Category Archives: Prose/Poem

i delight in silliness

I delight in silliness. Silliness is the breath of life, the peanut butter between the slices, the sunshine during rain, the faded pictures pinned to a wall, the bag that holds the chips, the car on cinder blocks adorning a front lawn, the open window, the unlocked door, the Beatles album called the Liverpool Oratorio, the one wheeled bicycle, the bottle containing the edges of beer, the bubbles in the pipe…. I love them all.

[posted in response to a troll who took my joke about the Liverpool Oratorio seriously]

The Wall (from The Man who fell from the Sky)

Simon muttered stumbling, kicking a small green cup, sending it spinning and twisting across the floor.  Light danced as it moved and a thin sound came from it, like a scream but pure.  The wall wavered again

Simon turned away and into the wall, then stopped.  It felt good.  Little sparks scratched and titillated that deep itch that never quite subsided.  He stretched his arms out wide and floated up slightly, letting the cinder blocks meld into him, firm after the softness of their plaster cover.  He shimmied slightly pushing the rough molecules deeper , sharpening and polishing.  He stretched his toes out – that always felt good in a hot bath after a long day – and felt the curious little sparking warm them.  He flexed his legs carefully sending part of his left foot outside of the wall.  Simon heard steps outside and pushed his face part way, looking into the hallway leading to the stairs and building doors.  A  short, blonde girl with incongruous jet black eyelashes screamed.  He moved back hastily into the security of the wall.

a snippet…. from the Sky Man painting

Simon sat, feeling the breeze soft and fresh, hearing trees rustling softly to each other; their song strummed lightly.  Sundays were so quiet, dead, or nearly so.  He was in Hell’s waiting room, after all.  He thought for a moment about that phrase, ‘after all’.  How appropriate!  He was now after ‘all’ his life and was waiting.  Other ‘guests’, in their golden years snorted, farted, lay inert or babbled meaninglessly.  Perhaps together it all made sense.  The noises of Hell’s invitees, an orchestra tuning up for a tuneless eternity.  Katy came, floating in the air an inch or two above the bench beside him, but was interrupted for a bit by an almost poem that popped into his head…… then she returned into view, beckoning, threatening, promising.  ‘Well’, Simon supposed, ‘what sort of hell would Hell be without her?’  A pretty poor one, ‘a hell’ rather than ‘the Hell’.  He ignored her for the moment,

London (from The Man who fell from the Sky)

They watched tour boats of tourists in the ever present English rain and rare sun; Musette taking pictures of them and the glistening streets, and of tall doormen in Ruritanian costumes in front of hotels, whatever attracted her at the moment.  Mingled with the smell of bus exhaust and old churches they held each other.  They discovered one funny old church that sat back from other buildings on a small street with a gate at one end.  They entered and sat in the stillness, joining the silence, feeling a soft ancient sadness caress them under a timbered beam roof, light filtering through stained glass.  They did not touch there, but felt each other’s warmth.

The Room (quick prose)

The wall directly in front was painted blue, slopped over old wallpaper. It met the white ceiling unevenly, here and there a streak of blue invading the white and farther along, the white intruding carelessly on the blue. He studied it carefully. Perhaps the bumpy blue was over compensating for coming second in the land of wall decoration. Perhaps. The white was arrogant despite covering less. It was, after all, above. A few drips had, in some past era when white was new, fallen to the floor far below. There they offered a sense of possibility to the worn floor boards. They not only could see and worship the white far above, they could touch and be touched by white here, far below. This was not always possible as an old bed with a broken frame hid part of the floor from view. The bed did not care about the walls, the floor, or even the white ceiling. It felt its age and rested uncertainly on three legs. The fourth had broken in the age of the titan and lay sideways some inches under. The bed and another wall were watched unblinkingly by the mirror. The mirror had at one time hung straight and true on the wall opposite the bed. Now it hung askew and was grimy but still able to watch the bed in its decay. There was no door and only a small window. He had not thought about that before, the lack of a door, that is. The window was not really a window. He thought of it as a window because it had a window shape, but was blocked with bricks, laid badly so they allowed light to enter but not enough to see out. He had run his hand over that brick many times. His fingers delighted in the rough contours. One time he had rubbed too hard and his fingers bled, the blood adding a new experience to the white paintlets on the wooden floor.

The Man who fell from the Sky

He returned and lay sleepless in the bed, feeling the warmth of her female body next to his.  Once he would have been aroused instantly at the delicious sense of lying naked next to a woman.  Now he just appreciated the warmth and the occasional fleeting touch of skin against him.  He did stir a bit, but stretched his legs out sensuously and felt the comfortable roughness of flannelette sheet, and his left leg brushed against the smoothness of hers.  Sleepily she reached over and fondled him, almost absent-mindedly, then she rolled the other way and drifted into a deeper sleep.

The Man who fell from the Sky

The four walked around the neighborhood.  He hardly noticed the houses that bored him so – suburban, middle class.  House after house, all new, all large, many with pools in back.  But he saw none of it.  He felt only her female presence.  He hadn’t noticed this before.  The sense of the female near him, that is.  He lived in a feminine house, his mother, his grandmother, his three sisters.  Yes,  there was Dad – but in this house dominated by dominatrixes – his father was irrelevant.  Katy was of another species than his home females.  She laughed and sparkled – arousing some atavistic sensation in him – his skin seemed alive; he felt a crackling when she spoke, or moved and when she looked at him.  He could not speak, only feel.  He wanted to touch her – he was not sure how, the ‘how’ of touching a girl, a woman was something he feared – but he knew he needed to touch that electric skin; he needed to test its soft smoothness to see if it matched the magic of that voice.

The Man who fell from the Sky

And another bit of the word painting:

Bjorn looked straight ahead, preferring not to notice SuperTeddy’s usual landing, but wondering why that bear always looked surprised though he always landed on his ass.

Bjorn spoke out of the side of his mouth, forming the words carefully, “What do you think of Simon and Liliana, SuperTeddy?”

“Well,” SuperTeddy grunted this out, breathless still.

“Well, I climbed to the top of the Torch Building exactly so I could fly here to save Simon.” His breath back, SuperTeddy managed a complete sentence.

‘I see,” said Bjorn…. “I see….I felt the same danger, so I came in my longboat.”

“Do you sense the same danger?  I see Liliana as unsuitable for our author.”  Bjorn said this with a ‘Norseman preparing his shield and sword for battle’ voice, although both shield and sword were long gone.

SuperTeddy replied, “Exactly.  She will give  him pleasure in his loneliness for a while, but I don’t know what will happen to him when she cuts him down.  He won’t see it coming.  He won’t see it.”

And Bjorn with Scandinavian directness added, “And then what happens to us?  What happens if our author sinks back into the pit?”

SuperTeddy looked morose and worried, “What, indeed?”