smoke and ash stirred
by rough winds, the pounding rain
quenches summer fires
summer steals away
in the soft stillness of night
and in it’s place, Fall
in the fallen leaves
gold of a vanished sun
summer’s gift to autumn
Image by Robin Anderson
Category: Decay
Another Sun
There is another sun embodied in this smoke,
an ancient sun, prehistoric, primeval,
locked away for eons by a kindly force
now set loose by a heedless hand.
Fire liberates the exhalations and ash
of dinosaurs, saber tooth tigers,
Jeanne d’Arc.
We choke on the past.
Image by Marcus Rahm via Unsplash.com
The River
In the West flows a mighty river. Down mountains, over rocks and boulders, through trees it runs. Strong and unabated it slides toward civilization. No dam or levee can hold back the fierce flood. But it neither splashes nor sparkles in the sun. It’s pools and eddies are dark. It reflects nothing and chokes all beings it overtakes. Dry and noisome, it is a river of smoke.
The West is on fire.
Image by Jeremy Thomas via Unsplash.com
Dust
Dust, it is said, is made primarily of shed human skin. But is the dust in my house only my dead skin? Or has someone else’s skin come in?
Image by Austin Ban via Unsplash.com
Six Word Story
by Harrison Fulop
First of Summer. Now darkness grows.
Image by Robin Anderson
A Thousand Cuts
SC1 INTERIOR. DAY. APARTMENT
Thirtysomething couple, the Andres, are fighting. Man, Van, is short, pudgy and balding. Woman, Adrianne, is tall, slim and fit.
Apartment is modern and upscale. The only things out of place are the cowboy boots on the floor next to a coffee table holding a cowboy hat and a Slim Pickens album.
VAN
We’ve been over this a zillion times. It never changes.
ADRIANNE
And since when are you so damn perfect.
Voices escalate.
VAN
I’m not perfect, but marriage is a compromise and when one person really hates–
ADRIANNE
And how much do I hate about you? Let’s start with pot belly and balding head?
VAN
Every argument it goes back to that. It’s my genetics.
Both are pacing, clenching fists. Adrianne picks up a piece of heavy cut glass.
ADRIANNE
Your mom and dad are both smart, so where do you get your stupidity?
VAN
If I’m stupid then you’re a slug.
ADRIANNE
God, you can’t even argue right!
VAN
And you have no taste.
ADRIANNE
Taste! You dare talk about taste!
VAN
You drive me crazy!
ADRIANNE
You drive me crazy!
SC2 INTERIOR. DAY. APARTMENT
Apartment is quiet, seems empty. A hand sticks out from behind the coffee table. There is blood on it from several cuts. The cowboy boots are lying down, sprinkled with blood.
SC3 INTERIOR. DAY. SURGERY/ ME EXAM ROOM
Small sparse surgery. Little equipment beyond a steel table, a light and a second table holding a tray. Tall, thin, dour man, Dr. Crane, bends over body on a steel table. The body is draped from head to torso and from feet to hips. The torso area is covered with blood. Dr. Crane mumbles to himself as he touches the blood.
CRANE
I wonder if there was a lot at the crime scene?
He pulls up the lower sheet to reveal cowboy boots and smiles.
CRANE
Nice boots. Think the blood will come out?
SC4 INTERIOR. DAY. SURGERY
Detective Abe Kates bursts into surgery. He is short, muscular and intense and carries a large black evidence bag.
KATES
Dr. Crane? Detective Kates.
Crane extends a gloved, bloody hand. Kates ignores it.
KATES
Got my COD?
CRANE
I’m working on it. I’ll have the report tomorrow or the next day. After I open the chest and see the pictures from the scene.
KATES
I got family breathing down my neck.
CRANE
The body was just delivered today.
KATES
And how long does it take?
CRANE
Long enough to do it right.
Kates sucks in a ragged breath.
KATES
Anything I can do to help?
CRANE
Are you a doctor?
Kates backs from the table and paces and Crane pulls off the boots and socks. He pokes around at the feet.
KATES
What’d the feet tell you?
Crane hands Kates the boots. Kates quickly puts on gloves, before taking and bagging them.
CRANE
I’d like them back when you’re done with them?
KATES
What? The boots? They’ll go to the family.
CRANE
Too bad.
Kates does an exaggerated eye roll. It’s lost on Crane, who is digging around in the cuts on the torso. Crane’s face lifts as he pulls out a bloody black chip. He rubs off the blood with a cloth as Kates, more excited than usual, opens the original evidence bag.
Crane brandishes a thin uneven triangle as Kates pulls out a bloody vinyl LP album with a chip missing.
Crane slips his chip into divot. It fits.
Sleep Walk
n the night, Old Man heard Boy get up and leave his bedroom. “He’ll be going to the toilet,” Old Man thought. But Boy walked past the bathroom. Old Man heard the top stair moan, the fourth step creak. He struggled out of bed. Old Man grabbed his robe, searched with one foot for his slippers. The back door slammed. He gave up.
Old Man got downstairs and outside in time to see Boy’s white-blond head disappear into the summer night. “Not again!”
Old Man stepped onto the dew slicked lawn and headed down the yard. Through the hedge and alongside the vegetable garden, he made out Boy’s shadow in the small orchard. “I’m too old for this nonsense.” Something rustled in the bush and Old Man walked faster.
Boy moved slowly, his head swaying from side to side. He entered the little wood that divided the two properties.
“Damnit.” With his longer legs, Old Man was catching up, but not quickly enough.
Old Man emerged from the wood, the smell of wet ash and burnt wood hit him in the face. Boy stood at the back door or the darkened hulk, his hand on the door knob.
“No.” Old Man whispered. Boy turned slowly.Old Man could see Boy’s eyes, open wide but sleeping, sightless.
He went to him, laid his hand on Boy’s thin shoulder and guided him gently away.
A bird trilled. Old Man looked up to the silvering sky. “Almost dawn.”
They walked. Through the wood and orchard, up the garden, into the lightening dawn, back to the big white house.
Old Man sat Boy down on the edge of the bed, wiped his feet with a corner of his robe and eased Boy back onto his pillow. His eyes were closed now but tears gleamed on his cheeks. “Grandpa?” Boy murmured.
“You sleep son.”
In the morning, smells of coffee and toast awakened Boy. He stretched and sat up, unfurling his cramped fingers. A circle of soot marked his palm, the faint odor of burnt metal obliterated the aroma of breakfast.
“Not again!” Crying, Boy went to wash his hands.
Image by Amanda Ball
In or Out
“In or out?” I asked the cat. He went out. Then in. Then out again. This was his habit. But he always came home for dinner.
“In or out?” I asked the dog. She went halfway out, straddled the threshold, sniffed the air. This was her habit. I waited. She came in when it was time for dinner .
“In or out?” the doctor asked our mother. “You have a decision to make.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you want to continue going into the hospital for your heart failure?”
“Or?”
“You could choose to stay out, to stay at home.”
“And die?”
“We can provide comfort care.”
“I’m in the habit of living.”
“No one goes on forever. You’re pretty sick.”
We waited.
“I’m hungry, I want my dinner.”
Image by Harrison Fulop