Digging in My Backyard

January 31, 2025

Was it a phantasmic terror

Ready to be unleashed?

Or simply the electric company's newest meter

Declaring my bill increased?

Perhaps I stumbled

Upon an alien pod

Or the secret weapon

Of the Israeli Mossad.

Whatever I uncovered

Whatever its inception

I'll wager a sawbuck

It beats my TV's reception.

I choose to believe

In you and me

Because

Even the desert

Will sometimes

Get snow

The Sistine Chapel? Why that’s on par with the lobby of a Motel 6 by an offramp to a regional airport compared to my imagined writing retreat. As natural light streams through every window throughout the day and the room remains at a constant 72 degrees with 45% humidity, how could I not be motivated? The intoxicating smell of honeysuckle lingering in the air advances my creative output.

A nubile, Swedish masseuse, who would make Helen of Troy look like Vern Troyer (R.I.P.), standing at the ready to banish the knots or stiffness in my neck, shoulders and lower back would be advantageous. Of course, a Michelin three-star chef on staff dedicated to preventing me from becoming hangry and losing my train of thought isn’t detrimental. My cellphone in Airplane Mode, the neighborhood kids staying off my lawn and distractions going by way of the passenger pigeon are all advantageous.

Garbed in pants woven from Egyptian cotton and a satin smoking jacket with a cashmere scarf cascading over my shoulders would burst open the inspiration floodgates. Palming a snifter of brandy in one hand and a hand-rolled cigarette made with the highest quality Turkish tobacco secured in the end of an elongated, mother-of-pearl holder between two fingers of the other hand, I take my rightful place nestled in the overstuffed throne. What could be more uplifting? I position myself behind the customized mahogany desk. Dipping a quill replicating a feather from an Archaeopteryx lithographica into the bottomless well of Persian ink that’s adjacent to a stack of never-ending Midori paper guarantees boundless productivity.

When the process of transferring ink to a cellulous medium begins, stories flow out of me as effortlessly as water pours over Angel Falls. My participles don’t dangle. I’ve correctly used they’re, their and there. Possessive apostrophes are flawlessly executed. In the end, my written words conjure images so impactful, they compel librarians and bookstore employees across the globe to clear the shelves of best sellers, freeing up space for my highly anticipated, soon-to-be released tomes.

With encouragement from the Federal government, the Dewey Decimal System generates a new category dedicated specifically for my books. Instead of numbers, the omega symbol is assigned to this classification. Nationwide, elementary school curriculums add a course entitled: “How to use the Dewey Decimal System,” so children now and for future generations to come, will have the skillset to independently locate my printed works in the newly reorganized libraries.

But alas, such a crafted scenario will never become a reality. I’m at peace with this though because I want to abolish every reason for not sitting down and writing today. I must eliminate the mindset of postponing writing until ideal conditions are achieved. I want writing to be my excuse for ignoring the trappings of life, not the other way around.

Dirty clothes in the hamper - I’ll get to them once I land on the perfect synonym for “trouble.” Bills need to be paid - I’m on it after I tighten up this transitional sentence. Haven’t gone to the gym in a week – That’s a good topic for a story. The dishwasher isn’t going to load itself – Uber Eats will suffice until I proofread, out loud, this paragraph five more times. Free-range dust bunnies are propagating beneath the bed – I’ll vacuum when I’m happy with my final draft.

Combating “writer’s block” is difficult in of itself. Having this malady forever lurking along the frazzled edges of my mind requires me to be on constant alert for possible battles if it decides to storm and subsequently obstruct the gates of my thought process. So, I shouldn’t be too selective while mentally establishing an optimal location for writing.

If I visualize my ultimate workplace consisting of a pencil, a blank piece of scrap paper and a horizontal (or diagonal or vertical) surface, then I have no other option but to write. Anything above and beyond these three things will only boost my enthusiasm, invigorating me to keep writing. This is the situation I long for. This is how I control my space.

The Achilles heel...

The swinging footfall of Man...

This disfigurement of Ego

Can't be banked on as a plan...

I went out on a massive lake,

My little boy in tow...

We played the day away, and splashed...

Our fancies were afloat...

His eyes dipped into mine,

And there were stars a mile long...

As hours ticked away

We knew our time had come and gone...

We pressed our way back to the sand...

