The Creeping Hands and Frowning Face

            Peter felt as if his heart was going to explode in his chest. He hadn’t run that hard or for that long in years. He had thought his days of running like his life depended on it were over. Somehow he was wrong, and sooner than he thought. He was gasping to catch his breath and sweat was dripping off his chin. The other train riders just looked at him like he was some sort of inhuman monster. None of them were kind enough to offer him a seat as it was pretty clear that he was having trouble catching his breath. He continued to gasp and try to pull in long refreshing breaths. He wanted his heart to stop beating so heard in his chest. It was ringing in his years and he could feel his pounding, rapid pulse in his eyes.

            He felt like he was on fire. Or at least, what he thought being on fire must feel like. Well, not the burning part. That part must be horrible. The part where the fire consumes all the oxygen and you can’t breathe so you suffocate, in addition to burning.  It’s a truly horrible way to go. Peter wondered if the people on the train would even notice if he was actually on fire. There were all so involved in their make-up, iPhones, newspapers, books and general boring mélange that the flickering flames of his smoldering corpse probably wouldn’t faze them. Although someone might complain about the smell as someone almost always does. 

            The conductor was walking through the train collecting fares and Peter rummaged through his pockets and produced his ticket to show he was a daily rider. His hands felt weak and his arms were tired from his intense sprint from nearly a block and a half away. He thought he had more time at a brisk walking pace to make it to the train, but it surprised him by arriving two minutes early. He was just lucky he hadn’t stopped for the morning paper as was his normal routine. The newspaper box was empty so he didn’t stop to mess with it. He thought about the little things in life that happen that way.

            If the newspaper box had been full, he would have stopped for the paper, which would have made him miss the train, which would have resulted in his death. It was just crazy how those little things happened. It was a strange connection of coincidences and happenstance to result in his making the train and living for another day. His would-be killer must be wondering how he got away. His would-be killer should have filled the newspaper box.

            Peter took another long, deep breath and felt a heat in his chest. He started to worry that he might have broken a blood vessel in his lungs or something and he was slowly going to drown in his own blood. He thought that his killer might have won after all, if indirectly. Peter felt himself starting to settle down. He was still sweating heavily but he was able to draw a longer breath and get himself a little more under control. He started thinking about the fact that he’d been smoking since he was eleven years old and that might be a contributing factor to his current difficulty. It was strange, but even though he was still trying to catch his breath, he had a craving for a cigarette. A smooth cigarette to calm his frazzled nerves would the thing. It was too bad you couldn’t smoke on the train anymore, or anywhere for that matter.

            The train rocked side to side on the train tracks as it approached the downtown station and Peter moved from where he was standing/leaning against the train car wall toward the exit. He was still feeling weak in the legs from his run and simply couldn’t believe how badly he was out of shape. He was just glad his would-be killer had counted on his perceived inability to run. Otherwise he’d be bleeding all over this train car instead of just breathing heavy all over it.

            His would-be killer was nothing of the sort though. It didn’t care what shape he was in. His would-be killer was time. Time was always after Peter. It was the monster chasing him down the hall into his parent’s bedroom as a boy and the beast lurking under his bed. Time was the taker of life over short increments. It was a slow killer, a fast killer, a lumbering killer and a swift killer. Peter had outrun it for now, but the next time he might not be so lucky.

            The train pulled into the station and Peter was able to push himself toward his next destination. He still needed to hurry but he didn’t have Time lurking over his shoulders anymore. There was an ambulance parked across the street from the train station in front of a little coffee shop. Peter could see the paramedics working on a man who was lying on the floor in the coffee shop. The EMT’s were giving the man CPR and chest compressions. Peter kept walking passed. It seemed Time had claimed someone else in his place. Peter shuddered and put his head down toward his destination.

Coincidences

            I remember when I was a little boy and my mother would go through my pockets as she did laundry and she’d find all sorts of things, rocks, paperclips, toys, bottle caps, bits of string and lots of dirt. I don’t recall why I had collected those items and put them in my pockets, but I did. I’m sure I had some purpose for them more than being an annoyance to my mother.

            I started this morning writing about the differences between irony and coincidence. In my brief research into the subject I realized it is a swelled and complex issue with far too much sub-text to delve into so early in the day. I mean there’s a lot going into the very definition of irony that I can’t be sure I even know what it means anymore. The most reasonable definition I found of irony is “the literal meaning is opposite to the intended”; so, for example, “clear as mud”, or “hard as a cloud”.

            We know mud is thick and difficult to see through and that clouds are vapor and likely soft. So the literal meaning is different than the intended meaning. This of course has to assume the listener or reader is aware that mud is difficult to see through and what clouds are made of for the irony to be effective. Otherwise the irony is lost on them.

