit down with a margarita, a final taste of Mexico until next year. I check my e-mail. So many messages. I take some time to look through. And the final message is an evite from an address I don't recognize. I open the message. The evite is entitled 'Sunny Mexico'. I open the evite and see that only the sender and I are on the invitation. There in bold letters I see the following note:

The next margarita's on me. See you in hell...

Saturday Scribes: Phenomena

Our philosophy teacher, Dr. Lauder, doubles as a magician, which makes the lessons he teaches rather interesting, to say the least. Why just yesterday he showed his prowess while teaching us about Kant. As is common, he sat in a plain wooden chair in front of a plain wooden table with four legs. The slab of wood atop the four legs is only six inches or so thick, and there are beneath that slab no drawers or other obscuring items. We can clearly see his khakis and brown shoes.

As we entered the classroom, we saw written on the board 'Immanuel Kant 1724-1804'. And on the table in front of the seated professor was a battery-operated frog toy. When the class was seated and settled, Dr. Lauder began his lecture. 'Phenomena versus Noumena' he said. 'One of the many discussion points associated with Kant. I have here a toy frog sitting quite still. If I wind it, it will roll around the desk, and perhaps off it.' He wound the toy and it spun in circles before falling onto the ground. 'You have just seen the toy frog spin and fall. You have witnessed that phenomena.

'Now, I will place the toy frog in this box on the corner of the table.' He did. 'I will knock thrice on the box.' He did. 'And now I would like you to consider the frog. Was that a frog in and of itself? If so, why? If not, why not?' There came a pause.

'It wasn't a frog,' said one, 'but just a crude representation of one'.

'I agree,' chimed in another. 'A frog is a living, breathing life form. And that was a plastic play toy.'

'Fine,' said the professor. 'But when I open this box...' He opened the box. 'I see a real, live breathing frog.' And in fact, there sat in the box a frog with a battery strapped to its back.

'That's not the same frog,' snapped one of the students, obviously frustrated.

'Prove it,' said the teacher. 'I would argue that the toy's action as a rolling thing and its subsequent transformation into this living being that hops - two respective phenomena of the respective entities that I call "frog" - are just two representations of the same thing I call "frog".'

'But they aren't the same thing,' repeated the student.

'You're right. And it will be your assignment for next week in a couple typed pages to explain why. Now let us discuss further...'

Inspire Me Thursday: Storyteller

He waved to the security guard at the front desk and exited through the thick metal door. The wet, pungent air eased him into the night; he felt the tingle of forming sweat as he walked briskly to his Chevy Caprice station wagon. Only a short ride home, he said to himself, especially with no traffic. Each light blinked yellow in syncopated rhythm. Each passing car seemed to hold a sleepy man headed to or from some dead end job.

He walked into the house, wiping his forehead with his workshirt sleeve. He dropped into the sofa and stared at the filthy fireplace. The tears came, started sliding into his unkempt beard. One and then another. And another. There was no saving the marriage, though he wouldn't yet say the words aloud. And there was no saving the house. The dog would go. All his work on the bathroom, the den. Even worse, his boy would have lose his Neverland. The back yard. The pool. A house of dreams. All gone. He felt the loss burning inside him. The tears turned to outright weeping.

He heard movement above him. Damn, he thought, I woke her; just give me some time alone. The rustling stopped; he drifted back into the cushions, taken into half-consciousness by a merciful angel. Between his fanciful musings, he opened his eyes and saw at the top of the stairs his son with the dog sitting dutifully beside him. He shook his head and blinked. No, it wasn't a dream.

'Hi dad,' the young boy whispered. 'What are you doing?'

He answered, 'I'm dreaming a little. Talking to my angel.'

'Really? What does it look like?'

'Come here and I'll tell you.'

The boy took one step at a time down the stairs, the dog stepping lightly behind him. His socks moved across the wood floor like ice skates; he sat beside his father on the sofa. The dog curled at their feet.

