Brainstorm #14

The banner, satin and red, near the entrance doors of the city hall, showcased it for all who opened its doors. One would stand erect to pay honor to this gentle symbol of Cardezina, circa 1871. I was said that the West was a wild liqueur bar of demons.

As for Handers, he knew quite well where he stood on the issue. For his assured expectation was of virgin white. Long eyes viewed ahead; upon a blurred horizon. Gracing on a grassy knoll feeding for hours at a time. Some of the time the dirty blades would intoxicate me into a slow motion pace. And, yes, it's all short-lived.

The revolver in Johnny's back was cocked and ready if things turned in a deadly duel. Standing yards apart, and face-to-face, a pair of eyes focused on those of his enemy. It was a fight to the death; the woman, the price for the living, stood still behind the railing with tears and outcries filled the air with supplication.

A second after, a gun shot: He was dead, shot in the heart; and surrendering his soul to the unknown. The woman fell weeping and yelped her pangs outwardly. But before the gun man grabbed her by the arm, she quieted and followed him with a bowed head, and as a trophy washed in dark blood.

brainstorm #13

A blind dog in a meat house is exactly what Wilson classified his money maker - Milford, a heavy weight monster plundering the body and head of his bewildered opponent. Milford was bloody and worn from the interchange as he returned to his corner. Milford was glad the twelfth round was over as he dropped heavily on the stool; his breathing lumbered, and his right eye, a baseball size bulge, purple and inflamed; a small cut just below his other eye. 

As soon as Milford sank into his seat, Wilson, his trainer, started his routine of commands - bring up your elbow, bend your knees more.... Wilson pointed out all the weaknesses in the opponents stance; and, just before the opening bell sounded, Wilson spoke some encouraging words while maintaining a frown of assured confidence. 

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brainstorm #12

A blind dog in a meat house is exactly what Wilson classified his money maker - Milford, a heavy weight monster plundering the body and head of his bewildered opponent. Nonetheless Milford was bloody and worn from the interchange at the bell. He was glad the twelfth round was over as he dropped heavily on the stool; his breathing lumbered, and his right eye, a baseball size blot, purple and inflamed; a small cut just below his other eye was not deep enough to bring concern. As soon as Milford sank into his seat, Wilson, his trainer, started his routine of commands - bring up your elbow, bend your knees more.... Wilson pointed out all the weaknesses in the opponents stance and, just before the opening bell sounded, Wilson gave Milton some encouraging word as he maintained a frown of assured confidence. 

Milford listened to Wilson for the simple reason that during Wilson’s hey days, the man was crowned not once, not twice, but three times as champion in his weight class. But as with anything else in life, father time striped him from his majestic, yet brutal, craft of boxing. In the end, Wilson found refuge in teaching prospects, potential somebodies  with a healthy dose of pearls and demanding training regiments.

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Brainstorm #11

Something was terribly wrong with the formula, a fly in the serum as they say. Jack knew that one of the two liquid samples was causing an array of devastating consequences. From the start Jack did not suspect any mishaps for he had, so he thought, perfected the measurements that produced a robust elixir, bitter and thick like mud. Within a few minutes after taking the potion, he dropped to the floor and a small portion of the digested concoction expelled out his throat; he quivered, coughed harshly, and felt his every muscle tighten firmly. Jack was able to stand soon after the cultivations relinquished. In his thoughts Jack searched for an answer to what he had just experienced. But before he could connect the dots an extraordinary serge of energy stormed his limbs and chest making him feel sturdy; fortifying all his faculties.

His vision, crisp and focused, captured an oddity that made Jack fall back, tilting the table to a one side and fragmenting the glass implements - test tubes, funnels and beakers - onto the floor. Jack could not hardly believe it for the walls seemed to quiver like cooked spaghetti strings. The wonderment resumed, becoming even more peculiar as the mix flowed in his veins. An almost translucent brush of sight became apparent to Jack – a distorted perception that made Jack see through the walls themselves!

