~soon after the turn of the century~
~Quodlibet won the Marija Cerjak award~~for avant-garde/experimental writing~
~Quodlibet was then published by Howling Dog Press in its Omega series. The entire epic piece will be available in print from Howling Dog with graphic art by the author 2012/2013~
~daddy called her angel~
~she danced around in circles~
~piggy tails bouncing~
~voice singing with the radio~
~I can’t get no~
~satisfaction~
~tripped into a table~
~broke momma’s favorite lamp~
~so momma administered~
~some corporal punishment~
~bottom lip protruding~
~arms folded in front of her~
~big four-year-old eyes full of tears~~she ran to daddy in the driveway~
~why’s my momma such a bitch~
~he lifted a tear from her cheek~
~hell honey angel~
~I don’t know~
~she hugged his leg~
~can I sit on your harley~
~so she did~
~snuggled into the sissy bar~
~she snuffled a bit~
~favored daddy with a smile~
~thought to herself~
~I ain’t no angel~
~grace on one hand~
~smooth as silk~
~spider milk~
~anger shifting~
~changeling~
~she was possessed of~
~XVIII. latent latitudes~
~so mystery is dark~
~yet lies pale upon that face~
~both lively & sorrowful~
~she wears ribbons~
~falling from a nest of hair~
~whose branches display dignity~
~a tin twinkle of passion~
~impossible twists of irony~
~aspire to reach the sky~
~where dreams are torn fresh falling~
~colors laughing~
~some terrible breeze~
~a prayer away from those~
~a wing~
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WordWulf
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©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
~soon after the turn of the century~
~Quodlibet won the Marija Cerjak award~
~for avant-garde/experimental writing~
~Quodlibet was then published by Howling Dog Press in its Omega series. The piece will be available in print from Howling Dog with graphic art by the author 2012/2013~
~jewels in her tiara~
~spider children~
~dreams astound her~
~she holds it in until~
~breathless~
~she is startled awake~
~no one notices~
~but her day is coming~
~she saw ghosts dancing~
~knows full well what that means &~
~XVII. just like father~
~she demands fair measure~
~what comes owing as her own~
~holds it out against her~
~is appalled by father’s ignorance~
~the thick skin of his span of years~
~but warmed by the embrace of her man~
~quite fearful at deeper levels~
~a creeping awareness~
~of the need to compare them~
~her pain is a shield~
~she covets her jewels of children~
~grace on one hand~
~smooth as silk~
~spider’s milk~
~anger shifting~
~changeling~
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com
& wordwulf@wordwulf.com
©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
~hear them gathering~
~ebon wings aflutter~
~they peck dreams from the eyes of the dead~
~darklings & spider things~
~hop-strutting~
~carcass to carcass~
~irreverent~
~devilish & amused~
~at what passes for life~
~& death~
~as if there is a difference~
~crow~
~its black voice~
~caw caw caw~
~it sees him through the window~
~“go away!” he cries~
~“leave me now this midnight hour!”~
~its head, a swivel thing~
~follows his descent~
~the concrete walls of the cellar~
~veins protruding~
~he hears a thick~
~liquid fluid drip~
~as he walks into a web~
~his hands claw at his face~
~web film on his lips~
~something crawls down~
~the back of his shirt~
~the pull string light bumps his nose~
~his hand follows~
~but he cannot find it~
~he stumbles blindly~
~to the other side of the room~
~clawing at his spider shirt~
~until it is torn away~
~he feels needles~
~spider steps~
~skitter across his skin~
~“webs, webs!” he howls~
~rolls over on the floor~
~alive, his naked skin crawls~
~he covers his ears, closes his eyes~
~the horror sound will not go away~
~a gurgle liquid deep~
~emanates from somewhere within him~
~he sneaks an eye open~
~a faint light is revealed~
~madness held at bay~~he crawls toward it~
~on his knees, hands raised~~over his head reaching~
~saliva~
~he giggles at his gurgle~
~through the moonlit pane of glass~
~her black voice~
~caw caw caw~
~she sees him through the window~
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WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com
& wordwulf@wordwulf.com
©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
~The Bicycle~{a Christmas tale}~Act III~
Cut to exterior of two-story house in middle income neighborhood. The snowfall is heavier now, big flakes, half an inch accumulation on the ground. Larry’s pickup appears, stops, and he begins to back into the driveway. Laurie comes running outside in her bare feet and stands by the garage door waiting. She is wringing her hands and is obviously upset and worried. Larry parks the truck in the driveway, gets out and sweeps Laurie off her feet. He picks her up and carries her into the house. She is crying and trying to speak but Larry smothers her face with kisses, carries her around the living room in a couple of slow circles, then sets her down on the sofa. He goes to the fireplace and tosses in a couple of small logs, then comes back to the couch and sits down next to her.
Laurie: “Larry, what?”
