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Ailinn
Windchimer
2217 Posts |
 Posted - 05/06/2019 : 17:33:52
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| Two people wide awake with their eyes closed. What are we looking for? she asks him. "We're not looking," he says, "We're seeing." Morricone soundtrack, she says. Red filter. The priest in black cassock and wide brimmed hat. Flash on the lens where the sun is rising. I stare at the broken puzzle in my patent leather shoes. The corner and edge pieces missing. The image too bright to say what it means. The corn green and tasseled in the field on the way to the trains. |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2217 Posts |
Posted - 05/06/2019 : 17:39:44
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| He presses the tips of his fingers together, "...a piece at a time..." he says. "Random pictures. Enough to see where it goes." |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2217 Posts |
Posted - 05/06/2019 : 17:44:03
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| Pears in pale tissue on bone china plates. Virtuous hands by the napkins. Chandeliered hallways. Enchantment behind every closed door. "Go on..." he says, and he makes the cut, "...on a scale of one to ten..." They travel through lives beyond reprise or dissolution. His diamond highways. His ruby at the top of the mast. The fog ribboning in cradling geraniums. "You see how it is..." he says. |
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Doug L
Firefly
Canada
5446 Posts |
Posted - 05/07/2019 : 00:00:02
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Bents, Saskatchewan, is a ghost town. There are quite a few of them, more all the time. Finding them has become a sport of sorts. They disappear from the maps, see, so you have to rely on elders, what hints they're willing to provide. Then hope a road still exists.
Bents is a little different. Spookier. People have seen UFOs here. It's not easy to find the site. Roads in are so rarely used that they're grown over and easy to miss. There's the grain elevator, a few surviving homes, and the general store. The shelves in the store still have some items on them. They're not for sale.
There was a time in the early twentieth century when Saskatchewan was the third most populated province in Canada, behind Ontario and Quebec. Hard to believe now, but it once was a very affordable destination for immigrants looking to homestead. The federal government was giving the land away. You can't beat that draw. People traveled from all over, in droves. Survival was a challenge. Get tough or die. Truly.
Folks came, near-killed themselves making the land arable. The women had kids, the kids helped with the work as soon as able. There'd be incorporation. Up went the elevator, in came the railway. A post office was useful, provided another couple jobs. Life became a better crap shoot. So what if the weather savaged your plans. Next year's country. They don't call it that for nothing.
Then it ended. A little faster than gradually. Prices fell. The crops failed. Men's bodies gave out. Drought, frost. Corporate firms came like vultures, bought folks out. Many towns were abandoned. The rails rusted out, sunk beneath the silt. Families scattered to the cities. A few ghosts moved in. Animals. Rats. Vandals. The wind and storms can wreak havoc on an abandoned town, swirling up so it feels like it's raining gravel. Bents got beat up pretty good. Stoned. A lot of older buildings collapsed. Not so anybody'd notice.
Someone purchased Bents. A young man who knew a family who once lived there. People were vandalizing the remaining structures, so he made a case for buying it and preserving what's left. He doesn't allow people in anymore, or if he does it's by special appointment only. His heart's in the right place.
There's this sense that Bents truly is a ghost town. Meaning that it is haunted. People used to freak out about it. Photographers among them. You'd go and stand there, the wind making noises around you, the grasses whistling, the houses rattling. A fox comes out of the tall grass and your skin shrinks, goosebumps all over. A whirlwind rises, bounces little rocks off your face. The prairie is a hard religion.
And then there are the stories of seeing unidentified objects lighting up the night sky. Reported by many more than two people. Bents. It's out there. The grain elevator sings at night.
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buckman
Firefly
USA
2829 Posts |
Posted - 05/08/2019 : 01:08:21
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He searches every room for her,
but she’s been gone for years.
Sometimes he forgets.
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2217 Posts |
Posted - 05/24/2019 : 19:30:29
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| Del Mar Fair. Longest Fair in North America and largest in the U.S. Wizard of Oz theme this year in honor of Frank Baum who wrote several Oz books at the hotel Del on Coronado. Livestock. Pig races. Pie-eating and watermelon seed spitting contests. Booths in exhibit halls. Penny candy to pure silk duvets. Photo and garden shows. Edible flowers. Gems and minerals. Exquisite one-of-a-kind woodwork designs. Furniture, clocks, violins. Emerald City food. Yellow brick fudge. Blizzard of Oz frozen custard. Ruby slipper batter-dipped crème brulee. For the traditional, blossom onions and barbecue. Live music at night. A hidden Speakeasy. A Ferris Wheel overlooking the big P. The children are carbonated with anticipation. We go in a crowd. Get there early. Stay late. |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2217 Posts |
Posted - 05/24/2019 : 19:38:02
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| Arches and alcoves. Dark trees. Clamorous stars through the branches. Long nights with votives flickering down the loggia wall. A dream of trimming the wicks. Sooty fingerprints. Hands hidden in their serapes. |
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Joe Z
Windchimer
USA
1819 Posts |
Posted - 05/26/2019 : 08:32:31
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The children are carbonated with anticipation.
Wonderful way with words.
Ro, the Del Mar Fair also features the best smoked turkey legs I've ever tasted. |
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San Diego
Swinger
509 Posts |
Posted - 05/26/2019 : 15:06:55
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Renaissance food, those turkey legs, Joe.
The children are actually shivering. I have a houseful so they'll probably get to go more than once.