            But it still doesn’t change the confusion between coincidence and irony that I hear all too often. Let’s say you’re talking about Jack Nicholson to a friend in a passing conversation and later, when you get home, you turn the TV on and there’s a Jack Nicholson movie playing. That’s not ironic. It’s a coincidence. However, if you were talking to Jack Nicholson about Jack Nicholson and he said he’d never act in another movie and he goes home, turns on his TV and there’s a movie on about you, then that would be ironic.

            A friend of mine recently wrote a wonderful piece about real Chicago Firemen and how she just couldn’t stomach the show, “Chicago Fire”, because she’d seen the real thing. I found out yesterday that the building next to my offices, a former Police station, will be used in the coming weeks for some location shooting for the very same television show, “Chicago Fire”. This is a coincidence. It only has significance because my friend wrote about it so recently and it was fresh on my mind. It may seem ironic, but it’s not.

            This “Chicago Fire” coincidence is what brought this whole article into my mind actually.  I’m not sure what else I had to say about it. It was just rattling around in the old brain box and needed to be hosed off and put on a shelf. Just one of the things I had in my pockets I guess. 

Rotoscope

            Larry couldn’t believe it. There he was on the sidewalk, everyone gawking at him with hushed giggles in the background. Larry actually did it. He slipped on a banana peel and fell into the side of a garbage can. It was comedy gold at its best worthy of The Three Stooges or Marx Brothers. He tried to get up but some of the banana was still on his flat soled shoes so he slipped again and plopped down onto his butt. Finally another business guy came over and helped Larry up off the sidewalk.

            “Are you okay,” asked the stranger.

            “I’m fine. Just really embarrassed,” said Larry.

            “Dude, that was hilarious. I always thought it was just something from the cartoons or from slapstick shtick but you did it man. You slid and fell and just bailed on that banana peel,” said the stranger as he chuckled.

            “Yeah. Thanks,” said Larry.

            He wiped the remaining banana from his shoe on the sidewalk and saw that the crowd that had so eagerly laughed at him had dispersed. The stranger was still next to him.

            “Are you waiting for an encore,” growled Larry.

            “No man. Sorry,” said the stranger and he sulked off like his feelings were hurt. 

            Larry checked his shoe and the banana goo was finally wiped clean. He looked around the sidewalk for the offending banana peel but couldn’t find it. He wanted the satisfaction of throwing it away for making him look like a buffoon. But he couldn’t find it and it left him feeling very unsatisfied. He wanted to hurt it; to take some sort of twisted revenge on it. He took a breath to collect himself and tried to clear his head.

            “It was just an accident,” said Larry to himself as he started away from the scene of his embarrassment. He started walking along the busy city street, still red in the face from his mortification. He just couldn’t believe it really. He had slipped on a banana peel. It just didn’t seem real. He thought the viscosity of the banana peel against the concrete sidewalks wouldn’t be so slippery, but he was wrong. It was his flat soled shoes that were the problem. They were nice shoes but he was always slipping and sliding in them, especially when it rained. But they went so nicely with the majority of his suits.

            Larry continued his walk toward his office building. He was an important man within the firm and was starting to wonder if he should start taking the company car into the office instead of having to walk through the streets from the train station with wage slaves. The laughing wage slaves love it when a big wig gets some comeuppance; especially the pratfall kind. Larry turned and crossed the street oblivious to the warning cones in front of the building next door to his. He heard someone shouting and then he noticed how dark it was getting. He looked up.

            Larry blinked several times trying to adjust his eyes to the fluorescent light over head. A woman came into his sightline. She was saying something but he really couldn’t make it out. It was sort of muffled. He tried to say something but realized he couldn’t move his jaw.

            “Please, try to take it easy Mr. Vickers,” said the woman, “This is going to be a little hard to understand”.

            “Hmmph,” mumbled Larry.

            “I don’t know how much you remember, but you’ve been in a coma for about two weeks. You see, you were hit, nearly crushed actually, by a falling piano,” said the woman.

            “HMMPH!?”

            Larry tried to turn his head but he felt a twinge of pain in his neck. He tried to sit up but his body wouldn’t cooperate.

            “Mr. Vicker’s, I need you to relax. I’m Doctor Unger and I’m here to help you. This has been a very serious injury and you’re incredibly lucky to be alive. In fact, some of the other doctors were worried you’d come out looking like an accordion, you know. like in the cartoons,” said Dr. Unger.

            “Hmph,” pouted Larry.

            

The Wrathful Grave

            The rains fell through the night and into the early morning. The normal bright sunrise was concealed in the black clouds of the storm. The rain washed down in thick sheets as if a great damn had burst in the sky and water was cresting over its invisible ledge. The thunder rolled through the sky as lightening flickered and illuminated the evil grin of the dark clouds swirling. The rancor was enough to keep Father Jessup awake through the entirety of the storm. Although it was less the storm outside that was keeping him from sleep.