Jack did not know it but something equally as dreadful was happening to his skin – from head to toe, Jack's skin became callus and scarcely scaly. Poor Jack did not notice his flesh metamorphosis because he was literally burning-up his upper lip and anything near his face. He instinctively bent his shoulders forward in a panic. Fire, small whispers igniting from his nostrils, shot outward in exhaling spurts. Jack quickly found a way to remedy the abnormality: he squeezed together his nostrils, feeling a sharp sting shoot back into his skull.

It was then that Jack started to realize that when he swallowed, his tongue, dry and swollen, did not produce enough spit for his buds to register a taste in his cortex - he was unable to taste anything! Jack found, by feeling his way around the room, a chair in the empty laboratory; he sat in haste. It was then that he felt his skin for the first time. He jumped in horror, settled himself down a bit and, with an easy touch, felt his torso. His eyes could not register anything, transparency veiled reality as Jack sat motionless in fearful blackness. What had he done? What poison possessed him?

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Brainstorm #10

Jacobson was glad that the sun reached him even in dim flush. The stone pressed hard against his shoulder wasting the little energy remaining in his now deteriorating body. He had given up on his futile cries for help hours prior, and was now on survival mode. Jacobson could, in his dreary delusions, feel his every bone. As if what remained of his body was tangled – muscles wilted; hanging heavy in a sack of decaying skin. The crevice enrapturing him seemed, diversely enough, blameless, for it kept him from stumbling into a darker, deeper precipice – the cave's massive throat: a barren, sunless certainty. Jacobson's breathing, stressed in rapid, rhythmic toil, relaxed. His pupils fixed and limbs, numb. He had landed in this snare alone and not, as asserted, with a group of experienced climbers. Jacobson felt very detached for the imminent crept closer with every passing minute, second. He fought, mentally at least, to keep alive, to keep death's stranglehold from eventually swallowing him whole. He had life still; he had to keep fighting for life itself.

Brainstorm # 9

Another hot afternoon; another run, no wait...it was more like a jog than a run. I was just so tired from the mornings happenings that I had to slow my stride. It was not so often that my wife, Jenny, came out with me, but there she was, ahead of me by a few paces: her long legs gliding; her fists up before her chest, moving to the rhythm of her feet, and her ponytail, swinging back-and-forth, seemed to tease me in some sensual manner: such an odd sensation.

As we neared the point in the path where the foliage caped the vista; and points of light dappled the ground, I was able to distinguish a familiar sent - the smell of reefer. It did not seem that Jenny noticed my yielding pace, for she kept ahead; blind to my thread. The pungent whiff had sparked recollections of my first encounter with Jenny. It was a party, a new year's party, 1994, at a friend's apartment where we first met. I was sitting in the spacious balcony with friends: a small group of childhood buddies. We, of course, were discreetly passing a joint among ourselves, getting drunk with smoke, and cracking smiles with goofy, glazed eyes.

That's when Jenny, a neighbor in the building, sat near our circle as if to be noticed, so it seemed. I found her attractive right from the get-go; I also felt bad that she was sitting by herself. I thus invited her to sit with us and she accepted. I introduced her to my comrades with a slurred tongue. Jenny, so it seemed, recognized the happenings around her, yet she appeared and maintained a relaxed posture, demeanor. I looked around, then to my fellow smokers; and they, with adrift eyes, gave me the go-ahead. I looked cautiously at Jenny as I presented what remained of the cigarette. She smiled and, after looking around, accepted. Within minutes we were all talking garbage about what appeared to be, in that dense spell, the deeper things of life: hollow words, nonsense.

When the clock struck midnight, Jenny and I embraced (high from both the smokes and the campaign): the new year had arrived, as with a magnet attraction between us. Jenny wrote her number on the palm of my hand before kissing me goodbye. We rapidly discovered, after only a few dates, that a chemistry existed between us....

Brainstorm#8

The best is yet to come; so she dreams. I lay on the sand next to her as she rambles on about god-knows-what. I just pretend, as always, to look as if I am interested in her delusions of reality. I was just relaxing by bringing the shapes of the clouds into familiar patterns. Eventually she stopped her yacking long enough for me to close my eyes and rest. It was a trying day for the both of us. The car had a minor problem that morning, and Timmy, our four-year-old boy, developed a sinus problem. We drove him, of course, to the emergency room where he was given medication and a follow-up visit.

