out of reach

This morning as I pack up to leave, there is a thought that lingers at the edge of my consciousness, hovering, and teasing. I grasp for it, but it evades me, like a feather I once chased in the wind, blowing just a little further away every time I reached out for it. Even though I can’t quite grasp this thought, I’m aware that it comes from within. Perhaps it’s a dream I don’t remember, or a premonition, or a memory hidden deep in my heart. Whatever it is, it torments me. No amount of trying secures it for me, and the harder I try, the further away it floats. 
If I believed in past-lives, I would wonder if this thought, intended to have been purged from my soul during my birth, didn’t somehow get stuck in the recesses of this current mind, this current life. A thought I’ll never have a full understanding of, but will always be haunted by; wisps of memories from another lifetime; voices and thoughts of people I will never know. Or perhaps, it is simply the result of a cluttered mind, needing to be cleaned out. I think of my grandmother’s attic, elusive and mysterious to me as a child, containing hidden treasures and wonders waiting to be discovered. A whole lifetime, or several lifetimes, stored above my sleeping head. So many stories to tell, so many hours to explore and imagine. I think of the disappointment when, as an adult, I was tasked with the job of cleaning it out after her passing, and I had lost all sense of it’s wonder and mystique. Instead, I felt burdened by the many boxes of junk, inconvenienced to have to move old furniture down steep attic stairs, and disgusted at layers of dust and years of neglect. Where had my pure, idyllic, childhood eyes gone? Perhaps this thought is similar, hidden behind boxes and boxes of junk that clutter my mind. A memory from childhood or a place of innocence that simply cannot penetrate this jaded adult that no longer speaks its language.

My love for him is similar: so unattainable; so out of reach. I feel the love I have for him, yet I cannot describe it, name it, or even speak of it. Since I cannot grasp the thought swirling and dancing above my head, and I cannot indulge the feelings for a man I must not love,  I instead focus on the very real and substantial task before me. The task of beginning a new life, in a new town, with nothing but evasive thoughts, sad memories, and a broken heart to carry with me. Truly, I have little more than the clothes on my back and an old Jeep Wrangler that has an intermittent air conditioner. Nonetheless, I must continue. The hope of a happy future leads me on, like that feather– always out in front of me, never in my grasp, but close enough to keep me chasing it.

“Come on, Shovel,” I call out to my dog, snapping my fingers at my side. He predictably obeys and hops into the passenger seat of the Jeep, immediately sticking his head out of the open window. I love dogs. Shovel never questions me, never second guesses my crazy decisions. He just trusts and obeys me. I climb in beside him and rub my hand down his smooth back, collecting loose fur as I go. I have to keep a lint brush in the glovebox when anyone but Shovel sits in the seat.

“Are you ready for this, boy?” He turns from the window and looks at me with big expectant eyes then barks once. 

He’s ready. Am I?

Ophelia sat

Ophelia sat at her window every day watching the squirrel that lived in the big oak tree in front of Happy Hearts, Helping Hands. She watched it scurry down the trunk and scamper across to the large sign that anchored the square building.
The squirrel's routine was as important as her own. If he did not come out and move across the sign, then she refused to go to lunch. If he did not collect nuts from the ground, then she would not see her therapist. The orderlies knew this. Her doctor knew this. Her roommate knew it, too.

One day, as she sat waiting for the squirrel to appear, she overheard some attendants in the hallway.
"It's time to get her for lunch," the male said, impatiently.
"She won't come yet. The squirrel supreme hasn't come out of hiding," the female replied sarcastically.
Ophelia didn't care much for those two. Although, to be fair, she didn't care much for any of them. So impatient, so tied to time and schedules. Why not be tied to something real, something tangible, she thought.
"You know it's supposed to snow next week," he remarked. "What's gonna happen then?"
"What do you mean?" she said.
"Don't squirrels hibernate or something? That little guy's not gonna be collecting nuts and running around when it's freezing."
Ophelia felt her heart tighten for just a second and the blood rush to her temple. She took a big breath and quickly recovered. It really wasn't her problem. They would have to figure it out. Isn't that what they were paid to do?
Her eyes darted as she watched the squirrel run out from the canopy of the tree, down the trunk and across to the sign.
She sighed with relief and rose from her chair. She thought it was about time he came out. She was getting hungry, after all.