Larry (playfully): “What, what? I love you, that’s what! I got our Lonnie a bike, that’s what what but it needs some work, what? I’ll be busy out in the garage for a couple, maybe three hours, gettin’ it ready. You should get some socks on, my silly girl. Out in the snow in your bare feet. Your tootsies must be freezing.”
Larry holds Laurie’s face between his hands and looks into her eyes. He smiles.
Larry: “I love you, girl. Why don’t you just snuggle up on the couch and wait for me?”
Larry gets up from the couch. Laurie leaps to her feet and hugs him fiercely. He strokes her hair and she buries her head against his chest. She’s crying. He dances slowly around the room with her in his arms. He sings softly as they cling to each other.
Larry: “Take this walts, take this waltz, take this waltz.”
He stops dancing and speaks softly into Laurie’s ear.
Larry: “Don’t cry, honey. Whatcha wanna go ‘n cry for, darlin’?”
Larry’s hands are on the back of Laurie’s head, stroking her hair. Her voice is muffled as she speaks into his chest.
Laurie: “I’m scared.”
Larry: “Don’t be. Everything’s gonna be alright, it really is.”
He begins to dance and sing again.
Larry: “Take this walts, take this waltz, take this waltz.”
Laurie (choking back a sob): “I’m happy. It feels like you’re back from that awful place and I don’t ever want to lose you again. I’m happy and I’m scared; that’s why I’m crying.”
Larry dances her back to the couch. They sit down next to each other.
Larry (excitedly): “I met this really cool ol’ guy at Wal~Mart. He hooked me up with a bicycle and mentioned I might be able to get a job there fixing damaged stuff and putting things together. I got some tricks up my sleeves, babe. Remember the ooga-ooga horn I had on that ol’ Harley o’ mine? Wait’ll Lonnie gets a load o’ that. He loves that ol’ horn.”
Laurie: “I’ve prayed so hard for this. Now I’m having a hard time believing it’s true. I haven’t felt like Christmas this year until the past few minutes with you.”
Larry takes Lonnie’s letter from his shirt pocket, presses it into Laurie’s hands.
Larry: “What did I say just before I left… that Lonnie was gettin’ a little bit old to be writin’ letters to Santa Claus… “
Larry buries his face against Laurie’s shoulder and cries for a moment.
Larry (speaking softly to Laurie, his face resting on her shoulder): “Our boy’s a writer, alright. That letter, the bicycle, ah damn!”
Laurie closes her eyes, turns her head, and kisses Larry on the forehead.
Laurie: “Merry Christmas, my darling man.”
Larry gets up from the couch, touches Laurie’s face lightly with his fingers.
Larry: “Merry Christmas. Okay, no more tears tonight. It’s time to go to work. I won’t be long, believe me. You just wait and save me some hugs.”
Laurie (softly): “We always did it together.”
Larry (nonplussed): “What, sweetheart?”
Laurie: “The toys, wrapping presents for everyone and putting things together. We always shared that.”
Larry claps his hands like a child, a true and genuine smile softening his young man’s tough leather face.
Larry: “That’s right, girl, we did! We do! You better get some jeans and shoes on. And don’t forget your coat! I’ll get us a fire goin’ in the garage.”
Laurie: “Just a minute. Wait for me.”
Laurie leaves the room for a moment and Larry studies the Christmas tree.
Camera zooms in on specific ornaments with the children’s names on them: Lonnie, Lily, Louie, and Lisa.
Laurie comes back into the room and stands next to Larry. She’s wearing jeans and warm winter boots. Her face is flushed and she speaks excitedly.
Laurie: “I’ll get the fire-truck I found for Louie. We have to put it together. And I found a few things to go with the girls’ dolls at a secondhand store, even a race car for Lily. We’ll have to clean them up a bit. There’s some other stuff from the Santa Claus Shop where I volunteered.”
Larry: “You are incredible.”
Laurie (embarrassed): “Oh stop it, you. I get carried away sometimes.”
He kisses Laurie on the mouth, long and hard, takes her breath away. They break the kiss and Laurie smiles shyly.
Laurie: “Larry, I’ll make some coffee and bring everything out to the garage. We’ll do it like before.”
Larry: “We’ll do it like forever, sweet lady, forever and now.”
Laurie opens a closet door and begins digging and setting out toys and packages.
Larry goes out the door. Camera follows him to his pickup. He drops the tailgate and unloads the bicycle. He unlocks the garage, takes the bicycle in and sets it on a large workbench. He throws some scrap wood into a stove built from a fifty-five gallon drum, uses some newspaper to get a fire started. He’s humming “We wish you a merry Christmas” as he works on the front wheel. He clamps it in a vise, uses a die to cut new threads into the axle, then bolts it into the frame. He stands back to admire his work, absently reaches into the front pocket of his jeans. A surprised look comes to his face as he pulls a bill from his pocket and stares at a hundred dollar bill.