I've been married to Laura for close to two years now and, even though she could talk up a storm, I fall for her sensual stares all-the-time. It's a seductive trace reflective in her deep, green eyes that captivates my soul. We both, at times, still feel like newlyweds and yet, in other moments, we argue about some silly, trivia subject until the cows come home. Our apartment can be a mad house or it can be a dungeon depending on the mood of the day. She fails to understand my attraction to football and, as she goes, I can't see why she has a desperate need to rescue every single stray animal she sees on the street.

During one particular Sunday afternoon I had a couple of buddies over to see the game on the tube. She gave me the evil eye while seeming hospitable to my pals. After mid-afternoon the last of my friends exited ushering in a whirlwind of nasty words, loud shouts, and slamming doors. That particular event did not simmer until a week later when I brought some roses and candy. I knew she was a sucker for such surprises. I also, as best of an act as I could muster, asked her for forgiveness. She just fell apart and at once she was crying on my shoulder. It's always a nice thing when stressful nerves calm.

Brainstorm#7

The tank was heavy, full of oil, or, as another would say, pesticide. It was my first office building; around 6:00 am I parked and gathered my equipment before stepping into the elevator to the seventeenth floor. The cleaning crew had just arrived which mean that I was precisely on schedule. For an hour I walked around a dozen or so offices spraying the nasty stuff behind desks, around cubical, and on all crevices I knew pests would craw about. I could hear the cleaning bunch behind me; there machines becoming quieter as I entered offices they had yet reached. I was almost done with m morning job as I entered room 1789. the light were off as expected and, after switching them on, I automatically felt something was wrong – something was terribly wrong in room 1789. I proceeded quietly although mentally I knew I had no reason to fear anything. I was alone on the wing but why did I think such thoughts...it was just a feeling, a misguided vibe alarming me that something was out of the ordinary. Regardless, I continued forth ignoring my inner caution. I sprayed the usual corners and sections of walls and floors when...when I came upon something, something I knew was horrific but still unseen.

The smell of the vacant room had changed. I did not notice it at first because it crept up on me as if I was nearing its origin – the sort of the stench. I stopped my work, place the take quietly on the floor and followed my nose. After just a few quiet paced I entered the small office of a Mr. Henderson. At least that was the name on the door. Henderson, director of operation. Inside this room, dimmed if not for the morning sun just rising and bringing in some light into the office, I found that everything seemed fine; all was in place and nothing was out of the ordinary. I mustered up some courage, not that I was scared of anything, I mean was there anything to be scared about up until now? 

I found out the answer to that question with my next step. I tripped over something and landed hard on the floor. I made no sound getting up although my stumble did cause some noise. As I stood I looked around and saw nothing by an empty office with the door ajar.

I looked down to see what made me stumble and then I saw it. It was a shiny cuff link. I got on my knees and leaned forward to get a better look; and that's when I saw the horrible source of the smell – the cause of my inner panic. It was an arm stretched out on the floor behind Mr. Henderson’s desk. Walking forward on my knees I ran both my hands down the deaden arm before I felt something cold. I quickly drew my hands to myself and saw the horror – with eyes wide open I felt the dark, red blood of my hands. It had to be Henderson...i mean...it was his office. It must be Henderson. I never looked behind the desk it self, why would anyone want to see a dead body. I mean he was dead – cold as stone and a very sour smell told me he was a goner.

As I got up I felt a very different kind of feeling: a feeling of dread. I turned my head in all directions before turning around. Someone was in the room; I was certain of that fact. My eyes focused for the room was still dark -the morning light was still new and defining anything visually took some adjustment.

As my eyes finally grasped the outline and shapes of my surroundings, I was struck with a terror I has since experience – a mortal dread. The outline of a person, face, hands and torso in shadow stood right before me. I felt this person looking at me with heavy, assured eyes. I quickly looked down and saw what appeared to be the outline of a revolver. I took a step back. My feet, shoulders, arms, legs frozen as if restrained by iron chains. What I saw next nearly knock my off my heavy, lead soles – a gun, now clearly distinct in the aurora light, aimed directing between my eyes. My body swiftly regained feeling, as if emergency mode, but it was too late. I was face-down on the floor atop of Mr. Henderson’s, arms. I looked up and saw the gun man, still in shadow, his head seemed to be as if under a hood. He pointed the barrow of the weapon at the side of my head when, suddenly, a group of voices called out to me, it was the cleaning crew calling for me. The lights of the rooms nearing the office began to light up. At that I saw the gun man for the first time – at least his plastic mask under a dark blue hood. The assassin jolted then stopped before vanishing into the night. A minute later the cleaning crew found me on the flood. With haste they called the authorities and before long I was recovering in a nearby hospital. 