The black stones ranged in height,,,

I recognized while halfway back

A shining toy so bright...

We'd left a large inflatable

Shaped like a pair of shears

Out listing in the waves of time...

Decided to switch gears...

Returning to the spot we'd gleaned

My boy and I gazed wide...

The floating toy had bobbed away...

A stones throw from our side...

Exasperated by our loss

I looked down at my child...

He could not swim a lap like this...

The air was warm and mild...

I gave up after staring at

The darkness in the waves...

Returning from my reverie

To the multitudes who'd grazed...

I realized now we were blocked in

By flocks of anxious flesh...

A woman with a dull look gaped

While a babe clung to her breast...

I pushed myself beneath her toes...

I clung to slippery rocks...

It wasn't 'til I'd passed her towel

That I recoiled with shock...

In all my haste I realized

I'd left my boy alone,

And when I turned to look for him

My heart fell like a stone...

The Achilles heel...

The swinging footfall of Man...

This disfigurement of Ego

Can't be banked on as a plan...

His eyes dipped into mine,

And there were stars a mile long...

As hours ticked away

We knew our time had come and gone...

1/30/25

Bunny Villaire

When navigating the rocky road laid down by Life, I am of the belief that if it’s not broken, don’t fix it. That is why, since 1980, I’ve been making and following through with the same New Year’s resolution: Set the bar low. I mean low low. Something just above a subterranean level. A bar which requires little if any effort to clear. I’m talking about an imperceivable elevation that wouldn’t disrupt the cadence of a millipede.

Example #1. I’ve heard numerous motivational speeches encouraging me to “shoot for the stars.” But considering the nearest star is the Sun at a mere 93 frickin’ million miles away and, oh, in case you were unaware, is extremely hot, I fail to see the benefit of even trying to shoot for that yellow globe of death. Icarus didn’t have a positive outcome, who am I to think my attempt would differ? History and science shows that the risk far outweighs any reward.

Instead, I shoot for the refrigerator. My fridge never fails to provide, even despite me not venturing out for groceries in nine days. It’s well within manageable walking distance from anywhere in my house. There’s no bouncer. No cover charge or secret password is required to gain entry. It is at my beckon call. The fridge welcomes my visits, whether a quick one to grab a yogurt as I’m about to leave for work in a suit and tie or one involving me standing there for a prolonged stretch of time with my robe open, clad in tattered underwear and mismatched socks while rescanning the interior for a third time looking for the hardboiled egg that I’m sure I saw earlier this week. It complements the freezer above. And most importantly, it doesn’t discriminate based on a food’s race, creed or religion. The fridge keeps all the contents at a constant 36 degrees.

Example #2. I shoot for something that’s physically impossible to miss. For the past four and half decades. I have made a conscientious decision to avoid using the word “festooned” in daily conversations. So once again, I’m destined to crush this goal. Heck, only 28 days into 2025 and I’m already chalking this one up as a win.

By selecting such a generalized resolution every December 31st, I ensure my successful win streak remains intact. I’ll skate through the next eleven months with no concern for failure. My chest swells with pride knowing I won’t be among the staggering 80% of the population who don’t keep their resolutions beyond February.

I am already looking forward to 2026.

You ought to be grateful, Charles. Not many young birds would be willing to mate with such a sorrowful whistler. Father's words from the night before coat my mind through to the early morning when Caroline’s cheerful chirps wake me with a start. I hate the morning. I hate its stupid crisp air and rising pink sun.

A parental-shaped shadow peaks through the rootlets I’ve braided over the top of my nest to keep that very ball of fire out. Father advises me to fluff my vibrant red feathers, glisten my beak, and head out for the hunt like the Redbird he raised me to be. Mamma says my cousins don’t get to hunt like we do, Uncle Landon doesn’t even have a mate. How lucky am I to come from a long lineage of Royal Northern Cardinals, I should be honored.

My definition of luck came in a plump brown package. She was a loner by choice and didn’t understand the need for mates. So when Caroline and I bonded as hatchlings, we made a pact to only put up with each other. I need my space, and everyone already avoids her. A match made in a Mulberry tree. Father never could understand the need for more, what with brains the size of a thumbnail – my mind wanders still. I dream of longer flights with grander views; late nights, and even later mornings.