'So?' The boy's eyes danced like dewy grass in the wind.

'The angel's a she. And she was born a long time ago.'

'Yeah, yeah. My teacher told me that angels were born before humans. And that God made them to serve Him.'

'Oh yes. Most angels were born way back then. But this one is different. She was born after God made humans. She's the only baby angel that God ever let the angels make.'

'Wow,' he mouthed.

'But when she grew up, she didn't want to be an angel anymore. Because she didn't have anyone talking to her. You see, all the angels knew who they were going to guard as soon as they were created.'

'How?' he asked.

'Because God has all of us in His head all the time. You and me were already thought of when he made the angels. So, all of us have angels assigned to us even before we're born. But, that means that this angel didn't get assigned to anyone.'

'Well, that's not fair,' the little boy asserted.

'So, she went up to God and said, "God, I don't want to be an angel anymore." And He asked, "Why?" She said, "Because I'm not like the other angels. They all have people that talk to them. But nobody talks to me." "Well," He said, "If you don't want to be an angel, then you can get born on earth to a mom and dad." "Would you really do that for me?" she asked, excited. "Yes, but you have to know that you're going to forget everything about heaven if you are. And you're going to have to grow up and feel pain and everything. Are you sure you want to do this?" "Yes, I'm ready."'

'And so, she was born to a mommy and daddy. '

'Which ones?'

'A very lucky mommy and daddy. And the little girl - because she wasn't an angel anymore - started growing up. But there was a problem with her heart. And even though the mommy and daddy did everything they could by bringing her to doctors she stopped breathing and died.'

The boy looked up at his father's wet face. 'That sounds like what happened to Emma.'

'Yes, well, that's because she's the angel. She's my angel. Now she has someone talking to her. And we all have someone loving and watching over us.'

3WW: Agree, Execute, Providence

'And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor.'

The old man folded the brittle page carefully and slipped it into his pocket. The small crowd lingered for a time. Mostly old, infertile women. There were a few men, those who had survived. And a smattering of women lucky enough to have born a child or two.

After a time enjoying the scenery - they chose a different spot each year - the elders hobbled back to camp; the younger men and women followed. They could not gather in large groups for any period of time outside the anti-detection perimeter they had constructed lest the new government of the United States find them and execute them.

But on this one day, the former Independence Day, this group of rebels asserted their freedom by gathering outside their perimeter. A brief, symbolic gesture to declare their rights to life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness.

The old man did not immediately return to the village. Instead, by the light of the dying sun, he journeyed to the edge of a nearby cliff and stared into the valley where he saw, in the distance, a gleaming city with highways crisscrossing about it. Odd that he lived so close to the place where he had lived another life. Where his children most likely still lived. And where his wife had chosen to die. A city of high-tech slavery. The city a microcosm of the country that itself had sold its soul to the devil in return for a blend of hedonism and ultimate power.

He made his way back across the familiar path in the darkness of the new moon. When at the gates, he spoke the password, 'I do not agree with a word that you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it. Voltaire.' And with the final word the young man bade him enter.

One Single Impression: Seeds

a nibble
on the skin,
exploring
tongue.

flesh succumbs
to the pink
organ; he
tests.

there flows from
the crevice
a tangy
juice.

he laps it,
his taste buds
dancing a
tango.

the wet lips
part, sending
him into
ecstacy.

the seed comes
into his mouth;
by chance he
swallows.

ah, what joy,
what delight,
the zest of
an orange.

Sunday Scribblings: Coffee

The little boy sat at the table eating his Lucky Charms. His grandmother was preparing the hot tea for him and his grandfather, who was reading the Sunday paper. With both his grandparents distracted, the boy grabbed for his grandmother's pink mug and took a sip of the black liquid. 'Eww!' he yelped as this grandparents checked to see what had happened. When they realized what he had done, they chuckled. He was obviously not a fan of black coffee.