            He sat near the chapel windows, watching the rain wash through the cemetery on the grounds. He saw the wreaths and flowers and items placed on the headstones being washed away towards the road and out of town. The rains had become a river of sorrow it seemed. He wished he had been able do something about it but the rains would have carried him off as well. He wondered if anyone would notice his absence. His flock was nearly all gone except for the few huddled in the rectory, hoping the storm wouldn’t take their small shacks away. Father Jessup knew the shacks were already gone, washed away in the muddy rivers of rainwater. This town was gone. It would be smote like so many wicked cities before it.

            The morning sun couldn’t penetrate the thick dark, roiling clouds overhead and Father Jessup went around the chapel lighting candles to try and clear some of the gloom. The thunder rattled the rafters and he felt the building shake. The small flames on the candles flickered wildly and cast eerie shadows on the walls. Father Jessup swallowed hard and began to pray out of habit. He knew the chapel was well built, but even this rain was worse than the one in 1887. That storm nearly washed the chapel away; it only moved it about six feet though. Some of the townsfolk back then called it a miracle but Father Jessup knew that the stones along the west side of the chapel had turned into a break and caused the chapel to become anchored in the mud. It wasn’t a miracle, simply a stroke of luck of the contours of the landscape.

            The wind howled and rattled the small chapel and the bell in the tower started to clang in the strong gusts. It was an irregular clanging that also sounded off-key. Father Jessup hoped the bell would survive. It had come all the way from Chicago and cost the townspeople a lot. It would be such a shame to see it ruined. Father Jessup looked up toward the high chapel ceiling for any rain leaking in or areas where the shingles might have blown off but everything looked okay. There was only the creaking of the wood against the winds.

            Father Jessup crossed the short chapel aisle and kneeled before the altar as was his habit and ritual. He turned toward the opposite side to light those candles when a giant clap of thunder boomed overhead and it made Father Jessup duck between the pews. He through the roof was going to collapse on him at that moment. He thought that perhaps it should. He’d lost his flock when the gold mining stopped. He had been drinking too much and had fallen in love with the banker’s daughter, Karen. He didn’t feel much like a priest anymore and wasn’t sure he wanted to. He had become bored with the life devoted to God.

            He had a hard time with a God that didn’t seem to really care about the suffering of the hungry, the sick, the poor or the lost. He wanted something more and thought that maybe God’s plan for him involved the beautiful Karen and a life outside the confines of this biblical coffin.

            Father Jessup poked his head up from between the pews and realized the roof wasn’t coming down on him. It was still standing, sturdy and strong. He sighed and pulled himself up. He felt ashamed for his doubts but he knew something had to change. He was filled with sadness that neither bible, nor drink seemed to cure. It was no wonder his flock had left him. He wasn’t very pleasant to be around and his homilies had become very angry. He felt a sense of loyalty and duty to this chapel and the town and couldn’t bring himself to quit. Which is what he knew in his heart was what he wanted. Even if the fair Karen didn’t feel the same for him, he knew that he couldn’t go on in this way.

            He lit the last of the candles and crossed back over toward the window that faced the cemetery. He looked out and saw the rain water had caused some of the caskets to become exposed and they were beginning to float along on the river of rain. It was as if the dead were coming back to the surface, and there were so many. The flu had taken a lot of the people, the mines took more, the rich got away with murder and the poor had no chance. All of them were now exposed and free from the dirt and were sailing through the flood, following the offerings that once decorated the headstones out of town.

            “Even the dead won’t stay here,” said Father Jessup.

            Thunder rolled overhead and Father Jessup decided that if the storm passed, and the chapel still stood, he would follow his heart and resign his ordination, make Karen his wife and move somewhere special. It was his only chance at happiness amid the flood of misery that polluted this once lively town. Lightening flashed overhead and revealed the river of dead, floating out of town. A casket lid had smashed open against one of the headstones in the flash flood and flipped the casket upwards. The skeleton corpse inside the now open casket was pointing; pointing right at Father Jessup. He felt his heart in his chest leap to his throat and a wave of fear possessed him. He stepped closer to the window however, to make sure the vision was real. He pressed his face against the glass. The upright casket still stood and the withered hand still pointed outward. The lightening crackled again and the emptying graveyard was bathed in a flash. The wind swirled and howled and what seemed originally to be a pointing skeleton finger was now a beckoning call to join the macabre parade of death.

            The casket fell back over onto its side with a splintering creak and was swept away in the torrent following the rest of the washed out dead. Father Jessup sat back in a pew and knew what it meant. He was meant to follow and never return. He stood from the pew and removed his priestly collar. He kissed it and placed it on the altar. He turned from the crucifix and headed toward the chapel doors. Thunder rumbled above as Jessup opened the chapel doors and stepped out in to the rain. 

