Momma by Tim Wilkinson

Affection placed in an open palm is really no affection at all.

(Wayne Wilkes)

Momma

by Tim Wilkinson

The night was exceptionally dark. Only a few lonely shafts of brash, yellowish light, seeping through the window from the street lamps below, illuminated the upstairs bedroom, and they had to shyly sneak and creep around the dark green curtains, lest, discovered, scolded and shunned.

Wayne was not aware just what had awoken him; perhaps it was the pitter-patter of the rain on the roof or the distant rumblings of thunder off to the east. Yet whatever the cause he was awake now, lying on his back on the right side, his side, of the large, wooden framed bed.

He listened silently, lying motionless in the darkness as the light, yet steady rain fell upon the roof, spattering lightly against the pains. He liked the rain. It soothed him, made him feel comfortable and safe. Bad things don’t go out in the rain and seldom come knocking, or so he believed.

As he lay, the dull rumbling of the thunder grew lighter more distant, the storms rage having passed, leaving only the calming rain and the clean, cool air. Yet it boomed and crashed in the distance, threatening worse on nights to come,

“I will be back,” it yelled in the distance. “I will be back!”

The breeze puffed through the partially opened window, constant yet light. He could hear it rushing past the leaves, teasing and toying, laughingly spinning about, testing. However, the leaves held fast, for it was but the first of September and the green still clung solidly to their surface, holding firm, flowing thick within their watery, sugar filled veins, still sticky and moist. Clinging fast to mother tree, they ignored the winds teasing and testing,

“Not tonight,” they whispered. “Not tonight. Youth still lives within us. Life still clings. Not till October, not until fall. Fly away wind. Fly away.”

Wayne only listened, smiling at their childish discourse, knowing their tone would soon change as the first frosts of winter crept upwards, and the icy fingers of blustery death plucked and snatched them from their branches, dashing them to the ground. However, for now, only play and laughter met his ears, joy and the warm September rains.

She moaned lightly stirring just a bit.

Her breathing came slow and regular and oh so soft. She lay with her head in the crook of his right arm, one forearm tossed across his bare chest, her long supple body curled tightly against his side. She had filled in a bit since the night they met, a bit rounder in the tummy, heavier in the back, yet that mattered little to him. He found her as lovely and beautiful as he had the first second he set eyes on her.

As the slight, sweet sounds escaped her pink lips, she edged ever so slightly closer beside him, pressing the soft warmth of her long body more firmly against his. Her tiny pink nose giggled and twitched as she stirred, romping through dreams meadows and the wonderlands of sleep.

Turning his head, just a smidge, he looked at her face, silent and calm, eyes closed loosely, lips gently smiling and he knew all was well. She made him feel safe, secure and cared for. She made him feel loved, needed, all the things he knew little of, until her. He put one hand over hers, pressing tenderly, evenly, lightly kissing one cheek.

As he lay, listening to the rhythm of her sleep and the symphony of heavens tears, he wondered. He wondered if she remembered, as he did, the night that they met. It was a cold and bitter night. Ice and frost coated the streets and the leafless branches as the wind howled in vicious delight and long awaited triumph. He was alone, driving up to a local convenience store for smokes and beer. He had not seen her as he went in. It was only as he exited that he first noticed her.

Yes, he remembered, as if it was yesterday. Did she?

She walked right up to him as he stood on the sidewalk, heading for his car. He knew right away that she was in trouble, big trouble, pregnant, alone, hungry and shivering. He greeted her rather suspiciously, she in return. Yet it took but one glance, one look into her eyes, one sad lonely stare and one silent moment of unexpressed need, and he was hers.

He had not asked for her attentions nor begged for her affections, she offered them freely and without cause, seeking no recourse nor recommence and he loved her for that. For affection placed in an open palm is really no affection at all.

Of course he had had to carry her to the car, as he was afraid she could not make it. He still questions whether it was he invited her, or if she invited him. He leans towards the latter, but of course, he knew, she would see it differently. Either way he took her home, to his home, empty, silent and cold, and there she stayed. She never thought of leaving. She certainly never tried, as she could have easily done so. No, she stayed, and as they say, the rest is history.

He wondered for a second, but only a wee bit of a second, a smidgen of an instant, why. Why had she stayed? Yet no sooner than that thought filled his mind, she opened her sleepy green eyes, jade colored eyes, reptilian eyes, yawning wide. Fixing her eyes on his she held, and he knew. He knew the answer, no need to ask or to doubt. He knew why she stayed. She stayed because she loved him. He loved her. That was all there was, all that there need ever be.