Behind the Tilt-A-Whirl

Behind the tilt-a-whirl lay a door in the ground, not unlike a storm shelter door. It was carefully hidden by tall grass, and was further concealed by a woven mat of straw masking the metal hinges and door handle. From a distance, a casual observer would easily miss it. Although, even if it weren't hidden, few were brave enough to wander behind the ride. No sane person would try to sneak by Gerry Lucer, the biggest, ugliest, man anyone had ever seen, who also happened to operate the ride. Not that being ugly was a sin, but Gerry was also mean. So mean that the story was that the last person who snooped around down there was picked up by the neck, thrown down through the door in the ground, and never seen again. The police were told about it, but when they investigated and opened the door, all they found was dirt on the other side. Most of us kids weren't fooled though. Why have a door that didn't lead anywhere?

One night a few of us were out there after hours, just fooling around. It was a dark night with no moon or stars shining. We walked by the tilt-a-whirl, and honest to God, we saw a bright light shooting out from the corners of the door. As if that wasn't enough to scare us, we also heard loud music playing and the voices of two people screaming. We ran from there as fast as we could. We told the adults that were supposed to know what to do, but once again, when the police went out to investigate, all they found was a door that opened to dirt.

No one ever did believe us, but it was the truth. After that summer, the carnival moved on to another city. We never saw Gerry Lucer again. We also never found the door in the ground again. It just disappeared with all the rides and games and people.

Not my city.

I had never been to this part of town before, and if I didn't know better, I would have sworn that I was in another city altogether. My part of town represented a city I was proud to live in. At any given time of day when one stepped outside of my apartment complex there were people walking the streets, headed toward one of the trendy shops or coffee bars. You never walked far without seeing a jogger or biker, and if you walked just four blocks you found yourself in a big beautiful park watching dogs chasing Frisbees, families picnicking, and students from the college studying under a tree. I loved my city. But not this place. This street was desolate and ugly. The shops were neglected or bared up. The few people that were out seemed tired or bored.
I rechecked my GPS just to make sure I had it right. I didn't want to be lost down here. I parked my car on the street and double checked my locks before stepping onto the sidewalk. I walked along, aware of how quiet it was. There were no children playing, no people talking, no cars driving by. The quiet was so loud in my head that I started whistling to block it out. I put my hands in my pockets and felt some loose change from the coffee shop this morning. I shook the coins, liking the clang they made alongside my whistling. I felt bold, superior.
 Don't be such a snob.
 My cheeks flushed. I had never felt superior to anyone before. I wasn't one of them, the out of touch elite. I was an everybody kind of guy. I supported causes and voted the right way. I rallied against social injustice and discussed foreign policy with my friends. Yet here I was, hating the drabness of this place. Hating that it was part of my city. I sighed heavily and stopped whistling. I stopped looking for the right address and instead looked around me. There were some people out after all. I noticed the shop keeper across the street, standing at his door cleaning the glass with a rag. He looked at me and smiled. Had he been there a second ago? Just ahead of me was a bus stop. There were three women waiting. One of them had a baby in her arms. They all laughed at the same time. The oldest one saw me out of the corner of her eye and smiled. I smiled back. I walked on. Up ahead there was a homeless man, sitting on a bench. His possessions were piled up next to him; a large black trash bag with a blanket peeking over the top, an almost empty water bottle, a ball cap and a scruffy dog. I noticed he had a little bowl of water for his dog. This struck me. A man who could barely care for himself, yet here he was caring for this little dog. I felt for the change in my pocket and pulled it out. Less than a dollar. I looked from my hand and back to the man. His eyes were a light blue. His hair gray and cut close. He had a small beard that was surprisingly well kept. He smiled at me.
 "Hello there!" he said, with a grin.
"Um, hi," I said, feeling self-concise. "I'm sorry I don't have much change, just this here." I handed him what I had. It was nothing. An insult.
The man tilted his head, looking at me with interest. His dog barked.
"Why, thank you, James. Every bit helps."
I felt relieved that I hadn't offended him, "You're welcome."
I turned and started walking back to my car, forgetting why I had come down here in the first place. Forgetting that I still had something to do, forgetting that I had not told the homeless man my name.