Brainstorm#6

Randy awoke to a blink alarm clock. He was late; this time to the doctor's office. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, his feet caught the sheet and the poor man feel over onto the carpeted floor. He slowly got up and with one swing of his leg the web between his fat toe and index caught violently on the bed's iron leg. The instant pain bolted up his leg to the crown of his bold head. He gave a hearty cry before staggering out his dark room and into an even darker hallway. As he stumbled forth he head a squish sound. He couldn't see where the sound originated until he took a step. The souls of his bare floor – the good one – was smeared with the wings, flat antenna, and brown, slimy guts of a large roach. Randy finally reached the light to see his left toe red, and swollen and the sole of his right foot was smudged with a flat, gut-dripping bug. 

Brainstorm#5

I never saw the sky so blue – at least not for fourteen years. The ground beneath my feet felt strange also, as if I had just stepped out of a time capsule and onto another world. I was out-of-my-skin. My breath rapid as was my heartbeat. People I loved brought me warm and with their tight embraces and reassuring words of comforts. I didn’t want to but the need was present to veer my sight back to the gates. For now those steel bars stood behind me and not before me. Yes the skies were blue and yes my tears where abundant. And my hands? Well…they were clean of course. I doubted my own guilt during the time spent, as if my own resolve had given into the injustice handed down to me back when blood…of a another, a stranger to me and my representatives in court, even the witnesses themselves, trickled out of the victim like an oily, dark matter until life was emptied of its sustenance.
Deep in the core of my being I did pray that, whomever he was – the bloodless man gun down that night – was now joyful that two crimes were now nearing justice. Again I had to look once more at the palms of my hands and see for a certainty how clean they were. For even my finger nails seemed polished in some sort of peculiar fashion. As each new member arrived to hug me in dear compassion and wet with deep emotion – tear traces and venting cries in undertones, I felt my knees lock and my spine erect for I was free of the sentence and atlas free to restructure the pieces of my life. Justice, blind and balanced served, cold yet…served. I was free!

Brainstorm#4

She jumped thinking it was a rat but in reality it wasn’t. It might have been a shadow cast across the floor – like a falling leaf or something of that nature. Regardless of what it was Shelly was white with fear as if a tiny little rodent would somehow change into a giant, hairy monster and consume her whole. She was eleven so her phobia of rats, as is with most females, is justifiable. Mother came in the room – the scene of the crime – because her beloved daughter hollered alert making a peaceful afternoon chaotic if only for an instant.


Really the mouse event was the single most dramatic thing that happened that day. We were, all three of us, mother, daughter, and me, the college –bound big brother, sharing a fall day before my departure in one week. I was not to return home until the holidays so I gathered each minute like a forty-niners gathered gold in the west. The only females in my world: Shelly and Olga, my overly protective single mother.

It wasn’t that my father left us for a young beauty; it was because he died of cancer, lung cancer, after years of nicotine abuse. It was hard at first to deal with my dad’s death…especially for me his boy, his good-old boy. He was always so proud of me, always. He use to tell me Roy, that’s me, sock-it to them son! You can do it boy! Then, when I scored a run, or batted a run in for the score, he, so I was told, elbowed his neighbor sitting next to him and exclaimed with a Fred Flintstone tone, that there is my boy!!

Everyone knew I was his son. I was always introduced as Roy, Hank’s, that’s my father, college-boy Roy Henders. My family was well known in our parts for some time. We ran a family business making custom cannons for the big wheels of the world. Yes the world. We were International and my father a proud man in that reality. You see he worked hard since he was sixteen in learning his tread. He swept floors at first, and then got an offer once one of the hands moved south. He continue to work hard until one day, forty plus years later, the owner left him the business and went into retirement. That’s when the enter family, minus Shelly, she was too young then, took over the business. Soon we found ourselves hiring more workers and opening new shops across the state. Then, for what seemed a blink of an eye, we were dealing with overseas clients. Everything changed dramatically then…for the better of course.