Laurie comes into the garage carrying an armload of boxes. She sets them on the bench, then goes to Larry and puts her arm around his waist, appraises the bicycle.
Laurie: “Oh Larry, you didn’t just get a bicycle, you got the bicycle.”
Camera fades out as Laurie begins to take toys out of boxes and Larry uses steel wool to shine the chrome fenders of the bicycle.
Credits roll as camera reveals Christmas morning. Lonnie is admiring his chopper bike, especially the ooga-ooga horn. Louie is extending the ladder on his firetruck. Lily has a race car with barbie perched on top. Lisa, the last child shown, has a ‘cat that ate the canary’ look on her face. We see a glass blue eye in her hand and the empty socket in the doll’s face.
Camera pulls away and cuts to a winter palace in a faraway forest. We hear familiar laughter, follow it down a country lane, past a corral full of reindeer, through the window and into a spacious room with a fire roaring in the hearth. A sweet-looking grandma type lady comes through a door carrying a tray of freshly baked cookies. The man we heard laughing rises from a large chair (its back is to the camera) and takes a cookie from the tray. He kisses the lady on the cheek. Camera zooms in on his face and nick (from Wal~Mart) winks at us.
{the end}
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©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
~The Bicycle~{a Christmas tale}~Act II~
Larry drives his old Ford pickup into the parking lot of a local bar, the Dew Drop Inn. Other than him, there is only one vehicle in the lot, a ten-year-old Cadillac Deville. He gets out of his pickup and enters the back door of the bar. The bar is dimly lit except for the serving window to the kitchen which is just to the right of the door.
Larry, peering in the window: “Hello-o-o-o, anybody in there?”
A stout older man comes into view, drying his hands on a towel. He is red-cheeked, wearing thick glasses, and smiles when he sees Larry.
Thick italian accent: “Larry, my friend, what brings you out on Christmas eve? You want a sausage sandwich or something; can I make you a drink?”
Larry: “Merry Christmas, Papa. Nah, I don’t need anything. Michael told me he’d be here tonight, said he might be able to line me up with some side work.”
Papa: “Me and Mama, we told that boy of ours to stay home with the wife and kids. Mikey’s having us over tomorrow. How ‘bout you and the wife and all your little ones; you have big plans for the holiday?”
Larry: “Just the six of us this year. Hey, I better get going. You have a nice Christmas. Tell Michael I’ll call him day after tomorrow.”
Papa: “You too, Larry. I’ll tell Mikey.”
A concerned look comes over his face as he watches Larry exit the bar.
Papa (over his shoulder): “Mama, c’mon now, let’s go home.”
Larry sits in his truck in the parking lot. He watches as Michael’s parents lock the door, waves at them as they get in the car. As they pull from the parking lot, he takes Lonnie’s letter from his pocket, turns on the interior light and begins to read it.
A police car pulls into the parking lot. The officer, a young woman, gets out of the car and raps on the side window of Larry’s pickup with her flashlight.
Larry, rapt in the reading of the letter, is startled. He fumbles with the handle as he rolls down the window.
Larry (visibly upset): “What?”
She shines the light into the cab, across the seat and dashboard, then holds it just above Larry’s chin.
Cop: “Are you okay, sir?”
Larry: “I’m okay. How’re you tonight?”
Larry folds the letter and puts it back in his shirt pocket.
The cop purses her lips.
Cop: “Could I see your driver’s license, proof of insurance, and registration, please?”
Larry leans forward to retrieve his billfold from his rear pocket.
Larry (nervous and distracted): “I was just sitting here reading a Christmas letter from my son.”
Larry finds and hands her the documents.
She shines her flashlight on them, then back to his lower face.
Cop: “Sit still, sir; I’ll be right back.”
She goes back to her car.
Larry glances in the mirror, the red and blue flashing lights of the police car winking back at him.
Larry (under his breath): “What the hell now?”
Larry closes his eyes and views a kaleidoscope of memories.
Memory Sequence:
(1) Larry steps from the top of a ladder onto a roof, a bundle of shingles on his shoulder. He slips and falls to the ground.
(2) In the hospital operating room surrounded by doctors and nurses.
(3) At home with Laurie, sitting in a recliner in the living room with his foot elevated, in a cast from his hip to the end of his toes.
(4) Arguing with Laurie and throwing his prescription medicine bottles across the room.
(5) Sitting on a stool in the “Dew Drop Inn” talking and laughing with his friend, Michael, who is behind the bar.
Cop: “Have you been drinking tonight, mister Lane?”
Larry (startled from his reverie). He blurts out: “No sir, I mean ma’am.”
She shines the flashlight in his face and takes a step back.
Cop: “Step from the vehicle please.”
Larry gets out of the truck and she moves toward the front of it.
Cop: “Please face the vehicle, stand with your feet apart, and hands on the hood.”
Larry does as he is told and she, quick and professional, frisks him top to bottom, then steps back.