His grandmother brought the two mugs, the grandfather's straight tea and the grandson's sugar and milk tea, to the table.

'What is that?' the little boy pointed to the pink cup.

'It's coffee, don't you like it?'

'It's gross,' he said.

She then told him to wait a moment as she went to the counter. She was doing something to the dark liquid that he couldn't see. Concocting some potion. When she turned back around, the liquid had changed color. 'I just turned this coffee into tea,' she said. And in fact, the color of the liquid in her cup matched the color in his own.

'Huh?' grunted the boy.

'Try it. I'll bet you'll like it more than the tea.' So, he tried it. And he did like it. It tasted completely different. Sweet and milky, it didn't even resemble the liquid that was in the cup.

'What's this?' he asked, excited.

'It's a potion I made from the coffee. It's L A Tea.'

'L A Tea? It's better than this,' he pointed to the white mug in front of him.

'That's because it's a magic tea that is transformed from coffee.'

'Really?'

'Yep.'

'Can you do magic? Are you a witch?' he asked matter-of-factly.

'I used to be. Just ask your father.' She cackled. 'But I've forgotten all my spells. Just that potion. That's all I have left.'

'Wow.'

His grandmother passed away soon after, quite unexpectedly. And with her went her secret potion. He tried, in vain, to describe that potion that his grandmother had called L A Tea to his mother and his sisters. But they could never recreate it. No one could. Because no one knew what kind of tea this L A Tea was.

And then one day he happened upon the concoction. He was 16 and his girlfriend had convinced him to go to a coffee house. He ordered an iced tea. And she ordered a Cafe Latte. To the latte she added a couple sugars. When they sat, she asked him to take a sip.

'I don't do coffee,' he responded.

'Oh, just try it.' She flirted with her eyes.

'Fine,' he said, smitten. He sipped and his eyes bulged as he just about screamed 'L A Tea'.

His girlfriend, taken aback, stared at him and answered, 'huh?'

'What is this?' he asked.

'It's a latte,' she said, perplexed at his reaction.

He laughed. He had finally discovered the secret of his grandmother's final secret potion.

Saturday Scribes: Form V. Function

'Good morning, can I help you?' the young security officer asked the well dressed man.

'Yes, I am looking for a Dr. Robert Looney. Is he here?'

'Yes, sir, I believe he's in his office, but you should check with his secretary to see if he is available.'

'Thank you.'

The young man entered through a pair of double doors and found behind the front desk an attractive woman he guessed to be about 40. 'Good morning. I was told to see you about meeting with Dr. Robert Looney.'

'Oh,' she said. 'Well, umm...'

'Is there a problem?'

'It's just that he doesn't normally see visitors. Can I help you with something?' Her reaction boggled the man.

'He doesn't ever see visitors or he doesn't see them without an appointment?'

'Well, it's been a long time since I've had anyone ask to meet with him.'

'When was the last time?'

'Never...' Her voice trailed into oblivion leaving them sharing an awkward pause. She broke it first. 'May I ask what this is regarding?'

He replied, 'The government pays Dr. Looney a significant amount of money to develop unique solutions to difficult problems, at least that's what I was told. And I'm here to check in on those projects.'

'Oh...' She looked down at her monitor and began searching. After about 30 seconds, she looked back up and said, 'You must be Ed Cranston.'

'No, Ed passed away about six months back. I'm his replacement, Jarvis Perez.'

'Oh...' She smiled blankly. 'It's nice to meet you.'

'Yes, so, can I see Dr. Looney?'

'Let me check.' She disappeared into the office behind her and closed the door.

Jarvis heard a brief interchange but could not make out the words. She appeared a moment later and said, 'He will see you now' in her best formal voice. She added, less formally, 'He has a... what you might call a... a delicate temperament. So, just be gentle. Don't do anything to disturb him is all I mean.' She sat back down at her computer and resumed doing whatever it was she was doing.