She pushed her head closer to his and purred. He petted the soft, long hair of her head and stroked her long, sleek back before getting up, going downstairs and filling her bowls with water and food, in case she got up in the night.

She did not follow. She understood. She waited. She always waited, waited for his return. And as he slipped easily back into bed, pulling the sheets up to his neck, she returned to her place beside him curling firmly, tightly against him.

He thought he saw just a bit of an unused kiss upon her lips but decided to take it later.

“I love you Momma Kitty,” he said.

“I love you too Dad. Goodnight,” she purred into his ear, falling quickly back in to sleep, one paw held snuggly across his bare chest.

“Yes,” he thought.

“She remembers.”

The End

© 2009, Tim Wilkinson

Author Bio:

Father of two girls, Mr. Wilkinson has been writing since the age of twelve.Recently accepted for publication in ‘The Path’, ‘The Speculative Edge’, ‘The Global Twitter Community Poetry Project, and ‘Static Movement’, he continues to write and seek new avenues for publication and distribution.After spending thirty years working in the telecommunications industry, traveling and writing in between the often conflicting commitments of family, work, home and life in general, Mr. Wilkinson now focuses more time and effort on his most enduring dream, writing. Collections of his earlier works are available online, through Amazon-dot-com. http://timwilkinson.org

 http://tlmntim9.hubpages.com/

 

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Changes!

Because I'm going to be buried in writing or the next month or so, I'm going to start posting one new story or poem a week. Every Monday I'll post the new story or poem and continue to post a new author interview each week as well. Once I get some things done, I'll go back to daily post. :)

I Dream of Jean by Lance Manion

I would start this off by telling you her name but it's right there in the title, so I guess I'll start it off by trying to decide what information about her is pertinent, and what details are superfluous. Or perhaps I'll just dive in and let you figure that out as you go. The one thing that I'm absolutely certain of is that when Jean opened that flask, she did not expect what happened next.

Had she known she was the subject of a story, she might have had some inclination that it was coming, but until that point in her life, she had just been one of billions of unremarkable people buying an old dusty flask at an open-air market in Yemen—c completely keeping with her unremarkableness.

Except that it wasn't.

Back at her hotel she opened the flask and immediately her breasts swelled to a full C cup and a front row ticket to an Ani DiFranco show from 2006 stuck out of her front pocket. The opening of the flask wasn't subject to the fanfare you'd expect given the mythology behind magic lamps and Genies and such,  but be that as it may, the shimmering Djinn sat in front of Jean just the same ... and he had some explaining to do.

But first let me fill you in a bit about Jean.  

Your first question might be why she was in Yemen. Before you leap to the conclusion that she was part of a large package tour that was traveling around the Middle East looking at ancient artifacts and ruins, let me correct you; she was not. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Jean would rather have hot lead poured into her eye sockets than be a part of a "package" anything.

Ok, enough about Jean.

The Djinn looked at her in amazement. Despite the stories to the contrary, the three wishes granted to anyone who acquires and opens a flask containing a Djinn doesn't allow them to make them then and there. The Djinn actually grants the last three wishes the person had made to themselves before opening the flask.

Hence, the Bigger boobs and concert tickets.

And? Exactly what the Djinn was wondering to himself. He had never come upon a mortal that had only asked for two things throughout the course of their lifetime. Jean was remarkable after all.

Of course, Jean didn't know this and sat terrified and unaware of her larger breasts and the ticket in her pocket. All she was aware of was this large imposing man in the turban floating in front of her—flesh-colored for those of you who care about such details.

So, why was Jean in Yemen? She liked to travel despite the fact that she hated to get in cars or on planes. She would immediately become all too aware of just how many things needed to go right for a combustion engine to function or just how many things could go wrong and send an airplane plummeting into the drink. You would think that the smarter a person was the more they could take comfort in the technology and the warm fuzzy math of probability.

Jean did not. Hovercrafts were right out.

This dislike of putting her life into the hands of car and airplane manufacturers was second only to her dislike of ever having to meet and converse with one of those workers assembling the aforementioned.

Or the salesmen or accountants who work for the manufacturer.

Or anyone else for that matter.

To give her the title "loner" was pretty much spot on—a loner of the highest caliber.So she was alone in Yemen just like she'd been alone in Switzerland, Japan (among many others) and her home in Denver, Colorado.

Does this help explain her first two wishes? Probably not.  Well, maybe the Ani DiFranco ticket, but certainly not the C cup. I'll end the suspense right now, she was 13 when she made the wish and clearly when you're 13 you don't think 31 flavors will suffice.

