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Ailinn
Windchimer

2173 Posts

Posted - 08/10/2015 :  20:17:43  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply

He's waiting at the corner of West Main and South Rusk. Whistling a tune with dirt on his hands. Back on the street mining sunshine.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2173 Posts

Posted - 08/10/2015 :  20:21:19  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply

No worldly lure could make him what he wasn't.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2173 Posts

Posted - 08/20/2015 :  19:01:27  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
He shuffles the cards like a river boat gambler. A few weeks in a hallway off Fairfax and Third. Adam's mouth whispering stories near Eve's ruby-stung ear.

Telling a story that makes her laugh and lean against him. Nights with candles. Trellised roses at the door. His freeze-frame profile leaning over Mulholland. The tide perpetually rising under their bed.

Sun-charged air on shallow water. His heart-shaped shovel. Her starry tears. Her bell-tied shoes waterlogged. Forgive her sadness, brothers and sisters. Her wordy troubles. Her hold-out stash. Her up to the minute Amtrak pass.

The words he provides. Gold ink underscored. "The real deal," he says. She says, "You watch too much television."

He's rewriting history at the kitchen table. Paper napkins. Lots of gold ink. Guttering candles in cups in the corner. An hour glass with its trickle of sand. A calendar with X'd out days. "Forget time and what rhymes with it, Lady," he says, "I'm holding your heart out of harm's way."
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2173 Posts

Posted - 08/22/2015 :  19:55:24  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply

Black and blue evenings. Astonishing stars out by the wind turbines and power lines pop and sizzle. Graffiti and Old Glory forever rolling over the desert floor. Endless serpentine stack trains rumbling towards Thermal and Mecca. ("Don't try to cross the tracks in those shoes.") He has her by the hand when the cops roll by midnight window shopping. A Walmart Super Store mirage. All that kinetic energy loading the strike-slip San Andreas.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2173 Posts

Posted - 08/28/2015 :  21:31:42  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply

"If it's real you hold onto it," he says. Ace of hearts sliding across the table. Rescued before it slips into the pool.

Days on the road. Hours beside the aqueduct. Almond groves and crow-tangled branches. Sun-bent flowers and tinsel-topped vineyards.

Somewhere near Kettleman City they're afraid to drink the water. Afraid to drink the coffee at Dairy Queen. The motel air conditioner leaves grey frost on the therma pane.

Rod Serling in his dark suit calling long-distance from a telephone booth waist-high in tumbleweed. (All that bottled water in the garage waiting on "the big one.")

Shoes left by the side of the tracks. Bare feet in a Walmart Super Store mirage. (The floors are cleaner in Target.) "It's 101 degrees at midnight," he says, "What do you mean seasonal...?"

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Ailinn
Windchimer

2173 Posts

Posted - 08/29/2015 :  20:40:43  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply

Flash Paper days. Sun-blind anthems of prayer. Corridors of salt-swept eucalyptus. Dawn trees in their ephemeral dresses where the pavement ended and the sandy path narrowed at the watery edge of town. (Pebbles riprapping down the cliff side.) The summer glowed on. The grass grew greener. No drought that year. Or the year before.

He closed his eyes and placed the pen in her hand. "What are you waiting for?" he said. In other dreams the sea torments him.

East gate of The Garden in crisis. Her heart...more his than her own.

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Ailinn
Windchimer

2173 Posts

Posted - 09/01/2015 :  19:49:44  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply

Mountain at the back door. The Heaven-high San Jacinto. Her rescued trousseau when the bonnet-topped wagons disappear. His fire-lit face beaming across the conflagration. "Well, now..." he says. Fever stories. Consequence on every page.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2173 Posts

Posted - 09/03/2015 :  19:05:45  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply

Days gone by...

Rail yard in the Coachella Valley... "...icing the train..." Words caught in her head decades ago. A Hail Mary picture.

Farmers Market 3rd and Fairfax. Coffee in cups with saucers before live stream at The Grove. The tar pits reeking their primordial rank perfume.

On Calico Mountain gnawing Red Vines. "For thinking," she said. 111 degrees and 4% humidity. The mountain punctured with shafts where they packed the silver out one hundred and thirty-five years ago. Long-sleeve woolen shirts. Their faces and hands pins and needles.

Coming home. Sky West Express glides into Palomar. Kisses and kisses. All those candles on the coastline climbing uphill.

His heart-shaped shovel and interrupted lifeline. His broken stone oven that baked better bread. He is the memory of all the old times and places. A loss that left her struggling for breath.

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Ailinn
Windchimer

2173 Posts

Posted - 09/11/2015 :  21:50:51  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply

Museum study. Warp time. Restless in the diorama rooms. The wolves and the antelopes fading behind glass walls. Outside, rain-streaked buildings. Eddying leaves in revolving doorways.

