Tuesday, November 21, 2023

The Invasion - Nancy

 The Invasion

The sun begins to rise over the mountains bringing with it the dry heat that will bake the land starved for water.  Arthur is already sitting at the kitchen table working on his second cup of coffee. The black coffee steaming from his cup is much like his thoughts as he stares out the parted window blinds. His Browning 9mm lays on the table next to his coffee. The semi-automatic never leaves his side. His shotgun leans against the wall in his bedroom. And a Glock is in the nightstand next to his wife’s side of the bed. In his truck you will find both a Rutger 357 Magnum in the console and a Colt 45 under the seat. He has taught both his children how to shoot dead on target with all his guns. They respect the weapons but understand that they are necessary. When you live 40 miles from the border of the Rio Grande you must be prepared for anything.

Arthur has lived in Carrizo Springs Texas all his life. His grandfather bought this fertile land of 9,000 acres in the early 1900’s. Arthur is now the 3rd generation to raise cattle here. It use to be that the only thing one would worry about was what the price of cattle was going for or if the coming days would bring rain to fill your tanks. Everyone knew each other throughout the county and would regularly see each other at the local hardware store where discussions of Friday night football games or the price of feed going up were the topics of the day. Their kids were all in 4H. And the county fair was the big event of the year. 

Today Arthur and his fellow ranchers live a very different life. His kids are not allowed to walk  to the bus stop down at the end of the driveway without an adult along side them. Echoes of children’s laughter in the yard playing are like ghosts that haunt. Now doors are locked and the shutters are closed. Arthur is not a rich man. But in order for him to make his wife feel safe when he is gone he spent cash he doesn’t have on cameras, alarms and a drone.

How did it get this way he asks himself with no answer coming to him that will satisfy. We are prisoners on our own land he sadly murmurs to no one. Well, no sense thinking about what can’t be done but rather get up and do what you can. He gently sets his coffee cup in the sink and he and Gus his loyal 100 lb Rottweiler quietly eases out of the house not to wake his wife and kids. It’s Sat. so let them sleep in. He makes sure all the doors are locked and the alarm set. He unlocks the barn while holding out his Browning shotgun as he surveys all the dark corners for any intruders. He fires up the ATV and heads out down the dusty road, gravel spitting out beneath the tires.

 He will inspect the property perimeter for where he is certain there will be fences cut and the remains of trespasser’s littering his land. It’s a daily chore that must be done. Otherwise, it is a danger to his cattle from eating these unknown substances or worse yet get free and wander off. Loosing heads of cattle would devastate their financial state. He calls to his loyal ranch hands Diego and Raul from the hand-held radio. He knows they will be out feeding the cattle. “Found a break through on the southeast hillside” he calls out. They know exactly what he means and what needs done.

Arthur continues on his trek about the land when Gus makes an alert. His rifle is cocked and pointed at the moving shrubs. Sal Ahora! Sal Ahora! Come out now, he shouts with authority. Slowly four men crawl out from the brush hands up. Sentar. No te muevas. Sit. Don’t move. Arthur commands. Although the men appear to not be armed, he does not lower his aim on them with his rifle. He knows there is a reason they didn’t surrender themselves at the border. He looks them over and realizes they are not Mexicans. De donde eres Where are you from he ask knowing they probably don’t speak Spanish. One of the men softly speaks up in broken English, Yemen. Yemen he says again. And then barely audible he says “dead” as he points toward the brush. Arthur looks closer and he sees a body lying on the ground. He no longer is surprised by encounters like this. When you have seen on too many occasions small children dumped and alone and trafficked for sex  your heart becomes immune to what once would have been shocking. 

He shakes his head and thinks, how and why is he left to defend his land and family from far away nations.  My country has abandoned me. I am on my own. Gus never moves a muscle as he continues his low growl ready at command to attack as trained. Arthur calls Border Patrol to inform them he has a dead body on his land along with several illegal young men from Yemen trespassing. He knows they are overwhelmed and won’t be able to respond for over an hour. And so he and Gus sit and wait, never loosing focus on the threat. This he thinks is my new life. Land no longer of any value. A citizen no longer with the right to be safe on their own land. He would cry if he would ever be allowed to let his guard down. But the menacing invasion seems never ending.