Brainstorm#3

How many people do you know who live on a dead end street? I sometimes wonder if the person who coined that phrase, Dead End Street, actually lived on a dead end street. Our house, if you could see it through all the trees, rested at the very end of such an artery.

Visiting a dead end street would be like visiting the dead at the cemetery. For those unaware, such houses cast their own entity – like a foul stench. Some days I feel my house alive as if the walls were collapsing upon themselves or moving inward on me like a vice. Sometimes I would feel that I was born to die in that dreadful place. It was drab, gloomy and stunk of mildew in the mornings.

It was a dump. The street we lived on was a dump. Normal folks never lived in a dump. Normal folks have gardens in their back yards, friendly neighbors, and fine plate settings. Normal folks would have brightly colored walls, a pool in the back and, yes, an embroidered framed cloth with the words, Home Sweet Home, near a sunlit window.

But oh no, nothing like that in my dump. Did I tell you that in my dump not a single picture frame hung on our walls? Not one lousy frame! Dump Bitter Dump would be the words defining our house.

Now If a solicitor would come calling, our listless Fred would hardly bring alarm to such a daring cretin. Fred would simply amble up to our back fence, give you a long, lazy look-over, and then retreat back into the shadows.

Brainstorm #2

The tree monkeys giggled at their own antics. The first primate, in a dark blue t-shirt and shorts, covered his eyes, bored. Next to him sat two hysterical chimps bursting at the seams. The middle one of the bunch, the red shirted one, tried to contain himself but could not mask his cheery eyes; face aglow. The third one, with elbows on bent knees, was defeated by his own hilarity. It was hard for the threesome, minus one, to keep straight faces. This shameless riot was caused, not by their infectious laughter, but by the poor soul behind the camera – a diminutive man speaking a choppy talk and maintaining an appealing grin; never keeping his bobble head steady - the mocked tourist with scrunched-up eyes. Such wise (evil) boys!



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The young shepherd boy lay his tired leg over the back of the water buffalo. The wind was blowing harder; his hair lightly tangled with the tall grass beneath tilted by wind. A fleeting storm was threatening the calm afternoon. The alert boy, with a wooden rod in hand, hung his leg (sandals fastened) over the backbone of the grazing beast - blind to the instability of a fierce horizon. It was time to find safety from the approaching downpours. It was time to gather the herd and secure then under cover: to seek refuge before the first thunderclaps echoed their energy and the cloud masses flooded the earth.

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Adorned in pristine bell skirts and white floral headbands, the ballerinas assembled behind a massive stage curtain, lowered. Two stood coolly, veering their eyes off-stage. Around them an assemblage of angelic dancers mingled in anticipation - bent torsos, loose shoulders, and hair parted straight. It was grace at-the-ready. At the forefront of the class, a reflective prima ballerina. Her mind, fluent: each step, flow of motion and posture unfolding in thought.

Then, at once, the awaited gestured cue was displayed and the dancers arranged themselves fleetly. Her focus now in-tuned; her initial pose set when the giant curtain began to rise to an ovation of theatergoers.

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Adrift, a lone man, in shadow, maneuvered his bamboo float across a tropical river. The aurora light highlighted languid ripples on a mirrored surface - an inky waterway. Upright near the edge of the craft, he grasped the oar - a long, wooden rod; probed under, and pulled himself ahead.  

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The elderly pair lay on the brink of jeopardy without shudder. With bellies on smooth stone; their kindling eyes on the calm depth below – a deep blue sea kissing the edifice in crests of foamy white. A reverent, graceful awe subdued. Blithe seized him in her embrace: a tender love of pubescent innocence now fully blossomed, complete. They were the remnants of the celestial rock, our earth: an undying love.

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Brainstorm #1

Jim's Star

At the tender age of five, Jim created a star. A simple design really, yet, in his eyes it evoked power; Jim thought of it grandiose. It was bigger than life itself, greater than anything he could conceive. It was a star by all means. A star!

