In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “A Dog Named Bob.”
“Oh Geez!”, Bob groaned, as he lifted himself off the porch deck. He stood and thought about his status of being bi-pedal. What and how did it improve his abilities to be in the cosmic concert. He growled at the Facwahs, a dingy cat sitting near the open screen door with his mouth open, he was in awe of Bob. The screen door swayed a bit in the curling wind blowing in from the eastern horizon of morning rise. It clanked after each gust, clang, clink, and then a final clank as it clicked closed.After the midnight thunder storm. Bob remembered nothing. His nakedness was a concern because of his neighbor across the fenced in pasture was working on his tractor. His name was Bob too, and he had found Bob laying in the ditch one day after a pop up storm had blew through the Cape Fear valley and created a mess of anything that was not tied down, even blew a few wooden fences and pine trees down. This morning the mailbox was down in the ditch, puddles of water were everywhere. Bob knelt down to hide from the neighbor working and went to all fours as he opened the door to the kitchen. The dingy cat followed him into the kitchen.
“What the hell, Bob, said the cat, you know what gram said,be careful because when you get frightened you go bluejay and rip off all of your clothing,However, she didn’t say anything about turning into a dog. Fack, you turned into a damn dog and you know how I feel about those nasty critters, licking off plates, crapping in the yard, and chasing me about, you never think about me, good thing you didn’t run off for good tho, because gram said that’s what happens to folks when they get scared! You better put some syrup on those flapjacks or you might turn into another kind of nasty old creature. One never knows with you, Bob!” I sat down to the kitchen table and ate quietly while the cat continued to rant about how selfish I was and a fraidy dog too, that had never happened before, a dog, I had been frightened by the storm and ripped my clothes off and turned into a dog, running off into the woods, I was pretty lucky to have found my way back to the house. My gram told me the story about going bluejay by being scared or troubled and some people run into the woods and never find their way back home. I was still naked and felt the urge to document another time of going bluejay.
Entry#7734, went bluejay last night around midnight, don’t remember how I got back home but the cat is talking too…scribble, scribble, dang pen. Ran out of ink.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Linger.”
The morning sun rises and the Atlantic ocean tide is receding. My eyes scan the surface. What I am seeking is a connection. I cast my line out beyond the rolling breakers. The tide is in full turn now. I feel the pull of the ocean on my line and weight of my Carolina rig baited with shrimp. Winds, they are breezing into my face. The current carries my rig downshore. I reel. There is no sun. The clouds obscure the morning light, breakers sizzle with sea foam at my barefeet. I cast. It plunks down and into the unseen ocean bottom. Grey, the ocean salt water has turned and began a run from the shoreline. My rod tip bends from the current, dips, releases with each rolling breaker. My eyes go out my head and into the sky with the seas birds, darting and diving with the wind and then into the sea beyond the first break. I feel the calm. My line goes slack. My rod handle is tucked under my left arm, my right hand is on the reel handle, the rod tip bends as an unseen force strikes at my bait. I react. The hook is set by a jerk of my left hand and arm in unison. The fish has engaged and connected with a mighty tug. It is fish on! Fish on! I reel.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Menagerie.”
Animals, “some animals are more equal than others” to quote Orwell. Yes, I do have animal friends, do I own them or do they oversee my daily shananigans as a two-legged? I think, the cat oversees me, and views the dog, an orange, cream sicle colored four-legged as necessary minions in his world. And the dog, she enjoys my company and is witness to my daily routine but the “kitty kitty” as he is referred to by my wife has the command of our world, or so, it seems.
Our relationships, both the cat and dog seems to be on a time, space and place arena. While, we exist in a world far from a major city, and near a small town, it is a relationship with some boundaries, and we have our responsibilites, unspoken ones, but nonetheless, we are beholden to each other. The cat will walk the perimeter of our property and never ventures too far and watches for intruders, other animals, that may cause harm to any outdoor projects and is invested in the hierarchy of the pack. While the dog keeps and eye on the two-leggeds and attempts to cutail the cats stalking of other four leggeds by woofing and attempting to herd Ferus Grandpapi, it does not work well for her, as the cat does his responsiblity with great stealth and rarely speaks. He does sing a little when the full moon rises or there is a change in season.
But,as I am a two-legged, they are not owned, but oversee my responsibilities, as we have an unstated contract that we are a pack and must be accountable to each other and those that are members.