Still, we need to eat. I’ve cleared the distance of green grass I’d trotted brown yesterday chasing a grasshopper. Through the clearing ahead, an old run-down human nest comes into view. Mamma says the humans live in these boxes, storing food for the winter along all the walls. If only I could find a way to do the same. Caroline’s melodious song mingles in the air and I project a matching tune. When I cease, she elongates her sound and I know it’s time for breakfast. I must hurry, my instinct is to provide. I mustn't waste any more time daydreaming. Surely Father is right when he tells me this yearning will pass. I can’t see anything good from down here, I’ll need to get higher.

I spot a flash of red from the corner of my eye when I land on the branches extended from the human box. Wait, who is that? A bird matching my height and elegance stares back from the shiny square hole in the side of the oversized nest. Who the hell is that? An anger I’d never known burned through my chest. He’s here for my food, Caroline's food... My unborn hatchlings' food... The intruder mirrors my every move, as if mocking me. Can he hear my thoughts? Oh God... Charge!

~CRASH~

Dried branches lining the gravel driveway crackle under Jeanie’s SUV. She ponders the warn yard, and the lifted paint on the decrepit deck that Larry and Ben put up in 78’. Fourteen summers had passed since life had graced this doorstep. Rounding the corner and up the backstairs, the old lady is pleasantly surprised to see the windows have yet to be smashed in.

Cardinal melodies fill the salty air cocooning the forgotten cabin; fully bloomed trees sway in the summer breeze. The ground lay still. Mangroves block the wind the sea brings forth, and wildlife reaps the riches of the calm moisture. The neglected garden in the backyard has brought forth a chaotic insect paradise. Tomato vines spread far and tangled through the un-mowed grass. Jeanie scoffs in dismay as she enters her beloved shack. Summers spent here with the children are long gone, and it’s time to say goodbye.

She had come here to clear out memorabilia and eat a homemade lunch by the sea one last time. After finishing her canned tuna sandwich over the sink, Jeanie tests the taps, and the water flows after a quick putter. She gets lost in the summer sun illuminating the gaillardia through the window above the sink. One of the flowers hops towards her, startling the woman. She squints her eyes to focus, but it’s not long before the flower flutters its wings and lands on the deck outside; revealing itself to be a small red bird. Jeanie’s eyesight is not what it used to be. Locking eyes with the unexpected visitor, she wonders if Larry could be there to see her off. Tears form, memories flicker, and a smile spreads across her face.

The bird, however, did not seem to share her sentiment. Only seconds later, it took flight in a fit of anger, violently colliding into the window she looked out of. Jeanie gasps and catches herself on the sink's edge. Sobbing, the meager lady totters outdoors to save the poor beauty. Her gaze sweeps the deck, but the bird is gone. Feeling a rush of relief, she knows they will both be okay.

I Knew Her as Sophia

January 26, 2025

Rarely does someone catch my eye as Sophia did. She was difficult to explain, even more difficult to describe.

I did not know her real name, so I invented her nom de plume for the purposes of this narrative.

Sophia wore green lipstick.

She might have been naked and no one would have noticed. That green lipstick captured the imagination of all within visual range.

I met Sophia in a bank, while waiting in line. She entered wearing a black coat. Her heels clicked against the marble floor, drawing the attention of those not fully engrossed with their cell phones to look.

I looked. Others looked.

They saw her green lipstick. That is all they saw. I listened to the police at the conclusion of her armed robbery, interviewing everyone who encountered her. They all agreed upon the green lipstick.

They could not agree on anything else.

At that time, I declined to add my observations to the final report.

Sophia went to the teller and handed her a note. She must have carried a firearm with her to commit such a brazen act in front of scores of witnesses.

No one spoke of ever seeing a firearm.

The teller reported electronically transferring $78000 from one account to another. The police would eventually learn that both accounts were held by the same person who had died two days before. So, in essence, there was no robbery. There was no crime. Sophia initiated a bank transfer, nothing else.

But, the Bank Manager said he called the police. The police arrived, with guns in hand. Everyone was told to get down. One at a time, a detective ordered each customer to stand up and keep their hands up. Once patted down, they ushered the customer to a desk and began taking both their ID and their statement about Sophia and her non-crime.

This took a mere ten minutes before the detectives cleared the scene and apologized for the inconvenience.