Recharge

Sometimes sadness stings the
corners of my eyes and
I think, 'If only I had a
little more sunshine and
good music and woman
to dance with everything
would be alright'.

Sometimes it's just
sunshine.
Sometmes it's just
music.
Sometimes it's a
woman.
Somtimes it's
dancing.

Sometimes I can't
dance.
Sometimes it seems
like I see her every day.
Sometimes the music
is terrible.
Sometimes the sunshine
is obscured.

That's when it's time
to recharge by unplugging.
Unplugging the corners
of my eyes.
And look for a sunny place,
with music, woman, and
dancing.

Outside of the walls of
my mind. Where things
can go wrong, but with the
right golden sun rays to shine a light
in the dark, the good songs to
sing along to, a woman to hold
a little tighter, the wrong things
are less and the good things are
great.

A recharge, so my eyes
can dry.

Tenderly

            “It’s been a while for me,” said John as he took his shoes off and tossed them to the floor.

            “How long?” asked Cindy.

            Cindy took the seven or eight pillows off the bed and placed them on a hope chest in another corner of the bedroom.

            “A while,” said John.

            John smiled at her as she pulled back the comforter and slid under the covers. She giggled a little with nervous and playful excitement. They had been kissing and groping and teasing each other on her living room couch for the last twenty minutes and John was very excited. She was a really great kisser. Easy to kiss. She seemed to instinctually know which direction to turn her head as they teased each other with their lips. It was so natural and smooth. John felt something inside he hadn’t felt in a very long time. A tingling or spark or something was making his head a little dizzy. It could have been the two bottles of red wine they’d drank too, but he was hoping it was something more.

            John pulled his pants off and dropped them to the floor and crawled into the bed next to Cindy. She wrapped her arms around him as they started to kiss again.

            “I promise I’ll take it easy on you,” said Cindy.

            “Don’t,” said John.

            He gently explored her body as they kissed. He carefully moved his hands down her slender neck, over her shoulder, over the top of her left arm and the side of her stomach. She giggled.

            “Everything okay,” asked John.

            “Yes,” she smiled, “I’m just a little ticklish there.”

            “A little ticklish hm,” teased John and he gently brushed her side with the tips of his fingers and she laughed again.

            John liked her laugh. It was sweet and gentle. It was the laughter he’d always imagined the woman of his dreams would have. He kissed Cindy harder and she responded with passion of her own. Her hands were moving across his body and their legs were slowly becoming intertwined. Their breathing became more intense and John felt the room getting warmer. He moaned slightly as her hand moved across his inner thigh.

            “You like that,” she asked.

            “Mm-hm,” said John as he kissed her along her neck.

            Her breathing became more intense and John’s caressing of her soft skin became more impassioned. She had beautiful soft skin. He wanted to feel it against his hands since her saw her. John took a deep breath and stopping kissing her and left his hands drift across the surface of her body. She moaned a bit too and she kissed John on his neck.

            “It’s been a while for me too,” said Cindy.

            “Are you okay with this,” asked John as he continued to caress her.

            “Oh yes,” said Cindy.

            She looked up at John and kissed him. John saw that she closed her eyes as they kissed and he closed his eyes too. Even with this looming sex in the air and the passion they were about to embark upon all John could think about was getting breakfast with this wonderful woman, maybe lots of breakfasts, for a long time.

            He kissed her back with enthusiasm and gently moved on top of her. 

Bubbles

The strangeness of

the thought bubbles

over everyone’s head as

we jostle and collide

our way through

the world.

Each person

an island of thought

amid a highway of thoughts.

The mingling and

meandering of constant

thought, surrounding us

every single second of

the day.

The bubbles of thought

weighing overhead like

black clouds, shimmering

with flashes of lightening

and rumbling with thunder.

Lonely bubbles. Floating in

the breeze, strayed from the

other bubbles. Bumping against

the ceiling, caught in a tree,

deflated on the ground,

un-tethered, snapped strings.

Every bubble shaded with

the palette of the thinker as

they drift and swim through

the rages of the air. Blue thought

bubbles for the sad. Yellow bubbles

for the happy, green for the jealous.

Purple bubbles for the angry.

Two thought bubbles,

caught together, entwined, meshed,

with reddish tones of love, as they

lazily drift together over the rubbery

cacophony of the of the individual bubbles

which rub and bump into each other in

crowds.

Giant bubbles and tiny bubbles,

Medium sized bubbles and hardly

a bubble at all, waft and wiggle

overhead of the people we see

every moment. It’s strange.

This poem is another bubble,

drifting above my

head, now drifting

over yours.