Always or Never
"Lesta, Lesta, come on," I said chiding and twiddling my Pen+GEAR dime a dozen implement; 1.0 mark on a blank sheet of paper. Outer edge the sun was rising, a helium balloon with no visible string, but I grasped anyway---
"Lester, Lester," she said waving a finger, the index. My first memory, no, no, no. No, no, no. I had that one arm outstretched. Upwards. That sparkling disc just out of reach by the ear-- not for play, Maman said twinkling.
Deer in the headlights. "Lester, Lester Lewis, well?" I'd forgotten I had raised my arm, gawking at the gold class bell, I knew I was supposed to give the right answer to the headmaster, but I'd forgotten the question. No, no, no. The Helium getting away. Noon on a school day.
"Lester, Lester Lewis! the baby!" the skein of yarn pulled farther and farther from outstretched hand, as I'm stuck in the cubicle, and the demand is for results. Specific results. No, no, no. All mixed together, like the curve of the teaspoon does in the highball.
The boss calling. The dark. Lights.
"Lester Lewis. Lester Lewis?"
FFF#9 Wrong Place Wrong Time challenge @ChrisSadhill
The best gift...
It is a widely maintained secret, circulated, but never stated explicitly, among those in the know, in the higher echelons of gift giving-- you know, The Martha Stewart's, The Rachel Ray's, The Doctor Phil's, The Oprah Winfrey's, of the world-- that the best gift, hands down, whether for close friend or family member, or co-worker, or teacher, or other necessary recipient, for whom you have such difficulty picking precisely --of course with careful consideration as to brand, and package, and other minor details, as to size and name--- is of course, the scented candle. Always good for regifting.
Intro to the Evolution of the Hunt: EVO 101
Our lecture today is on the various perceptions of the phenomenon of The Hunt.
We previously examined the psychology of early man, as hunter/gatherer. We concluded that the distinction between the two is negligible. A cycle of life is arrested in either case. Of course, we pointed out that we cannot speak as well to the suffering of plant life in the plucking and knifing, as well as we can bear witness to the duress of the animal kingdom.
Only Man remains as Killer, we established having consciousness, and conscience, rather than consciousness and instinct. Early Man seldom found himself in the position of The Hunted, unless straying from the safety of the group structures (physical barriers and social constructs). This vulnerability is best recognized broadly. The Hunter must step outside to marginalized venues to practice The Hunt. And the criminal mind is not far from that mentality of similarly stalking the periphery.
The Killer seeks the gaps of safety net from which to make his Take.
Now, where the psychology becomes very interesting, is where the Hunted goes on the hunt for The Hunter. Whether "criminal" or not, this is known commonly as the Ourobus Complex. Among the more notable cases, is that of Admiral Leane, who in water deprived delirium, did not realize that the Lion he was after, was in fact looping in on his trail. This ended tragically for both the Hunter and the Hunted, when game wardens were notified, from the helicopter.
But a more interesting case, previously classified, is that of Arthur X, who began to stalk himself, perceiving his person as an anonymous stranger out to get himself. Every slightest vague reflection of his self, whether in window or cutlery, provoked in him repressed agitation.
Oddly the release of that tension was not the physical attack of said images. Rather he chose a blunt instrument, plotting his demise with a pen. A Hunt known as Slander. This is of course an extreme case.
FFF#8 The Hunt challenge @ChrisSadhill
*no facts were sacrificed in the writing of this fiction
Gray, brown buildings, factories, side work, hustle and money, kids playing on the sidewalk, talking. Black. White. Porto Rican. Shouting across fences. Growing up, hometown was something like the area behind homebase, in forced retreat. A seat to regroup after dubious wins and losses. We sat out, to the left or to the right of the catcher's box, in the on-deck circle.
That was Granny's turf.
Our "family" was out there in the seats, that elusive grand slam. Home. On occasion, everything worked out alright, and everybody cheered, at the awe of it. Winning and losing team alike, knowing that it takes two sides to make a play spectacular; till the recognizance that we are opponents still. And new attempts to steal home.
Back to Granny's.
Back to Granny's watch.
Back to Granny's cooking.
Back to Granny's schedule. Back to Grandpa's interventions.
Grandpa was umpire, in the Catcher's box. He made the calls, and placed bets, doled out the dough. Mom and Dad as children, just like us. Rookies. Kept short, on deck. Rivals on the same team.
Dad cut and ran from the in-laws.
Mom stopped dreaming of homeruns.
They left us, on the edge of outfield, still looking for the foul ball.
Hometown challenge @ErJo1122
I am Money.
I am Time and Currency.
Invest in me, I say to myself
cutting my imaginary bread
It's my jam, after all
the thick spread
for the next bite.
Join me across the table.
We'll hold hands a minute
Exchange blood, Jesus
Christ and break, even
between the work sheets
counting out the tithes
beneath the ticking...
the prayerful wishes
that we keep.
The ten. Or twelve.
For one day.
When we're free.