I had only a debit card to show them for my ID. I never carry anything more unless I am driving or going to make a very large transaction. The detective was not pleased with me. He should have been very annoyed when I would not answer his questions. He seemed to be on the clock, constantly checking the time, as if he had somewhere to go.

Or someone to meet.

It took another two minutes before another group of police arrived at the same bank, with guns drawn, ordering everyone to get down. The confusion of the customers extended the duration in which the police were required to secure the scene and begin their investigation.

A million thoughts ran through my mind as I tried to think of exactly what just happened and why it happened.

I have come to the conclusion that the woman I call Sophia was indeed a bank robber. However, she wasn’t the only bank robber that day. The first group of police were also bank robbers. They were also identity thieves. By noon, everyone who had produced ID had their identity stolen, their funds stolen, their credit cards maxed out, new credit cards issued to them and maxed out, and a new criminal record issued.

I managed to freeze my debit card and credit cards before I became a victim (smartphones are good for something). I also spoke to a detective about the remaining bank robber who did not leave.

The Bank Manager said he called the police. That he did. Yet, he never said when he called the police. The first group arrived too early. The second group (the real police) arrived too late.

I believe the call came in after the first were leaving, not before they arrived.

The real police detective began believing me also.

Once pressured, the Bank Manager gave up his comrades for a deal that the local news could not verify even by the time of the trial, four months later.

Where does that leave Sophia?

As a Bank Examiner, I have a hypothesis not to where Sophia is, but to where the $78000 of transferred money is. For a teller to begin such a transfer, they have to enter their password, then the account numbers. Sophia provided the account numbers, but not the password. The teller did that. But what if this was the plan from the start? What if the robbery and ID theft was a smaller part of something much larger? Where did Sophia and her green lipstick go? She went with the money. All of the money. Every account from every account holder into a single account, all within a few seconds of Sophia leaving the bank.

The forensic account experts said that once one transfer is complete, thousands more begin to make the probability of tracing any of the transfers impossible.

Sophia’s name never came up during the trial. No one could describe her for a visual. All anyone could remember was her green lipstick.

And not her $110 million dollar payday.

Reconsidering my suspense

It pulls him through the knot

Anticipating me to lend a hand

Conjecturing a rescuer and an expedient of its

Calling himself a freak

Is it a sin to be a peregrine in others' avenue

Reception for only the acquaintances by privilege

Are we the pilgrims of our own persuasions

Deceiving is so congruent for loners

I am afraid of being recreant

I promise on my non-existent deity

Having an avid vague that leads me to lean upon you

Although knowing your plan for betraying me written on your script

Are you going to act according to your libretto?

Is it surrendering to the Father?

If I am a caitiff why am I still going on

Resembling while emulating me

It makes him confident of his mold

Conjugating with me to guarantee his vita

Am I enough to be an instance

Calling himself insufficient

Is he?

Is it wrong to get attached to the immortal ones

Do we compress the essence with phlogiston

Is it fiery to swaddle the substance

Is mettle can be enough to warm our threads

We are consisting to consider

Even if it means denying the negotiation with the quietus

Are you gonna act with me like one in a body?

Are we going to leave each other if the danger comes out?

If we are scared of getting hurt then why are we feeling sure of our steps

But they don't know what we know

Cowards don't negate being on

They are not devoid of guts

Even if it is not as chivalry.

As a caitiff,

As having you by my side,

I don't reject lingering

The Forest for the Trees

January 26, 2025

Sadly,

She knew her mistakes were her own

In retrospect,

She could now clearly understand

But if she knew then

What she knew now

Things would be different

Much different

Jeff may not have left

So early in their marriage

He might not

Have left at all

As it was

He left her with nothing

No house, no job,

And no child to call her own

Mark would have treated her

The way she dreamed

She should be treated

Alas, she never treated Mark

The way he needed

To be treated

Once again, alone

All alone

At least she did not marry Stan

His wife would not

Have permitted that

The sex was great

The miscarriage was not

The title, “Stan’s Wife”

Was not her title to hold

It never really could be

So, she sits by herself

Watching the night time sky

Become the day time sky

She has done this nearly

10000 times in a row

The next one may be her last

She can see the irony of it all

Now that she no longer sees the trees