She asked the Djinn for an explanation. She made it clear that this was a request and in no way should be construed as a wish. He was under no obligation, magical or otherwise, to answer.

He complied anyway, and in no time at all things were cleared up between them. The only outstanding issue was her third wish. As the Djinn had never been in this situation before he was a little unclear on how to proceed, but Jean felt certain that she was still entitled to a third wish.

After checking with the boys upstairs, and by 'upstairs' I mean in the parallel universe he originated in and by 'boys' I mean the collection of angels and demons that reside there, he could find no fault in her logic and agreed to provide it.

One wish.

Anything she wanted.

Jean went over the ground rules and found out that indeed a Djinn can twist a wish to make it a bad thing if they so choose. It depended heavily on the wording of the wish and the disposition of the Djinn. She was careful to be clear about the former and felt no overt concern about the latter. It appeared that she had stumbled upon a rather nice Djinn, as Djinns go. She even asked him his name, but he seemed to bristle at the question, so she let it drop.

She asked a few questions about eternity and what the Djinn did in his seemingly abundant free time. She made inquiries about the difference between magic and science, flying and physics, and, inevitably, about Barbara Eden and herself.

And that's how a new Djinn came into existence in Yemen. Again, the story might not have the fanfare you'd expect, but sometimes the most spectacular things happen in unspectacular fashion.

As for the happily ever after, with a lifespan of less than a hundred years I don't really think mortals are qualified to answer that.

Author Bio:

Feel free to visit Lance's website and Facebook page

Lance Manion  is the authorof three short story collections: Merciful Flush, Results May Vary and The Ball Washer.

New Stories on the Way!

Sorry for the delay in posting stories. It has been a busy week for me. Come by Monday for a short story by Lance Manion and an author interview with Chris Carrolli. :)

Monday Morning by Tim Wilkinson

Wayne floats gently across the surface of the lake, fishing pole in hand, held loosely. Leaning back, he rests his head against the lone, life vest, propped against the end of the boat. Bare feet down on the cool metallic surface of the boat, knees up and bent, legs leaning just a bit open, he sighs loudly, resting the fishing pole lightly against his thighs with the long tip jutting high up and over his knees.

Chewing casually on the remains of his, after breakfast toothpick, he inattentively watches his line stretching far out and away from the boat, while lazily scanning the puffy, blue clouded skies for soaring raptures and the kite like wings of rising vultures, gliding on waves of warming air, circling higher and higher, with ever increasing ease and unhurried poise.

Light, soft whispered splashes echo across the surface of the water as fish frog and snake, leap and escape, feed, hide and play, hunt, kill and die. Muskrat and beaver swim past, unhurried and unafraid, heads up, eyes straight forward, as they glide effortlessly across the surface of the placid clear waters.

Loons cry and wail to the morn in sorrowful, doleful tones, regretting the passing of the silent, safe darkness, yet welcoming the newfound day with its promise of yet another night to come. Geese and crow, caw and hoot in pointed, grouped procession and random gathered flight, soaring high overhead, seeking open waters, or tall, piney perches.

Tiny finger length shad, silvery and shiny, gleam and glow in the bright morning sun gathering in groups of hundreds and of thousands, bubbling and jumping, churning the water’s surface as they feed. They in turn are taken as the swift and fleet of wing raptures, bald eagles and fishing hawks swoop down from the heights with talon and claw, to feed their growing, incessantly hungry, newly hatched clutches of downy, new feathered life.

Fat, heavy oversized carp splash and dash hither and fro in the shallows amid the thick verdant grasses at the water’s edge, submerged and flooded with springs heavy rains. Dancing and swaying they mate, spewing streams of milky sperm across masses of newly laid eggs. Bass and crappie jump and splash in sheer delight at springs growing warmth, hopeful and eager, sure in the promise of another summer’s full bounty. Huge, seven foot gar with jaws two feet long, patrol the surface, sneaking into the shallows, hunting the unsuspecting prey of perch, drum and shad as those it seeks play, infatuated with the mornings joy and the newfound warm of sunlit dawn, momentarily forgetful of the danger of the world and of deaths, clamping, tooth filled jaw.

Wayne’s short brown hair flutters lightly in the soft, welcoming chill of the mild morning wind. It tickles the whiskers of his unshaven face, ignored and unkempt in newfound and seldom enjoyed freedom. Reveling in the fullness of temporary escape and blessed sloth, he drifts aimlessly in the kind, gentle wind, bobbing and rocking in the placid, soft waves of forgetfulness. Occasionally twitching and wiggling his toes, he smiles, takes a sip of his rapidly cooling coffee, lights another smoke and thinks of absolutely nothing, his open mind flooding with misty, soft nothingness, untangling nothing, configuring and constructing nothing, planning, worrying and anxious about no one and caring even less.