Cop: “Turn around now, Mister Lane.”
Larry turns around to face her.
Larry (still nervous and agitated): “I just came by here to see a friend about some work. I haven’t been drinking or anything. I…”
She holds up a hand and he stops talking.
Cop (tersely): “I haven’t accused you of anything. Stand up as straight as possible and touch the tip of your nose with your right hand, Sir.”
Larry is visibly frustrated but does as he is told.
Cop: “Drop your right arm to your side. Keep it there and touch the tip of your nose with your left hand.”
Larry touches the tip of his nose and she takes a few steps back.
Cop: “Walk in a straight line toward me, one foot in front of the other. When I raise my arm, turn around and walk back to your vehicle.”
Larry walks toward her, turns around and walks back to his pickup when she raises her hand. He turns around to face her.
Larry: “Well?”
She rubs her hand on her chin.
Cop: “You did okay on the nose part. You didn’t walk very straight though.”
Larry leans against the door of his pickup.
Larry: “I was in an accident a little over a year ago, broke my foot and leg in a number of places. I doubt I’ll ever walk straight again.”
The cop nods her head.
Cop: “Would you consent to a blood or breath analyzer?”
Larry sighs as if he is about to give up.
Larry defeatedly): “If I have to. Listen lady, my oldest son wants a bike. I got fifty dollars in my pocket and I’m hopin’ Wal~Mart is open so I can go try to talk them out of one for fifty bucks. I’m not sure they’ll stay open all night, it bein’ Christmas eve and everything.”
The cop relaxes a bit.
Cop (irony evident in her voice): “Good luck with that.”
She approaches Larry, hands him his paperwork, then surprises him by squeezing his shoulder.
Cop: “Go get that bicycle, Mister Lane. And hey, Merry Christmas.”
Larry (still a bit befuddled and surprised at her sudden change of attitude): “Thanks and merry Christmas to you.”
Larry (as cop is getting into her car): “Hey, it’s been a tough year but I’m gonna get that bicycle for my boy.”
Larry climbs into his pickup, takes out his billfold and puts his paperwork away. He pulls a folded fifty dollar bill from behind a flap in the billfold, holds it up and smiles.
Larry (to himself): “My rat-hole.”
He shoves the bill back into the front pocket of his jeans, puts his billfold in his back pocket, starts the pickup and pulls out onto the street.
Cut to the parking lot of a Super Wal~Mart.
Larry parks and gets out of his pickup. There are only a dozen or so cars in the parking lot. The “open” sign is blinking off and on. Larry smiles when he sees it.
Larry: “Yes!”
He enters the store and goes straight to the toy section, starts looking over the bicycles in the three-tiered bike rack. A young woman in a blue vest approaches.
Young woman: “May I help you?”
Larry turns to face her, smiles hopefully.
Larry: “I sure hope so. My son wants one of those chopper bikes for Christmas, the ones with the fat back tire. I probably don’t have enough money to buy it but maybe I can work out somehin’ with the manager of the store to make up the difference. I’ll shovel snow, sweep the floor, unload trucks… anything. I gotta have one o’ those bikes for my boy.”
The clerk takes a step back, eyes him warily.
Clerk: “I’m sorry, Sir. Those bikes were a big hit this season. All the stores in town have been sold out of them for over two weeks. Would you like to look at some of the others? We have a couple of good mountain bikes left.”
Larry stares at her, disbelief and defeat evident on his face. Tears fill his eyes.
Larry: “No, it has to be that bicycle. I told you I’d work. I’ll do anything if you could just…”
The clerk is startled by his desperate behavior. She edges away, smiles at him nervously. There’s a fearful but consoling edge to her voice when she speaks to him.
Clerk: “I’ll get the store manager. Maybe there’s something he can do to help you. Just wait here; he’ll be right with you.”
Larry is pacing back and forth in front of the bike rack when he hears a voice over the store public address system:
Loud P.A. voice: “Customer service needed in the bicycle department. Request a manager as soon as possible.”
Larry pulls the fifty dollar bill from his pocket, stares at it with forlorn hope in his eyes, then puts it back. He touches his shirt pocket, fingers the letter.
Larry (under his breath, a litany): “God help me; I gotta get this bicycle for Lonnie, for all of us.”
A somewhat unkempt older man with a beard and belly, clad in a white shirt and red necktie decorated with reindeer and snowmen approaches Larry. He begins speaking right away in a deep and friendly voice.
Man: “Well hello there. Sorry it took so long to answer the call. I recognized Liesel’s voice on the system and stopped by to chat with her for a moment. She told me about your problem and asked me to have a word or two with you.”
Larry (im mumbles and stammers): “Liesel? d-did you say Liesel? L, L,L? L.. Liesel, L’s on both ends?”
The manager laughs heartily. Larry is taken aback by his gaiety. He stares at the man, dumbfounded. The manager’s eyes are crystal blue and they seem to be twinkling.