So Jim sat back and dared himself to make a second star. This time the star would be bigger and better than the first. So he took the red crayon, slid the construction paper near his body, and began to reproduce the lines. The first step was to draw a line from the bottom of the sheet up, and slanted to the right. A downward line came next. It also had to be angled to the right, before the third line, moving up and tilting left, was completed. The next line, Jim's favorite, dashed across the intersections then downward to the initial starting point. Jim was thrilled! Not only had he made one star, but he made two! The second one was as tall as a mountain and as wide as a train.

That timeless scene had never escaped Jim's memory. He recalled it clearly, even as an adult. It was at that moment in time that he discovered his love of stars. But, even with all the knowledge he had accumulated in regards to stars, Jim never again tasted that childlike sensation. Jim was always packing his brain with all varieties of insights; Jim was entranced to the point of frenzy.

His sole admirer was a beautiful green eye lady with girlish allure. Sadly Jim was blind to her charm. But the beauty was not quick in surrendering her feelings for Jim. After some time she became bolder in her determination at landing the rigid detective. In the end it was a simple kiss that sparked a passionate love affair. But her tender love did not deter him from his pursuit of his childhood lift. For Jim needed to feel the same excitement he experienced that day when crisscrossed lines granted him an indelible mark.

Months later, the woman, now married and pregnant with Jim's child, walked outside to accompany her husband. It was late and Jim was peering through a telescope pointed at a heavenly landscape of stars. Jim was still in search of the elusive sensation. One quiet morning, years later, his now four-year-old daughter walked up to him in enthusiastic play. But Jim, because of study, was oblivious to his daughter's constant tugs. After a moment he turned his weary head toward his bright-eyed, smiling, daughter. It was at that point that he realized his work was over. He had found the elusive star! The star resided right before him: his own daughter with her gleaming eyes overwhelmed him. Jim swiveled around to face her, picked her up, and held her close with eyes full of tears. He found his star, his love, his life.

 

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The invisible morning sky weakened by a damped vapor rested in a kind of heavenly stillness. The green slope dappled with dry patches of dead blades resting by a deep rooted bark nearby. The lone, thick tree, with its spiky branches – nerve endings pointing in chaotic directions – naked yet sturdy, kept firm before a snow-white haze. The winter freeze burning its fragile leaves long past; the monster erect in the cold damp country side: A neighboring serpentine road tracing away into an unknown destination. The merciless winter sting biting the tranquil vista harshly; the tree, deeply rooted, fights another seasonal hardship, another torment.




The brisk wind drives the golden ocean of wheat in waves extending upward to the foot of high reaching mounts. Dirty brown heaps, lofty under massive cotton-white clouds, cast shadows on an active terrain below; The Wind tone bellowing the contrasting setting to and fro and across the vastness of the scene: Serenity in boundless motion. Nature alive in windswept currents of energy of unseen marks, askew in a snapshot.



In the lucidity of the night, hell-fire ignited: The Devil in the midst of the towns divine church - devoured now by red and orange sheets of fire.  Clapping wisps burning; ascending tar-black smoke high and covering the faint heavenly stars with a dense curtain, a shroud of malice - the folks about horrified. Some heads low, in fixed prayer, while others making a human chain and passing buckets of water to cool down the charring building. Sirens growing louder in the distance. Salvation alas! Thank you Lord.



The plank walk way descends over lush evergreens atop a steep knoll. The overcast backdrop, a sharp contrast to the freshly constructed country promenade, mottled railings with white, dry paint faint and lucent. The walk extends from color hues of vibrant life outward toward a dreary horizon – a gray and threatening cloudburst.



The authorities sealed off the horrid scene with bright yellow tape – dark red blood, somewhere deep in the clusters of the high trees, soaking into the needles and dirt below. The agents, on the fringe of the roadway, gathered clues – a tangled piece of rope, clothes ripped with dry spattered blood; a rolled up sock used to deaden the screams. A road map vigorously scrutinized. The urgent call! Seal off all roads – even all branches of dirt trails - leading out-of-state from their fix: A male, white, driving a Ford – tire print pattern – heading south; considered armed and dangerous.