First Family Band

“First Family Band” was scribbled across the back of the old photograph. I turned it around looking again at the faded image. Five smiling faces all dressed in church attire lined up shoulder to shoulder. Behind them loomed a tall, rusty tractor. I looked closer and made out the blurred image of a bird sitting on the tractor seat right where a person ought to have been. It was large. A bird of prey probably. One man wore no shoes although his slacks were pressed and his shirt tucked in. The woman standing on the end held a long pole upright with a French flag flapping at it's top.

I searched carefully through the shoe-box, flipping through all the other photographs. I could find no more of the “First Family Band.” However, I did find one with the shoe-less man in it. He was sitting on the beach, a still ocean behind him. He smiled into the camera with his hands on the side of his face, fingers sticking out of his ears in a child like “nanny, nanny, boo-boo” pose. I chuckled. Who was this man? I wondered if the photographer might have been someone in the band picture. I hoped it had been the flag woman.

I looked around me at the contents of a house spread out across a lawn. A life I knew nothing of, but was given free reign to rifle through. Behind an old sofa I spotted the tip of what looked like a French flag. I hurried over. I had to tug and pull to get the flag out from under a large suitcase. It was still attached to the pole. The same one in the picture. I held it upright and stared as it flapped in the breeze, finally free from the rubble.

A few feet away sat a stuffed bird. I leaned the flag against the sofa and bent down to examine it. It was an owl. I was sure I had found another artifact from the photo, but when I looked closer I could see that the bird in the picture was real. It had it's wings lifted as if it were about to take flight.

I was distracted by voices coming toward me.

“Look lady, I've already told you, none of it is free. If you want something you'll have to buy it,” said the young man that was running the sale.

“I told you, I don't have any money, but he'd want me to have it. I know it,” replied a frail, but determined feminine voice.

I looked at the woman and looked again at the picture. It was her. I was sure of it. The lady holding the flag. She spotted me and suddenly stopped. Her eyes traveled up to the flag blowing in the wind and she smiled.

“Oh look,” she said. “He saved it. All these years and he saved it.”

walk a mile

I'd walk a mile for a computer right now. I know the words "rustic and quaint" should have tipped me off when I read the brochure, but honestly... no Internet access? Is that even allowed nowadays? After throwing a small fit at the front desk (if you can call it that. It was more like a thatched box with a little stool for the non-English speaking teenager who ran the place), I decided to walk around a bit and see if I could find anyone on this silly island who had a working computer. I was willing to pay a generous hourly rate for its use. I just needed to check my e-mail for god's sake!
Up ahead I heard a radio playing top forty hits and in my haste to reach anyplace with electricity, I stumbled over a banana tree root.
"Ouch!" I cried, rolling onto my back and grasping my ankle. I could already feel the swell of flesh pushing against my strappy sandals. Tears stung my eyes and as I tried to call for help a choked sob came out instead. Defeated in so many ways, I was suddenly depleted of all my energy. My body, defeated and hurting, eased into the mushy ground. My splayed arms and legs went heavy and the throb in my ankle faded to a dull ache. Clouds floated by in haste over the treetops. Ironically, on the island, everything moved at a lazy, lethargic pace while the skies zoomed by. In the bustling city, the clouds seemed to just sit and stare at all the chaos.
I thought about all the e-mails I wasn't returning and all the news I wasn't keeping up with. I thought about all the time I was wasting by being on this crazy vacation.
 I rolled over and attempted to stand up, but real pain shot up my leg again and I whimpered like a child. I felt like a child. I wanted my mom. Someone to make it all better and fix things for me. I don't know how long I silently lay there; it felt like hours, but was probably more like 20 minutes.
"Are you okay?" I heard a man ask. I shielded my eyes from the sun and looked up to see a very tanned, handsome man looking down at me, offering his hand for support.
"I don't know. I think I'm okay. I hurt my ankle- it might be sprained...or broken," I answered meekly.
He smiled, bent down and gently touched my swollen ankle. "I' can help you."
Relief washed over me and I sighed loudly, forgetting all about my e-mails.