Larry’s voice (his thoughts): “Stop it, you fool! This is the real world, not some eight-year-old boy’s fantasy.”
Manager: “Sorry for my outburst. Sometimes I’m just too enthusiastic. But your response struck me as funny. Of course Liesel has two L’s, one on each end of her name.”
Larry offers him a sad smile, puts his hands in his pockets.
Larry (meekly): “Guess I got a thing for L’s.”
Larry studies the tops of his shoes for a moment, then speaks and acts with more conviction.
Larry: “Life and love, my whole family. I’m Larry. My wife and kids. All our names start with ‘L’. I guess you could say L’s have been good to me.”
The older man smiles at Larry, scrutinizes him for a moment.
Manager: “My name’s nick. And hey, about the bicycle you’re looking for; there’s one in the back that was damaged during shipping or something. I don’t remember exactly what’s wrong with it. There was something messed up that was fixable but we don’t have the resources here, especially this time of year. We needed more time, machinery, a welder, something like that. hmmmm…”
He presses two fingers to his lips and gazes pensively at Larry.
Manager: “If I remember right, there were plans to claims it out after the holiday and take it to a recycling facility with other damaged merchandise. Mind you, if it appears beyond repair, I won’t be able to sell it to you, insurance liability and all that.”
Nick laughs. lifts his arms, then drops them to his side.
Nick: “Well, that’s enough talk. Come along, let’s see what we can do for you.”
He heads for the back of the store and Larry follows close behind. Larry takes the fifty dollar bill from his pocket, glances as it as if to be sure it actually exists. He follows Nick through a door marked “Employees Only”.
Nick stops at a large metal door on the back wall, takes a large ring of keys from his pocket and begins trying them in the lock. The third key turns the lock.
Nick: “here we go!”
He pushes the door open and we see a large fenced-in area outside the rear of the store. Nick flips a light switch and the area lights up revealing stacks of damaged merchandise, a small sea of organized confusion. It is snowing lightly and everything has a light dusting of snow on it.
Larry: “Lot o’ stuff out here. Is everything damaged?”
Nick: “Pretty much.”
Nick squints his eyes, peering down the aisle of broken and damaged inventory.
Nick: “I don’t see it. I’m sure it was here.”
Larry: “I sure hope you’re right.”
Nick: “Oh, there it is, over in the corner.”
He points to the far corner of the area, then begins to make his way through the littered debris.
Nick (calling back to Larry, over his shoulder): “Go ahead and wait by the door. I’ll pull ‘er out and we’ll have us a look-see.”
Nick pushes boxes to the side and finally reaches the end of the aisle. He wrestles a bicycle from a nest of garden hoses and returns to Larry pushing the bicycle. Just as he reaches Larry the front wheel falls off the bicycle. Nick shakes his head.
Nick: “I remember now. The front tire was flat when Jim, our bicycle assembler, repaired it. The front axle threads were stripped by his assistant when he was putting it back together.”
Nick bends down and picks up the wheel. He runs his hand over the axle, disappointment evident on his kind face when he addresses Larry.
Nick: “I don’t know, Sir. It’s been sitting out here in the weather for a couple of months. Look at all that rust on the chrome and the threads on the axle are all banged up.”
Larry takes the wheel from Nick. He holds the axle, one hand on each side, and gives the wheel a spin with his thumbs. The wheel spins smoothly.
Larry: “The bearings are in good shape. I can re-cut those threads and knock the rust off with some double-ot steel wool.”
Larry peers out at the stacks of merchandise, studies it with a discerning eye.
Larry: “I could probably fix most the things out here. I’ve worked with tools and machinery all my life, construction, roofing, and stuff, done some garage repair and installation. Always fixed my own bikes when I was a kid.”
Camera on nick. He’s studying Larry thoughtfully.
Nick: “Hmm… I believe Liesel mentioned something about you being out of work.”
Larry bends over and leans the wheel against the bicycle. He’s on one knee, hands moving over the frame and fenders as he speaks to Nick.
Larry: “I get a side job every once in a while but nothin’ steady. Got hurt on a job a year or so ago. All healed up now but can’t seem to find any work. I’m not one to complain but it’s been tough on me ‘n my family the past year, me bein’ down ‘n out o’ work.”
Nick picks up the wheel, lifts the front end of the bicycle and rolls it out of Larry’s hands. He motions with his head for Larry to follow, rolls the bicycle through the door and leans it against the inside wall. He speaks to Larry as he is closing and securing the door.
Nick: “Well Sir, don’t know if you’d be interested but Jim’s retiring at the end of the month, been with Wal~Mart for thirty-two hears. You come in the day after Christmas, go on the computer in Customer Service, fill out a proper job application, might just be a job here for you. If you’re interested, I’ll leave the manager a note telling him you seem like an apt young man to me. That should at least get you an interview. It’d be up to you from there.”