In response to The Daily Post’s weekly photo challenge: “Afloat.”
As a youngster I escaped the dreck and flotsam of those trying times by walking along the shores of the Salish Sea, formerly known as the Straits of Juan de Fuca. The water, waves, and tides were my timescape, forever changing, forever unchanged. Songs of the gulls, eagles whistling, and river currents carrying my spirit to the sanctity of the ancestral muse. Afloat, yes, while in a riptide of adolescence, afloat,yes, seeking the song of my spirit, soul, and the sanctity of a space, place and time reserved in a riverine system holding the shoreline in place while the lands rose and set me in my place. A sacred space of a beating heart, and rolling tides of emotions.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “What a Twist!.”
The Sunday school rhyme reverbed in his thoughts. His youth was spent seeking relief from his soul tortured experience of faith, he was not a believer, nor was he convinced the preachers, and his followers were either. But the stories were good. He listend to them, morality, eternal life, redemption, sin, and good, and some love. But once the stories ended and the class was out for the day of faith. He saw too many of his peers, those being raised by the believers commit acts against those very teachings and they lived with their parents in their houses, and had images of a Jesus, glowing, and looking toward some light beaming onto his face. Sometimes they spoke of evil manifested as some devil guy and he lived on the Indian reservation.
In his mind, the rhyme went over and over…”One, two three…the devil is after me, four, five six, he’s always throwing sticks, seven, eight, nine, he’s always drinking wine, nine ten eleven, we all get to heaven.” It looped on and on…like he was on an elevator with no buttoms or doors but rising, rising into some shining light. But it was not an elevator, it was more like his body was rising into the space between sun and stars and then his body falling through the nothingness of darkness.
Even when he spoke to others in his personal space, the rhyme was chiming in between the spaces of conversation. He heard them, but was able to maintain the conversation and tasks at hand. Distracting but he learned to cope. Always coping…eat, sleep, drink, sticks, get rid of the sticks and drink holy water. He “borrowed” the water from St. Joe’s an abandoned church near the intersection of a small town he had trekked though on his way back to his birthplace, a little town, long deserted after the logging industry had cut down all of the forest and milled all of the logs into lumber. Those memories were old, like him, coping was getting old too. So, he quit. Put a plug in the jug. He returned to his hometown near the Indian reservation. They were ready for him too. Put him in a room with a bed and a painting of a valley,and a man with a shiny face. It was beautiful and he felt drained. Depressed.
It was that time again, his space was growing small, the clock on the wall tick tocked, windows hazed with grime, wall paper yellowed. A crack in the plaster led into an abyss. This time he did not follow the dark line.
“Mr. Redder, Mr. Redder, can you hear me?” She asked, “I have been assigned to your case. I’ll be your casemanager for this season. Do you know what day it is, Mr. Redder? Can you hear me? We need to prepare you for your discharge. We have your sticks, your wine, how are you feeling this day? We have much hope that you will not be returning this time and that you will fulfil your social contract and you must remember that the old tales are not worth much in these times, so, use yours with great certainty! We are counting on you!” She handed him the clipboard and he signed with an X. The casemanger walked toward the door and turned to him,”You know your place in this world.” She exited the room and he could hear her footsteps clogging down the hallway. His spine tingled and his eyes burned while he felt the rawness of his scalp in a couple of places near his forehead. Dang, everything, nothing had changed. It was this way everytime he was released from this infernal space. For him there was no hope to spread his wings and fly, to feel fresh water on his face, cool wind in his hair, eat fresh salmonberries, to breath in life. He blinked his eyes and slipped out through the crack of an open door and into the growing twilight. This time he was hoping to find those old friends at the campfire near the summit of a mountain he knew existed because he had heard a story about it under the bridges in the cities and everyone had shared a story around the warmth of a fire. The time he was determined to learn those old tricks. Darkness came, and he thought of his friend poking holes into the sky with a stick.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “The Show Must Go On.”
As a American Indian/First Nations/Native American storyteller…I could play the lead in a movie. The main character moves through time, space, and place and having improv experience I could see my self performing as a lead actor. As a dear departed poet friend once said,”It’s not magical realism…it’s reality!”
In response to The Daily Post’s weekly photo challenge: “Ephemeral.”