The Aurora light – a sunburst of reds, oranges, to dull white bands – filled up the cloudless sky. The horse, a contour silhouette, stood tall by his wrangler, kneeling in black outline besides. The man glared at the beauty in veneration. Time, still, as the morning air refreshed his very being; his very place in the world, universe. God lay close; his eyes rolling wide in wonder: Angelic.

 
The shoreline, like smooth, soft glass, reflecting the deep blue sky: the ocean waters flowing over in slight, moving layers across the clay sand. The distant pallid clouds gently kiss the horizon where, just below, waves ripple – subtle and remote – inflowing gently, the tide inching near the coast. Blissful blue mirrors of clear salt water and pale white clouds, bursting within frame.



The high steep, scarred stone reached skyward from a murky river twisting around a flurry of low vegetation – cactus and brush.  The water, motionless, silently swept wind - rolling against the face of the rock walls - quiet. Slight gray clouds roam slowly above the scene below - a contrast to the dull shaded crag and opaque water, alone and at rest. Its beauty a tranquil stillness, suspended in time; marked by the layers in the stone.



The ambient quarters, a zenith sun radiant, emitting by skylight panes; highlighting cloth edges, dull wood luster, and gracing cool hues of green, white and aqua – walls, walkways and ceilings – enveloping warmth: contempo furniture, mounted frames and a sole, humble chandelier - a few items.  Sterile books piled in strict alignment on a dark brown coffee table. Two faint-blue cushion chairs; each with like red pillow: A small wood table - octagon-shaped-top, a tall clock of white by a shadow cast corner, and a circular mirror concealed slightly by shade on a side wall. 



In the black abyss of the depth, drifts an electric blimp like a helium plastic balloon aimlessly traveling in a windless sky: Bulging blinders and pulsing tentacles of sharp white rays compose his shape - a thin membrane. A lone translucent creature living in sharp contrast - a cold blackness aura free of our suns nourishment: a mystery, a miracle, alive with a dead, useless purpose; trapped in a severe existence.



A sloth – a maternal bear with offspring (lumbering gaits) – trailed aimlessly along the outskirts of the cold forest; enduring winter’s harsh winds - exhaling vapors. Her eyes scrutinizing every bark, and needle on the dirt; her senses alert. Every snout, claw and feet dry with blood: the remains of an adult gray wolf - its meat, fresh and steaming – filled their bellies to satisfaction an hour prior. A few paces south of the pack stood a lone hiker, standing by the base of a tree. He zippered up; turned and walked back to camp. As he neared, his body flinched, danger. He scooted low and watched the chilling scene (a giant bark and dense low branches camouflaging him). A massive bear with her cubs inspecting the site: contents extracted from his tent – clothing, a lantern and some magazines, ripped and thrown about. The pale-faced man, frozen in dire fear, waited an eternity. The alarmed man realized late that his camera was strapped around his neck. In haste, with quivering hands and salty beads of perspiration, snapped a photo of his camp site. But the beasts were gone! With a gallant step, the poor man slowly moved into the clearing taking a big sigh of relief.



Iron rain, surrounding a pale, blue brick walkway extend forth from an isolated rocky edge, halting the calmness of the dull, aqua ocean; serene. The burning sun, small and anemic, gleamed weak in the distant horizon – waters consuming a diminished star: Murky sky – rain-filled Storm clouds brewing; foreboding. Distant, dense mountains – dark, and of smooth crested rock – resting heavily on the vista line, distant: dusk tinting the scenery, bleak and gloom.



Red hooded cloak: worn and torn, exposing a dark green under garment; glossy, light green eyes staring fix and wide. Her weary expression of curiosity fused in wonder and slight fear outlining a subtle dark complexion - drained red lips – level, and impassive. Dark, dirty long hair folded back into a hood. A pale green drape sharply contrasting hues; clinging behind, livening her features on film. 



A singular drop, like a ripe, gentle leaf, bursts the soft calm; conceiving a watery blossom. The span of blue (royal) vibrates, like a speaker skin, and expands outward in a perfect circle: the core bounce, touch – high, broken and straight – causing a convex, thick and broad: white highlights brush soft ridges unfolding. Beautiful disruption of placidity captured in a dance.

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