Thursday, March 31, 2016

Jumpin' Jack Flasher

Jumpin' Jack Flasher

I was watching the news on television a few days ago, and there was a report that the local police had arrested a flasher.

Now, I have had many indiscretions in my life, but I must admit I have never "flashed" anyone. The idea does, however, seem intriguing. What a great attention-grabber.

Hey, who doesn't need a little attention from time to time? To be perfectly honest, my attention quota has gone from little to almost none in the last few months. I think it's high time I got a bit of the spotlight too.

First things first. I'll need a trench coat. You see I have never really had a need for a trench coat. After all, I was never a British secret agent, nor was I one of those smarmy detectives in an American film noir, à la Humphrey Bogart. I really don't want to spend a small fortune on a trench coat, since I suspect this escapade will be a one-time affair. I'm sure I can find one at the Salvation Army Outlet Mall, or if push comes to shove, on Ebay.

Once I have my slightly ratty coat, I think I'll be all set. I mean I won't need any other clothes to speak of. Socks and running shoes, I guess, and maybe a fedora. Those I have.

Of course, I'll also need a plan. A flasher always has a target of some sort. Let me assure you that I do not intend on flashing anyone under the age of 18. No, my escapade will be strictly R-rated, if not XXX-rated. So no kids, and now that I'm thinking of it, no Millennials, since most young people under the age of 40 never look up from their smart phones. So, what would be the point?

As for a locale, I think I'll hit a nearby mall, probably sometime in the late morning, when there's an older crowd of people sitting around chatting about the weather and the soaring price of cat food.

Part of being a great flasher is obviously the element of surprise. They'll think that I am just like them, wandering aimlessly from shop to shop, without even close to enough cash or credit to be able to afford to buy much of anything. And, then, I'll strike, like a coiled cobra. OK, maybe not a cobra. Maybe a slippery garden snake.

If there's a group of blue-haired, lilac-scented women sitting by the fake palm trees, well that would be perfect. I wonder how they will react? Shocked? Disgusted? Aroused? Man, who can say? It sounds so exciting that I can barely wait to whip open my coat and let it all hang out.

Of course, with my luck, it'll be a chilly day, and some wag of a woman will take one glance at me, adjust her bifocals, and simply say, "If you're looking for the Lost and Found, it's at the other end of the mall."


Wednesday, March 30, 2016

The White Cup

The White Cup

The kettle coughs once or twice and then groans as the blue flames of ignited gas dance beneath it and the water for her tea begins to roll. She sits at the kitchen table and watches it in the half-light of the moon, an eerie luminescence that seeps through the dark house. She is memorizing the moment. She never wants to forget what it means to be free.

Her body aches. She arches her back slightly and pushes her shoulders back. She runs her hands slowly through her hair, but her hands suddenly become his hands, and she shudders. She shakes her head abruptly, shakes away the memory, and her fingers flutter in nervous exhaustion as she steadies herself in the chair.

It was the cruelest goodbye. Unfinished, incomplete, the hint of dependency still hanging in the air when he stopped at the front door, turned, and said, "I still love you. I guess I'll always love you."

She had hoped for something different. She had hoped to see his anger or to hear him spit out some unforgivable rebuke so that she could slam the door after him and be done. Instead, he left her with a lingering uncertainty, confused emotions, perilous second thoughts.

The kettle sputters into a whining whistle. She rises from the table and places it carefully to one side, then reaches into a open cupboard. She takes down a white cup and drops a tea bag into it. As she fills the cup with steamy water, she feels the heat drift across her face. Her eyes flutter unexpectedly, and she realises she is crying.

She walks from the kitchen and down a short hallway into the bathroom. There, she turns on the light and looks at herself in the mirror. She barely recognises the grim face that she sees as she splashes water across her brow and down her cheeks. For a moment, she wishes that the cool drizzle might wash her whole being away, that she could somehow evaporate into light and never be seen again. She laughs vaguely at herself. "Drama," she murmurs quietly. "So much silly drama."

She returns from the bathroom to the kitchen and picks up the phone. She dials quickly, and when she hears his voice on the other end of the connection, she says simply, "Would you like some tea?" Then, after a moment, she completes the vignette when she adds with a whisper, "I'll leave the front door open for you."


Tuesday, March 29, 2016

the empty chair

the empty chair

i guess it's still there. the empty chair. she sometimes wrapped a piece of cloth around its back. some material of Afrikan design — women carrying baskets or urns on theirs heads — women walking somewhere or nowhere over there — busy women in colorful costumes. various figures repeated in long patterned lines. i've never been sure why she put it there on the empty chair.

i guess it's still there. the empty chair. soft and ancient wood tilting in its adirondack design. some days with a red cushion on the seat, but not a seat cushion. more like a sofa cushion on a chair that creaked under one's weight, despite my careful repair.

i guess it's still there. the empty chair. more like a lounge than just a chair. the ottoman secured directly to the chair somehow. it was rare that i would sit there, but when i did, she would come and snuggle with me, and she would smooth my hair.

i guess it's still there if anyone cares. there in a house of empty chairs.


Monday, March 28, 2016

you say love is like that ...

you say love is like that ...

you say love
is like that
like the rain beating on the roof
and finding its way down through the timbers
until it leaks through the ceiling
and splashes into buckets
collecting the essence of life
in drips
and drops
and drips
until at last each bucket overflows
and the water pools on the floor
where little feet once tiptoed
into rooms of strawberry vines
that bore the reddest and sweetest fruit
so solemnly abandoned and so heartlessly left
to die

you say love
is like that
like the dry desert winds
that blow across the empty land
blowing dust in cotton candy swirls that stick
to the sides of broken-down automobiles
with loose fenders and cracked hood ornaments
that clink
and clank
and clink
in the night-time opera of scraping sounds
when suddenly there is only silence
hushing all the world
and there in the shifting sand
tiny footprints mark a path to where the promised rivers meet
until the trail catches a gust of seething air
and disappears

you say love
is like that
like an angel descending slowly from the stars
down through the darkest clouds
spreading the whitest of wings
over the curve of the quivering horizon
before drumming the night away
in thuds
and thumps
and thuds
until the bluest blue of a summer's sky radiates
over the face of a newborn child
and awakens iridescent spots of light
in such wondrous new eyes
opening for the first time
and fluttering step by step into focus
before catching clarity
and bursting
into tears


Sunday, March 27, 2016

On This Special Day ...

Ye are the light of the world. A city that is set on an hill cannot be hid.

Neither do men light a candle, and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house.

Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works...

Matthew 5:14-16



Comments? Questions? Abuse? Innuendoes?
Click Here

© Kennedy James, 2016. All rights reserved.

All material in this site is copyrighted under International Copyright Law. Reproduction of original content, in any form and in whole or in part, save for fair use exemption, is prohibited by the author of this site without expressed, written permission.

 Powered by Blogger