Love to Utah. |
Edited by - San Diego on 11/20/2019 15:24:02 |
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buckman
Firefly
USA
2829 Posts |
Posted - 05/27/2019 : 19:07:57
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His wishes always seemed to outrun his needs.
A life trapped in the shadows
Somewhere in between...
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2217 Posts |
Posted - 05/29/2019 : 17:20:06
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| Low oyster light in the morning. Sentient clouds. Top-heavy bluff spilling over. Butterflies in a white room. The garden's delirious flowers. Their Eden-green fragrance. "...an' all that water out there..." he says, cup in hand, steam coming off the coffee. |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2217 Posts |
Posted - 05/29/2019 : 17:23:57
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| "It depends on the brand," she says. "You don't like the purple ones." He takes a partially chewed one out of his mouth and checks the color. Blocks of sunlight like Mondrian's art on the floor. "These reds are wrong," he says, and she agrees. "The black ones are most always licorice," she says. |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2217 Posts |
Posted - 05/29/2019 : 17:29:23
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| "Hard work...but I liked it. Knew it wasn't forever. Low sky leanin' in. Slow tides..." he's laying color down after each sentence, "...different books..." he says, "...a life..." "Kept the Klieg lights out of my eyes," she says. "Leaned on the props for the long shots. Back on the avenue in transient twilight. The violet hour. Souls in flux." |
Edited by - Ailinn on 06/03/2019 17:27:35 |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2217 Posts |
Posted - 05/29/2019 : 17:32:05
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| NO TRESPASSING signs wilder places. Dust-bright horizon. Raptors in the sky. The creek dusty. The leaves brittle. Every sheet on the line quick-dried in Santa Ana. Mineral shimmer along the foothills where he moves that fast car. |
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buckman
Firefly
USA
2829 Posts |
Posted - 06/01/2019 : 06:47:15
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Consolation prize.
Almost a winner.
Tearing down the Wyoming interstate
past the rusted fords and the dirt side roads
leading to lives I would never know.
Heading back East with someone I barely knew
who would consume the next twenty years of my life.
Too young to slow down long enough to listen to anybody.
Old enough to know better.
Lost her in the sun.
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2217 Posts |
Posted - 06/03/2019 : 17:25:39
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| "Blood roads. Hibernia tribes. Irish cops. American imagination. Steep subway stairs. Little acts of mercy. All-night slices of sky in view. I did it to stay in the hotel..." she says, "...room service carts with coffee. Central Art's fine parchment papers." |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2217 Posts |
Posted - 06/03/2019 : 17:36:01
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| "Studio warehouse in the silo building off Canal. Seven floors of loud metal stairs. Circuitous echo. Glossy prints in the Lobby. Street urchin look. Big eyes. Freight elevators to bring up the clothes. Star paints on my face. 'The Look' the client requires. Grows herbs on the fire escape in Campbell's Soup cans. Fresh mint for her tea. The future on hold while the cameramen play with the lights." He pauses with his brush on the canvas when she comes to stand beside him. "...those sun-bent flowers..." she says, "...how did you do that...?" He holds up his paint-streaked fingers. Up close she can see his prints in the smear. "Purely a presence," she says, and he laughs. A lifetime goes by, "...the spread-open fan of memory..." he says. |
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buckman
Firefly
USA
2829 Posts |
Posted - 06/04/2019 : 15:29:49
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They always say the story’s too sad
But they only know about half
He traveled east in the westbound lane
Then turned around and laughed
He gave the finger to the sons of bitches
While he carried out their trash
The world didn’t owe him a living
And never gave him a Goddamn thing
He swaggered with the beat of the jazz
And always made sure he could swing.
The thing about this world, friend
Is it’s just another game
He’s looking forward to the day
When it all goes up in flames.
You really think you’re special don't you?
But
You’re evil and you’re blind
And most of your great society
Will burn away in Hell's hard times
They try and tell me I'm doing it wrong
But I know wrong and I know I'm right
You see me and the Devil, well,
We used to be pretty tight.
There are those that give and those that take
and the ones that go to their knees
But Lord just give me one time more
With one that only aims to please.
They always say the story’s too sad
But they only know about half
He traveled east in the westbound lane
Then turned around and laughed
https://youtu.be/gXdZrRDYhXw
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Edited by - buckman on 06/04/2019 15:32:02 |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2217 Posts |
Posted - 06/07/2019 : 17:31:05
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| Fairfax and Third. Farmers Market and the Tar Pits. 11pm on The Miracle Mile when the 'broker' approaches. "Open your minds to this," he says. He holds out his arms and shakes out his sleeves. His brown suit is pleated with wrinkles. "Flower people! I saw that right off!" he says, and produces a faded photo of a flower farm FOR SALE in Salinas. "A chance to make millions!" he says. It's a balmy night. A little moisture in the air puts halos around the street lamps and diffuses the neon. Softens Wilshire's loud hum. "...didn't seem strange at all..." she says later. "...flower people..." he grins. |
Edited by - Ailinn on 06/08/2019 05:20:01 |
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buckman
Firefly
USA
2829 Posts |
Posted - 06/07/2019 : 23:54:36
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See,
She Looks at me.
See how
She looks at me.
I say, Martina,
Why do you look at me
Like that?
She says
Because you're beautiful.
I say,
No, really, why do you
Look at me like that?
She says
Because I love you and
You're beautiful and
Nobody ever told you before
And I want to remember every inch
of your face when I'm in Heaven
Look,
She looks at me
Look how
She looks at me.
I miss her looking....
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The Nightly Vigil