After throwing the receptionist an odd look, Jarvis entered through the door to find a complete and utter mess. It wasn't an office at all but what looked like a college dorm room replete with bed and desk. Dr. Looney, an older man of about 60, sat at the desk staring at the computer. He was in his flannel pajamas.

'Hello, Dr. Looney.'

'Yes, yes, please sit. No pleasantries,' he blurted in his rather high-pitched voice. 'I am working, you know. Very busy. And sleepy. But no matter. What do you want?'

'Yes, well, my name is...'

'I said no pleasantries, sir. You may leave.'

'Fine. I'm curious to find out about the projects that you're involved in for the government.'

'Which government?' he inquired forgetting that he had just asked Jarvis to leave.

'The U.S. government,' Jarvis answered, a bit perplexed.

'Oh yes. Oh yes! The most recent is a new locomotive. It is a beautiful machine. Limitless in its performance. Incomparable in its aesthetics.'

Jarvis, having not dealt with the man before, was stunned - if only for a moment - by his description. 'You built a new train?'

'Train? Train!? No, not a mere train. It is a locomotive that rivals all that have proceeded it. More sleek than the bullet train, more classic than those developed in the golden age of locomotives.'

'Can I see it?'

'Yes, indeed!' he squealed. He reacted as a child readying to show his latest trinket at show and tell. He pulled from a pile of papers a sketch, colored with crayon. 'Here it is.' He thrust the paper into Jarvis' hands.

Jarvis took one look at the page and asked, 'Why is this locomotive better than others?'

Without hesitation and rather indignantly, Dr. Looney answered 'Can you not see the beauty in its design?'

'Okay, then how does it work?' Jarvis replied.

'I've only been able to make the sketch,' he said, 'I'm working on the functionality at present.'

'How long have you been working on this project?'

'I believe it's been five years. Why?'

'Oh, no reason. We will be in touch.' Jarvis placed the paper on the desk and departed, wondering if he had just entered, and thankfully left, the Twilight Zone.

Inspire Me Thursday: Yellow in a Different Light

fat, old whiskered man.
meter running, dice jangling.
putrid yellow cab.

on the radio
fox news tells a tale. yellow
journalism here.

'obama wants to
pull out of iraq too soon.
the yellowbelly.'

Matinee Muse: Conflicted Emotions

Conflicted Emotions

a quiet meal between two lovers
(teeth gnashing on hardened magma)
a lone feather flitting in the wind
(crack as the chicken's neck breaks)
a congregation singing a joyous hymn
(screaming profanities at her beaten child)
a snowflake melting on a puppy's nose
(severing the frostbitten foot onto the ice)
a warm fire on a crisp autumn evening
(human flesh burning, the odor of charred liver)

riotous screeching of rescued captives
(an old slave breathes his last while sleeping)

Poefusion: Beautiful Fractures

as she pop pop pops her gum
her atrocious voice squeaks;
meanwhile, death metal plays from the headphones
of the wandering do-nothing office nomad.

a bird tap tap taps the pane.
sirens crisscross the potholed streets.
hammers strike in time
to sousa's stars and stripes forever.

it's mine mine mine she screams.
a filthy son's blonde hair's adorned with sap.
the trash, the dishes, the lawn,
the question do you think i'm fat.

the car clop clop clops until
the front tire collapses violently.
the cell phone inoperable on this stretch.
a ten-mile hike in loafers; his rim ruined.

the phone ring ring rings six times.
he hears his mother-in-law share
'i have a bladder infection; i can't pittle.
and tom has hemorrhoids; he can't, well, you know'.

something hiss hiss hisses loudly
in the kitchen. a small explosion
as fire engulfs the newly installed
cherry wood cabinets. they move into a motel.

his boss knock knock knocks his fist
on the ugly flimsy wall of the cubicle.
'come to my office' at four on a friday;
the boss sits as the hr rep explains unemployment.

he hears bang bang bangs upstairs
in his brother's house, to which he has a key.
he waits downstairs as they conclude.
his brother and his wife walk into the room.

he pound pound pounds his fist
on the sticky dashboard of the datsun hatchback.
an unwanted epiphany strikes
like the headache following a spinal tap.

he smiles not unwickedly
at the beautiful fractures in his sanity.