No sorrows tug at his heart this morning, no woman beguiles him. No pains nor regrets of decisions past, no poor choices, no things gone or people lost, weigh upon his heart. This is a pure, free moment, a moment of freedom and an escape from a world and a life of pain and regret, of things not done, of things unsaid and the hopeless mess of past mistakes, decisions that can’t be revoked and consequences that cannot be changed.

Then suddenly, without warning, a loud, menacing, almost painful screeching assails his ears, startling and noxious, pulling him abruptly from his reverie. Rising quickly, he sits up, the horrid sound forcing him into an upright position. Franticly searching his surroundings, he seeks the source of the insistent wailing, frightened, alarmed and confused.

Moments later, Wayne staggers out of bed, gropes for the alarm clock with the beady red eyes, attempting to choke the life from its cold, hard plastic body. “Monday, already,” he grumbles, heading for the bath. The water runs, filling the tub with sudsy, perfumed scents as he heads down the darkened stairs to the kitchen Plugging in the preloaded coffee pot, quickly laying out three strips of cold, greasy bacon across the blackened aluminum skillet, he returns to the bath, slipping silently beneath the succulent, inviting waters.

Moment later, stepping out of the tubs warm, soapy goodness, he greedily inhales the glorious scent of slow frying bacon, in combination with the fresh, brewing coffee wafting up the staircase. He smiles the first smile of the morning.

After his daily bout with the ironing board and the ingestion of his first two cups of highly sweetened coffee, overdosed with rich powdery creamer, he suddenly concludes that he is human after all. Looking over his shoulder and the jumbled, tangled mess of sheets and bedclothes on top his mattress, he remembers the lake, the boat, his bare wiggling toes and he can’t wait to come back home this evening, and go there again.

The End

© 2009, Tim Wilkinson

Author Bio:

Father of two girls, Mr. Wilkinson has been writing since the age of twelve.After spending thirty years working in the telecommunications industry, traveling and writing in between the often conflicting commitments of family, work, home and life in general, Mr. Wilkinson now focuses more time and effort on his most enduring dream, writing. Collections of his earlier works are available online, through Amazon-dot-com.

Recently accepted for publication in ‘The Path’, ‘The Speculative Edge’, ‘The Global Twitter Community Poetry Project, and ‘Static Movement’, he continues to write and seek new avenues for publication and distribution.

Links:

http://timwilkinson.org

http://tlmntim9.hubpages.com/

http://timwilkinsonshortstories.wordpress.com/wp-login.php?redirect_to=http%3A%2F%2Ftimwilkinsonshortstories.wordpress.com%2Fwp-admin%2F&reauth=1

http://timwilkinson.blogspot.com/

https://twitter.com/tlmntim9

 

Kaleidoscope and Harpsichord by Donal Mahoney

As I've told my wife too many times, the meaning of any poem hides in the marriage of cadence and sound. Vowels on a carousel, consonants on a calliope, whistles and bells, we need them all if a poem is to tickle our ears. Otherwise, the lines are gristle and fat, no meat.

Is it any wonder, then, my wife has had a problem, for decades now, with any poem I've given her to read for a second opinion. This is especially true when we both know the poem has no message and I simply want to hear the music, assuming there is some. Miles Davis made a living doing the same thing in jazz clubs. Why can't I have a little fun and give it a try even if my instrument is words?

The other night in bed I gave my wife my latest poem to read. I said it was fetal, not final. Afterward she said that reading this poem was no different than reading all the others I had given her over the years. She had thought I'd improve by now. Maybe I should switch to fiction or the essay, she suggested, or else stick with editing the manuscripts of others since I had made a decent living as an editor for many years. 

"You've been writing poetry for decades," she said, "but reading a poem like this is like looking through a kaleidoscope while listening to a harpsichord."

Point well taken, I thought, point well said. The nuns for whom I toiled all those years in grammar school would have liked my wife. They might have even recruited her to join their order.

Then I asked her what a man should do if he has careened for years through the caves of his mind spelunking for the right line for a poem only to hear his wife say that reading his poem was like "looking through kaleidoscope while listening to a harpsichord." 

Should I quit writing? Start drinking? After all I quit drinking when I started writing and I discovered that the hangovers from both were equally debilitating. 

The following morning she said, "You should never quit writing." 