Larry (stammering a bit): “Uh, I uh… I thought you were the store manager.”
Nick (chuckling): “Me? No I’m from the home office, in charge of international toy distribution. I’m here on a tour of the stores in Colorado, just happened to answer the call when Liesel requested a manager for customer assistance.”
Larry: (looking Nick in the eye, clears his throat, and speaks in a strong and positive voice): “I’d appreciate the recommendation. I’m definitely interested in the job. I’d be in your debt.”
Nick fiddles with his beard, obviously uncomfortable.
Nick: “No one’s ever in my debt, young man.”
He chuckles in his familiar way and the smile returns to his face.
Nick: “Well then, let’s get you back home to that family of yours, all those little ‘L’s.”
He appraises the bicycle, gives it a visual once-over.
Nick: “A lot of work there; sure you can get ‘er up to snuff?”
Larry: “Oh yeah. That bike’ll be better ‘n new when I’m finished with it.”
Nick chuckles and his eyes twinkle as he faces Larry.
Nick: “I believe you and that’s good enough for me ‘n Wal~Mart. We usually don’t sell damaged merchandise, liability ‘n all that.”
Nick reaches out and gives Larry’s shoulder a squeeze.
Nick: “But it’s Christmas eve, isn’t it? I got me a good feeling about this.”
Larry (softly): “Thank-you, sir. Me too.”
Larry looks Nick in the eye.
Larry: “How much do I owe you, Sir?”
Nick bends down to consult the price tag hanging from the gooseneck of the bicycle.
Nick: “Let’s see here. Well she has a price tag of $177.00 brand new. Hmmmm…”
Nick runs his fingers through his beard.
Larry clears his throat, speaks softly, thinking out-loud.
Larry: “Half off would make it around $90.00; that’s forty dollars more than I have in my pocket, forty dollars more than I have to my name. Sir, I told Liesel I’d work. I’ll do anything.”
Nick gives Larry’s arm another squeeze. He shakes his head and chuckles loudly.
Nick: “Slow down, son. It’s my job to set the price based on salvage and recovery value. Give me a minute to think here. I have to make some calculations.”
Nick takes a small calculator from his shirt pocket, punches in some numbers, glances at Larry, who’s standing by nervously, hands in pockets and obviously fretful.
Nick: “how about forty dollars? Does that sound fair to you? Can you swing it?”
Larry stands there, limp as a rag, as Nick takes a firm grip on his upper arms and speaks directly to him.
Nick (softly – almost a whisper): “Listen, son, I’ve been penniless and on the streets before in my life. I know how difficult life can be at times, how hard we can be on ourselves when it’s like that. Believe you me, your boy’s gonna have that bike if I have to pay for it, fix it, and deliver it myself. You can stop worrying about that little thing.”
Larry swallows deeply. A smile lights up his face. He is full of enthusiasm.
Larry: “No Sir, you’ve done more than enough. I got cash in my pocket, plenty to cover it. Let’s do it!”
Nick laughs aloud, grabs Larry in a bear hug and almost lifts him off the floor. Larry resists for a moment, then returns the hug. Nick kisses him on the cheek and lets him go. Nick’s eyes are twinkling, his cheeks red. He gives Larry an exaggerated wink.
Nick: “I’ll tell the cashier up front to price override the damaged bicycle to forty dollars. You just take it up there and hey, have a merry Christmas!”
Nick rubs his chin, fluffs his beard a bit.
Nick: “I hate to rush off but I’ve a busy night ahead of me, if you know what I mean.”
Larry bends down and picks up the bicycle wheel, turns to say something to Nick but he’s gone. Larry touches the note in his pocket, smiles.
Larry (thoughtful and preoccupied – to himself): “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I know what you mean.”
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Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
~Questioning Horsery~ (Introduction to Grayson)
There were six million, three hundred fifty-two thousand, five hundred and eighty-three wavelets on her face this morning. She refused to be a victim of dawn tides, exalted in the event she was able to do so. Lying on the beach, body of sand, spirit air, mind spent and set aside, she fell into the waking side of a dream.
Three directions surrounding, vertical columns, fortresses of stone, up and through a lavender/pink firmament she stared. Eyes wide open, other than a hint of a smile wearing her lips, one might imagine her quite dead. Water tickling, gooseflesh wearing, the three-walled prison of her existence suited her fine. “How did I end up here?” The question threatened but she pushed it away. Stone mansion, earthen room, ocean door; she needed them all and nothing more.
Startled by thunder, the incredible percussion of earth quaking, she closed her eyes. Not long though, this respite; she opened them just a bit, peered down across her body supine. Two rosebud nipples erect, extant reminders of her humanness, her flesh, met her gaze and pleased her. “I am woman.” She pushed the thought away.