One Single Impression: Defenses Down

An army comes,
Camouflaged in multivariate hue.
Subtle warriors, they.
Unassuming beings
With the patience of a frosty day.

Their opponent

Sits entrenched in their fiery glee.

Convinced of their

Invulnerability.

The high ground yet belongs to them.

The stolid men abide
beneath the setting orb.
Preparing in their fields
With spears the size
Of maize not quite matured.

As the sun lays down
Its last golden blanket on the grass,
The quiet knights
O'ertake the fervid foe
And briskly bear them onward.

Those youngsters rash,
Impervious to their failing warmth
Found their defenses down.
But with their captors
They will train, that autumn may endure.

Sunday Scribblings: Miracle

He spent wary days
searching a lifetime of chapels
for kneeling saints.

He pulled white rabbits
from limited edition Lincoln
replica top hats.

He healed dying women
with herbs and scapulae
in countless foreigh huts.

He chose six winning lottery numbers
according to a variation
of the Fibonacci sequence.

He watched rippling waves
lapping at his calloused feet
on the shores of a blue lake.

He met the love of his life
in a small Kazakh village
as a bullet punctured his heart.

He was dying in a makeshift chapel
beneath a kneeling saint.
His body spasmed as he gasped.

To his love he whispered with his last breath,
'Before you, I only believed in irony;
But now I believe in miracles.'

She didn't understand him.

Saturday Scribes: Music (Theme)

Words:

• elbow
• crows
• merchant

Eddie approached the house where he had lived just two short weeks prior. He carried in his left hand a worn paperback. He knocked. The door opened.

The young man standing in the doorway folded his arms across his chest; he made no indication that he would allow Eddie into the house.

'What do you want?' the young man asked.

'Jason, I'm sorry that I had to leave, but...'

'Save your buts, Eddie. It's been two weeks. What do you want?'

From behind Jason, Eddie heard the eerie tones of Jason's music lingering. The high nasal voice combined with the synthesized sounds of a piano. Eddie sighed. 'Look, I was wrong to leave in the way that I did. I should have told you. But I'm going home. Starting new. Away from this place. And I need the money I lent to you.' He paused. 'I don't need all of it right now, but I need about half so I can move back home and get a place. That should hold me over. Then you can pay me back with the rest later.'

Jason's eyes flickered with indignation. 'You stab me in the back and then ask for your money? No. Get out of here.' He moved to slam the door.

Eddie moved his arm to stop the door. He felt most of the impact on his right elbow and shuddered with pain. The book dropped from his hand into the house. He pushed against the door forcing Jason - even with his adrenaline - backwards.

'You got no right coming in here.'

'Jason, let's make this easy, okay? Just give me half and we'll call it good.' He picked up the book and flung it onto the couch. 'Oh, and I took this by accident.' The Merchant of Venice bounced on the putrid green cushions.

Jason retreated back into the makeshift dining room, seething with anger. 'Ironic that I'm the Jew, ain't it?' he spewed venomously.

'Jason, we had a plan. We had our music, ideas for a band, everything ready to go. But you decided to go in your own direction. To stab me in the back and find a bunch of losers with musical talent. I wasn't good enough for you. I was holding you back. But my money sure wasn't. Well, if you want to do this on your own, then do it. Just give me back my share.' He stepped closer to Jason, almost threateningly.

'You left me with all the bills, all the cleanup from that party, all the follow-up with the cops, and I owe you something? You're the one who should be eating crow. Get the hell out of my house!'