Curb talk in the city. Hiss of rain from the Avenue when the taxis speed by. "I don't believe in accidents," he says before he knows her one hour. Broken sticks of lightning tearing the sky apart.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2173 Posts

Posted - 09/14/2015 :  17:24:21  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply

Autumn morning. Mountain-top bikers assemble outside the Town Hall waiting for the pie shops to open. Their inked biceps and bright bandanas coloring the corner of Washington and Main. He stands at the window of a high house in the pines in an old gold mining town. Organdy sunlight on the wide wooden deck. Orchard-fragrant air and well-heavy water. Power lines overhead like the spokes of broken umbrellas. There's a turntable in a corner of the room. A stack of album covers. Pictures of past lives antiquifying on a shelf. Across the valley travelers make their ritual climb to apples. Later, a winter with snow.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2173 Posts

Posted - 09/15/2015 :  19:40:51  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply

He's setting the stage with shadows in Fog Town. Salt on his hands. Spectral navigation in the sanctuary of a dream. "Listen!" he says, leaning East. Breathtaking clarity of his words. "...the truth under all the truths..." September pushing its dark wing against the sky.

Edited by - Ailinn on 10/16/2017 08:59:03
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2173 Posts

Posted - 09/30/2015 :  14:53:57  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
The kelp farmers comb the abundant beds in waters off the coast. In a house on a cliff side listing to port the tinkerman makes tools when he needs them. His wrists where the veins show blue...beating there by the weedy ocean. Rearranging time on the kitchen table. All those delicate washers and springs. The past and the present converging. Today with some yesterday in it. How he sees and says things. What he does with the silence in-between.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2173 Posts

Posted - 10/02/2015 :  21:34:42  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
"What do you think of birds, Ro? Do they have souls? Fish? This turkey sandwich? This pen?" "Surely that pen does, Mick." His gravelly laugh then. A dangerous editor. A permanent cut.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2173 Posts

Posted - 10/04/2015 :  17:16:52  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
"...stubborn and stuck-up, hahaha. The Irish thing!" he says at the bar in a midtown hotel. His peppery grin when he thumbs a flared match to her Marlboro, "Lay your armor down, Lady. I'm not here to fight." Outside another world spins on its axis around them. Later she's leaning against him in the back of the taxi. Her cheek against his charcoal lapel.

-from Stories I Tell the Sheriff

Edited by - Ailinn on 10/05/2015 08:04:37
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2173 Posts

Posted - 10/04/2015 :  17:22:34  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Who were they unwrapped and agile? His pent-up energy circling the kitchen table where so much of their life occurred. Hours of hours he created the gravity necessary to hold them in place. Hours of hours. Air 73. Water 73. Sloppy conditions. Short sets. Summer suits or board shorts recommended.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2173 Posts

Posted - 10/04/2015 :  17:25:45  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
I saw you last night. Walking down the long hall barefoot. Your ankle bones shining.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2173 Posts

Posted - 10/06/2015 :  20:33:08  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
The drift fences did little to hold back the sand constantly sifting under the door. Little cyclones of grit on the floor. The inviolate San Jacintos. He shook his head at that mountain every morning. He stood back and let it be. "OK. OK. You can't stop the tide from rollin' in. You can't stop the rain from fallin'." The children left their shoes upside-down on the stairs. The youngest on a stool at the stove flipping peanut butter pancakes.
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Doug L
Firefly

Canada
5446 Posts

Posted - 10/11/2015 :  04:21:02  Show Profile  Visit Doug L's Homepage  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
That valley, old as the Ice Age, its rolling coteau depths formed by warming and the erosive caresses of water, has been home to indigenous people for thousands of years. Every time I have passed through the Qu'appelle, I have felt the ancient spells, wisdoms I am not wise enough to know. I remember that one October, before the snows came, when the trees along the hillsides fought, wearing rough-house colors, to be most beautiful. The fishermen, the hunters, those who carted pemmican north to the Hudson Bay Company store to sell. All gone. The trail is still there, has survived generations. And the old Cree ball player, Hubert Grey Eyes, in his seventies now, remembers me from three summers before when we met in the cafe not far from his shack. That old league is no more, and the stadium his club played in has paper bags and tumbleweeds flattened against its backstop now. But Hubert Grey Eyes has a memory as long as the Qu'appelle River, as wide as the surrounding plains, as sharp as the knife he uses to whittle and carve. His ball glove is still on a hook behind the door, cracked, open. The wind bends the grass. The train comes through once each day. The ball games are played in Los Angeles, in St. Louis, and in Texas this October. Old Grey Eyes knows, leads me outside to the porch, where the red sky turns darker, where the air keeps us awake. Three summers. Still he keeps my name.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2173 Posts

Posted - 10/13/2015 :  21:13:28  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply

...like the APL Panama languidly misplaced in the Harbor. Walk out at low tide and touch her. One American dollar, Senor.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

2173 Posts

Posted - 10/14/2015 :  17:30:50  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
It's 5:00pm Christmas Day in Ensenada and where is the Captain?

It was the Port Pilot's job to meet every ship while it was still in deep waters and help the Captain guide her safely in. This ship needed 50 feet of water in order to stay afloat. Port Pilot, Ramirez
said he was leaving port to meet her when he spotted the monstrous vessel heading across the entrance channel and aiming straight for the shore. "I saw the lights and I just couldn't believe it! I just couldn't believe it! I told the tugboats, 'Leave the port! The ship is about to run aground!'" Minutes later the APL Panama drove headlong onto the beach burying her bow 20 feet deep in sand.

It was a time when I was still traveling back and forth from Ensenada. I always thought this would make a great movie because of all the characters intertwined. Those on the ship and in the Harbor, folks waiting for their flat screens and silk underwear to arrive. The tourists and Mardi-Gras-like atmosphere on the beach, the enterprising locals. The salvage took 75 days. The photographs are amazing.
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