At that moment, she was enthroned at the kitchen table, as regal as ever in her fluttery gown and buttering her English muffin with long, languorous strokes Van Gogh would envy.

"You should write even more,” she said, “all day and all night, if need be. After all, my line about the 'kaleidoscope and harpsichord' needs a poem of its own. It's all meat, no gristle, no fat."

 Author Bio:

Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, Donal Mahoney has had work published in a variety of print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa.

Remain Calm by M. Allman

*This an excerpt from one of the stories in my upcoming anthology- Stories to Wrap Your Mind Around scheduled for release later this year. :)

Solitary confinement—a padded room with a little window at the top of a three-inch thick door. Nothing to do but write on this paper with a crayon, because they can’t trust a crazy person like me with a pencil. Who knows what I might write if I had a real pencil. My genius intimidates them all. I don’t belong here, and I’m not just talking about this room. I shouldn’t be in here with all these loonies.

You wouldn’t believe the people I  tolerate in this place.  The most annoying is Mumbles. It’s not his real name. I assigned it to him after spending each and every night trying to make out what he was saying. He ‘s always talking, his lips always moving, but the sounds are incomprehensible. I can’t stand not knowing what someone is saying. What if he’s talking about me, and everyone else can understand him? Then, they all laugh at me behind my back. I know how secret languages work.

The other person I have deal with is Mothman. Another name assigned by myself. You should see this guy running toward light, burning his face when it touches the hot bulbs, and letting out that horrible screeching sound. Moths don’t screech, I know, but they do tend to migrate toward light. Hence, the name. 

Both of these men are pawns in the institution’s game of chess with me. And now, they’ve succeeded—check mate. I have no moves left. I will never get out of here.

How did they use their pawns to make such a clever move?

It all started yesterday as I sat in the community room of the Westbury Mental Hospital putting together a puzzle that I believed was a cat, although it could be a bunny. I couldn’t make the call until I filled in the middle. Piece by piece, it  was coming together. Yes! It was a kitten in a yellow raincoat and boots. Quite adorable really. It was all coming together.

I sat quietly minding my own business while moth man tried to fly into the lamp, and Mumbles with his insane muttering babbled on in his strange language.  I’m still trying to decipher his murmurs, but it’s only driving me insane, which is the one thing I needed to prove I’m wasn’t if I ever wanted to get out of here. My plan was to be polite, take my meds, bide my time, and prove I didn’t belong among these disturbed individuals.

I was getting to the last few pieces, finishing the kitty’s yellow boot, when I noticed the last piece was nowhere to be found. My ears burned, my eyes darted about the room. I just knew someone took it on purpose. They want me get me riled, so they can keep me here and use me as their guinea pig. I remained calm and moved about the room in stealth mode, peering over everyone’s shoulders. Where was that darn puzzle piece? I swear I’ll turn this place upside down until I find it.

The as I walked past Mothman, he smiled. That’s when  I finally spotted it on his spoon.  How did my puzzle piece get into his pudding cup? The people who run this place told him to take it just to get me riled. I couldn’t let that happen. I sprang across the table and snatched the spoon from his mouth. He let out his Mothman screech. I picked the piece out of the pudding and darted back over to my table, but before I could squish the soggy piece into the puzzle, the orderly grabbed me, and Doctor Stan pricked me with one of those needles that deliver instant sleep.

I woke up here in this padded room with a box of crayons, some paper, and a bed with no blankets.

Anyone who reads my journal may be wondering if I don’t belong here, why am I here.

It’s crazy really. I had a talking dog. His name was Lawrence. I drove thousands of miles to New York to the Guinness World Records just so they could hear Lawrence talk. This dog would make me rich and famous. My whole future rested in his mouth. We got to the building, I stopped at the receptionist desk and asked to see the man in charge, but she refused. I told her that Lawrence was a talking dog, and I ordered him to speak. The darn dog--his muzzle was closed tight, not even a whimper.  I pulled out my handgun that I have for protection-- because so many people are out to get me-- and I ordered him to speak or be shot. He didn’t speak. Now, here I am sentenced to this place for God knows how long for committing dogicide. 

****

Today they started something new. The doctors call it electro-shock therapy, but I'm on to them. They are using electrical current to transport my intelligence from my brain and putting it into jars. Why, you may ask? I believe they are going to transplant my intelligence into their own brains and take over the world. So, it is up to me to stop them, but I'm finding it hard to think, even after this first draining session. I must curl up on my cot and cover myself with some pieces of paper and rest. Hopefully by morning I'll have some idea of how to proceed with saving the world. 

Author Bio:

M. Allman /editor and publisher - Click here for more info.