'Jason, there aren't enough crows in this world to make up for what you've done to me in the past. But I don't even care about that. Just give me the money, and we can call it good. Go our separate ways. Do what we want and whatever. What about it?'

'Eddie, I don't have the money. It's spent.'

'Unspend it.'

'I can't.'

'Well, then we have a problem...'

Haiku

A leaping leper

Is in serious danger

Of losing himself.

Crawling ladybug

I wanted to crush you, but

I'm superstitious.

On the East Coast, I

dislike you; on the West Coast

I like others more.

A woman applies

makeup on the bus. One bump

and it's all over.

Fishing

In that dusky lake of honey hue, she eavesdrops as the water nips her calves. Long ago, she learned that eyes deceive. A ripple without a tug marks the difference between starvation and sustenance.

She knows the lake and all the fish within. They have fed on the ashes of her kin. But that dust has made the teeming life no more sympathetic. They couldn't care less. They don't want her to win. Instead, they tug at her line tauntingly, treating her like a spoiled younger sister. They laugh at her exhaustion, at her impatience with them. The schools sample her bait, each fishy connosieur delicately easing each wormy delicacy from the makeshift hook. As she reels in the line, she curses herself, fighting back the tears. She doesn't need to see the hook to know that the bait rests in peace. She breathes.

Pine and juniper fill her nostrils. She relaxes and remembers when love and pain were not so intertwined.

She casts again, knowing that whatever she catches will not be enough.

Pre-Willy

'Joseph,' she whispered. 'Joseph, wake up.' She shook him a bit until finally his watery eyes parted. 'Are you awake?' she hissed.

'Now I am. What time is it,' he mumbled.

'Just after eleven,' she replied.

'A.M. or P.M.?'

'A.M. Joseph, don’t ask such stupid questions.'

I’ll ask anything…'

'Shh', she cut him off. 'You’ll wake them,' she pointed to the two people in front of them.

'So? We sleep with them,' he grumbled.

She shrugged. 'Joseph, I want to go somewhere; just with you.'

'Where?' he inquired impatiently.

'I don’t know,' she said. 'To the market for a bite to eat. To a show. To anywhere you want. But somewhere without them,' she pointed at the pair with renewed contempt.

'Why?' he asked.

'Because it’s been such a long time and because every time we’ve tried to involve them, we end up doing nothing. I’m just so tired of sitting here in this room watching television and knitting.'

'They’re not so bad; we should ask them to go with us.'

'Oh, Joseph, we go through this all the time,' she argued. 'They’re dead weight. We need to come up with our own plan. Let’s just go somewhere.' She spoke the final word more loudly than she wanted.

The other two woke with a start. 'What’s all this racket?' George demanded. 'We’re trying to get some sleep.'

'Sorry, George, we were just discussing something,' Joseph’s wife replied.

'No doubt about going somewhere without us,' he replied.

'Joseph,' his wife snorted, 'how could you tell them about our plans?'

'What plans? I didn't tell them them anything.'

'Our plans to go somewhere!' she yelled.

George interjected, 'If you want to go somewhere, then go; we’re not stopping you.'

'Now, the whole plan’s ruined,' she frowned.

'Where’s our daughter?' asked George’s wife. 'Where’s our breakfast?'

'Oh, put a sock in it,' George yelled; 'don’t be ungrateful.'

'If you want it bad enough, go make it yourself.'

George's wife looked shocked at such an insulting suggestion. 'Hmph,' she managed, before rolling over and pulling the sheets over her head.

'She said she only had a few loads this morning,' Joseph chimed in.

'Then, I guess we’re not going anywhere if we have to wait for her to return,' Joseph’s wife scowled.

'Where would we go anyway?' Joseph asked again.

'Somewhere!' she yelled before grabbing her knitting and propping herself against her pillow.

A young blonde-haired boy of no more than 10 entered through the door of the lackluster shack. 'Hi Grandma Georgina, Grandpa George, Grandma Josephine, Grandpa Joe.'