Cookie Jars and Guns

Use the following words in a story: hypocrite, cookie jar, city and telephone. Taken from creativewritingprompts.com

"I'm really nervous about this trip," Grace hissed to her long time best friend Jill, as she shoved shorts and t-shirts in to her duffel bag. She wished she could protest louder but Jill had insisted that John not find out about her apprehension. John sat in the next room transfixed on the National News. Grace doubted he was sober enough to register the anxiety in her voice anyway. She had watched him down one beer after another all afternoon. She wanted to be mean and tell him that getting drunk wouldn't make it all go away. He would still have to deal with it eventually and he should just toughen up. She wanted to be mean to Jill also and tell her that she was not the Savior and she couldn't fix everything so why didn't she just leave them alone already! She wanted to say these things, but she didn't want to be alone so she kept her mouth mostly shut in the hopes that she could hang onto her friends for a little while longer.
Suddenly, Grace had an alarming thought, "Do they even have telephones in this city?" she asked.
Jill thought for a minute, "Um, yeah, I think they do. Yes! I remember I used one once!" Jill sounded so proud Grace wanted to hit her.
"You think? Don't you think that's pretty important information? How are we supposed to make a local, non cell phone call that is a matter of life and death if they don't have public phones?" Her voice was escalating now, "Shouldn't you know for sure?!"
Jill looked at Grace thoughtfully and put her hand gently on her arm, "Why don't you take a little break? Maybe have a cookie or something."
"I don't have any cookies," Grace answered dryly.
"Oh, I thought I saw a cookie jar- don't you keep it filled?" Jill asked optimistically.
Grace looked at her as if she were five years old and said, "I keep my gun in there."
"Oh!" said Jill, "Well, grab that. We may need it."
Grace trudged into the kitchen to fetch her gun, passing John on the way. She forced a smile and gave him a thumbs up sign. He tried to reciprocate but ended up poking himself in the forehead. She rolled her eyes and resisted the urge to tip his recliner.  While she was in the kitchen she put on a pot of coffee, although Lord knows they didn't need the caffeine. While it was brewing she sat on the counter and contemplated the events that had led her to this fateful day. She was pretty sure it was fateful. Either that or just some really bad freaking luck. She wondered about her dog Hank. What would happen to him if she never came back? Did the kennel keep him forever? They'd probably find him a home. She hoped it was good. He was such a baby about new people. Poor thing. She made John a cup of coffee first and told him he had to drink it. Then she made one for herself and Jill, balancing both cups and her gun as she walked to the back room.
"Wow. I hope the safety is on," Jill said, as she rescued one of the tilting mugs.
"Well duh," said Grace, as she checked and discreetly switched the safety lever on.
"John is quite the winner isn't he?"she asked, sarcastically. "Do we really need him?"
"Don't be such a hypocrite, Grace. You know you acted the same way your first time out."
"Maybe. But I don't think I looked so pathetic and I know I never drank Budweiser until I was green," she said, with disdain.
Jill gave her an exasperated look and rolled her eyes. "No, you just smoked doobies until you were green. That was no picnic for me, leading your stoned butt all over an international airport."
Grace looked down sheepishly and sipped her coffee.
"Geez! We had to go to three snack stands to buy more bags of chocolate chip cookies. Noooo, you couldn't have the oatmeal ones. It had to be chocolate chip," Jill continued.
"Whatever. Fine. I'll be nice to John, but if her gets us killed, so help me..."