They came to visit then, magnificent and marauding, a stallion and three mares, manes and tails flying, rays of eos filtering, slices of dawn-light instantaneous, erected, broken, furious, wide-eyed and alive. Her arms, goddess tentacles, feathers lifting, rose from her sides to receive them. Mud silt exploded from their hooves, dappled her white-flesh, excited to ecstasy her nether regions, filled her with white-heat fantastic, orgasmic.
Body arched, wings supporting, she welcomed the tide, water caressing, purging her pinto/appaloosa and leaving her ivory/white. The stallion’s voice roared as he mounted the precipice, the armor of his limbs taut, aquiver, a single gasping breath, and Grayson let it all go. She watched the mares disappear into the clouds behind him and entertained the thought, considered her options, that she might just follow. But no, she smiled and pushed it all away.
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© artwork & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
~Poe, Nietzsche, Morrison, Manson loosening the mind nuts~~raven speaking the dark night~~Helter Skelter & oh, my damn, the music’s over here~~goodnight my lady this~ ~Letters from the Monastery of My Heart: I~
~Confirmation of Darkness~
Monkish, I am a monkey starving in the limbs of a barren tree watching the ape community thriving on the lush jungle of life, unwilling, unable to join them, surviving by consuming vermin crawling through the skin of my brain.
There is a tin man howling whose body is a whistle stop where blackbirds rest and cackle, dance across his stiff arms, make sport of his scarecrow appearance. I scatter seeds on the ground to get them off me.
A continuum of negativity has swallowed my universe, beginning with naked parents and the poor rags of their death. My lady’s kisses have been taken, carried away in strongboxes, offered free to strangers.
Struggling to find a peace of ground, running bare-skinned through a snowfield, my spirit howls out to the gods seeking confirmation of destiny, its voice singing a litany handed down from the cradleboard in chains, the slave camp of my being.
If not for the glad-song of my children I might swallow the carpet nails of life, sing a rasping, gushing blood-song, allow myself the strength and release of weakness. Yet do they sustain me, demand with the purity of their love that I stand diminished, love them unconditionally.
She met me in a lightning storm, captured, ran away with my heart. Years grind our dearest dreams to dust. They become clouds to confuse and confound us. A poor lover, I struggle desperately to recapture what were, perhaps, only thoughts of a blind man who believed for a moment he could see.
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© artwork & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
~is a dream the night when sleep won’t come~
~the day after the day after~nightmare existence~
~shadow candle flame~drifted off with a pen in my vein~
~awoke needles in my eyes~blood is a hard master~
~Flame~
~pushing words away~
~lest they eat my sleep~
~become the only part of me~
~devour those golden hours~
~which amount to the rest of me~
~yes away with dreams and all that seems~
~possessed to make an end of me~
~anesthesia is an art~
~to which I might at once lay claim~
~a shallow grave divided~
~I might just lie between~
~some token awareness~
~consciousness~
~which came first~
~the egg or the bean~
~blackout describes the best-held dreams~
~I lit a candle to threaten the stars~
~but nobody’s laughing in this wayward place~
~would someone put out the light~
~stop this ringing in my ears~
~I am not afraid of the night~
~but see what is done in the light of day~
~no don’t take my candle away~
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~Momma’s Rain~ (excerpt – chapter seven)
It is 1960, autumn in Denver, Colorado. Ten-year-old Timmy hopes to spend a day at home with his mother & siblings before school begins for the semester but his father, hung over & behind schedule because of his drinking, forces the boy to come with him to clean up scraps in the yard while he finishes roofing the house.
~listen to the wind she said~
~let it speak to your eyes~
~no one will steal your horses~
~all your children will be wise~
Chapter Seven
~Children and Angels Alike~
Daddy came down for a smoke break and mentioned some spots in the yard the lady of the house said he had missed while cleaning. He had decided they would work through lunch (hurray!) and just get the damned job done. They didn’t have a rake and Timmy couldn’t see the spots he mentioned, so he crawled around the outside of the house on his hands and knees. He used his fingers as rakes, pulling them through the grass, and depositing every nail and minuscule scrap onto a shingle wrapper he dragged along behind himself. He usually liked the people in the houses where they worked. This lady, he decided, must be evil. How could she dare pile one more indignity upon one such as himself who had spent the day suffering one after an-unbelievable-other?
As has happened many times in his life since, he was forced to eat a tender-bit of self-ingested crow. It was hot and he was sweating, feeling lowly and put upon. He was sure he had never been so awfully sorry for his poor, miserable self and completely justified in his feelings. An angelic female voice from nowhere and everywhere said, “Timmy.” He squinted his eyes and raised himself up into a kneeling position. Just as he gave up searching for the sound and got back to his hand raking, the voice said his name again. This time it was accompanied by the tin tinkle wink of metal on glass.
He moved toward the house and stood up.
“Come on in the back door, Timmy,” the voice said from what appeared to be the kitchen window, cleanser and a metal sponge holder on the sill. He still didn’t see a person. “Come on,” the voice urged, “I have something special for you.”
Timmy broke a bunch of Momma and Daddy rules when he went in that back door. “Don’t talk to strangers,” etc. etc. If Daddy caught him ... but he was busy ridging the house. Timmy could hear the singing rhythm of his axe. If it ceased its working song, he would have plenty of lead time to run outside and get back to work.
So in he went and up the six steps to the kitchen. He expected the usual matronly old lady who would offer him a glass of water or milk, maybe even a Coke. Instead he stepped into the kitchen and found himself in the company of a real live angel. Her body was twisted, braced into and supported by a chrome walker gadget with rubber brake/wheel attachments. She wasn’t old at all and whatever evil chord pulled her body down extended to the left side of her face. The horrifying rictus of her countenance was overcome absolute by some angelic aura emanating from her bluer than white eyes. She smiled from the side of her face that was hers. Timmy was owned and blessed of the moment.
“This is yours,” she said, her eyes stealing his and leading them to her crippled fallen hand. It clutched the walker and a ten-dollar bill between angel skin and steel. “Take it,” she insisted as if she could hear the whispers of a thousand refusals echoing through his brain.
He stepped forward and reached for the money. She surprised him by pressing it into his hand.
“You are a hard worker,” she said. “You keep this money all for yourself.” Her twisted hand felt like heaven’s breath.
Timmy didn’t know what to say ... so he didn’t.
“Come have tea,” she offered. “It has been the longest time since I had a handsome young man over for tea.”
There was a gleaming ornate silver tray and serving set on the table across from the window. Timmy reached for the server and she said, “That won’t do. You’re my guest; please be seated.”
He sat in a chair and watched in awe as she transferred her broken body laboriously from the walker into a chair of sorts with canvas back and seat. Once she was seated, she extended her hand to him again.
“How rude of me. My name is Jude. Do you take sugar in your tea?”
Timmy spoke for the first time to her and barely, “I.. uh.. I think so.”
He had never seen one so afflicted and not overcome in the least. She poured two cups of tea.
“Two sugars?” she asked sweetly, a tiny silver tong come to her hand. Timmy was tongue-tied. “I think three,” she laughed, “and two for me.”
He felt all giddy inside. He wanted to hug her and run away. Daddy’s roofing axe pounded its ridge rhythm and sugar cubes dissolved before his eyes.
“Our imperfections can be used to define us,” Jude said softly. “Rather would I drink to them.” She lifted her glass cup and clinked it against his.
He felt stupid as soon as he said it, “Cheers,” and sipped a bit of tea. He had never had hot tea and sure hadn’t lived a life where toasts were offered. Social graces didn’t amount to much where he came from.
“One day your sight will be repaired,” she advised him. “Don’t forget what you saw before.”
Timmy didn’t know what to say but felt all at once as if something was very wrong. Then he realized what it was. Daddy’s axe had stopped singing. He gulped his tea down.
“Thank-you, Ma'am, I gotta go.”
“Jude,” she said, placing her hand on his. “I know you have to go, Timmy, but you’ll see me again.”
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This is your new blog post. Click here and start typing, or drag in elements from the top bar. ~ a man on the road ~ usually doesn’t have much ~
~ in the weigh of money & possessions ~ what worth is positive energy ~
~ vitality of spirit ~ a predisposition toward hopes & dreams ~
~ the hunger & willingness to share them ~ He carries his dreams in a bucket. It is shot through with holes and leaking, splashing the tarmac, shoulder of the road in liquid arcs, tiny streams crisscrossing. He is a sight to see with his backpack and bucket, feet tripping forward, a staccato march toward what is left in the bucket, inadvertently, some of that which has been spilled along the way. He has half a sandwich left over from a stop at a Seven Eleven, an old army canteen full of cheap red wine, a ten dollar bill hidden in the sole of his shoe.
Round and round, he swings the bucket. The sun highlights a circle silhouette, the arc of his throw, reach of his dreams. Both hands on its handle, he flips it over, sits down on top of it, opens the canteen, takes a conservative swallow. A crow shines blue/black in the tree of his shade. Caw-caw, it speaks to him in an ancient voice. The highwayman laughs, taps out a finger-beat percussion on the side of his bucket seat full of dreams. He begins to hum and the bird cocks its head. Their eyes meet; they are birds of a feather.
The day passes and the bucket fills with bits and pieces. The highwayman sorts through lies, truth, half lies delivered in steps through holes in his mind. He turns down a ride in a Coupe De Ville, climbs into the back of an old beat-up pickup truck with a lovely crowd of Cherokee Children. They smile shyly with their dark eyes. He stares at his shoes and smiles back. From the bottom of their eyes, they are birds of a feather. The children dig into his bucket with hungry hands. He leaves ten dollars with their father, the driver of the truck, sets off down the shoulder of the road to refill it with a wink to the day and the voice of the crow.
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