The American Flag - Nancy

 The American Flag


The American Flag. Red, White and Blue. The Stars & Stripes. Old Glory. 

A symbol? A mantra? A creed?

Patriot. Antifa. Capitalist. Socialist.

Illegals want to live under it. Others threaten to leave it.

Divisive? Uniting? 

Pledge to it. Stand for it. Kneel at it. Salute it. Burn it. Sing about it.

 Worth fighting for? Worth Protesting over? Worth dying for? 

A caskets cover. A fallen hero’s memory. An enemy’s hatred.


My country ‘tis of thee. Sweet Land of Liberty. Let Freedom ring.


Sunday, November 19, 2023

Worn Out Friend - Ralph

 Worn Out Friend

Ralph Heim


I’ve been around this home 30 years,

as long as their marriage, almost.

My entire body is now fringed around the border,

shredded limbs dangling from being slowly worn down

Like I was an old pair of jeans, ripped at the bottom.

Then there is the damn places on the top of my head!

Worn down from all their shivering 

Over the thickest part of me 

Now, my body’s pocked down like hard pan 

I don’t heal anymore from their grinding.  


As for them, I’ve covered their ass more times than I care to remember,

Yes, I’ve been in their hair, wrapped around their hearts, 

Yet they’ve walked all over me at times,

And pressed me to cover their messes.

They don’t even let me out of my small room anymore,

when they’ve got company.

They’re the only ones that know I’m alive.

Deep down, I fear they are ashamed of me.

But when they want my comfort and familiarity,

they let me out of my spot.

Suddenly I might just be the reason

that they sing a little louder in the bath

while I’m tossed over the top

of their glassed in showers.


First VIsit to a Dead Friend - Ralph

 First Visit to a Dead Best Friend


Gravel spitting under the tires of a cemetery road.   Thick windbreaks of trees, branches weaved together to create a thorny wall from the dead and the skeletal cornfield stalks.   Walking down grassy aisles with double headstones for husbands and wives, some spousal deaths on hold for years. 

 My first dead friend visit.  Cheated out of the bereavement airline fare because we didn’t have the same last name.  And after all my rehearsing of what I’d tell him when he couldn’t talk back, I was speechless.  

Finally I pushed out something we both could agree on.  “I wish we were young and telling lies again.” “I never imagined that our hundred or so phone calls the past 6 months wouldn’t cure you”.  Smiling at your last line to me on your death bed, “What’s your mother’s name again? “ (He often threatened the last few months that he’d look up my mother in the afterlife and he’d tell her all the things I had done) 

“Yea my life, just like this empty cemetery in the dusk.  A lot of people around but no one I’d want to talk to.    I’m so angry with you.  I’m all alone just like I’m alone in this farmer’s cemetery.   And our inside jokes?    They’re just “Inside me” jokes now, and they aren’t real fulfilling. I mean, I thought visiting graves was a sport reserved for hopelessly over-weight retired people.  Leaning over headstones and groaning from the effort of rotating seasonal flowers, or pulling weeds while leaking tears.  Christ, I’m only 41.

“I mean, I’m no good at this grieving thing”.  3 visits with a pale, bearded male, HMO approved therapist that gave me a book to read and a workbook to fill out, like some substitute teacher giving me busy work.  My heart is throbbing like a needed root canal, and all that damn shrink wants, is to book the next 3 sessions.


Origin of April Fools' Day - Kathy

The Origin of April Fools' Day - Rough Draft

Saturday, November 18, 2023

Declaration of War - Mike P

 Declaration of War

Esteemed scholar, Members of the Elements Writers’ Group, and residents of the Elements.  Yesterday, was a day which will live in infamy—the Elements was suddenly and deliberately attacked by dark forces inside the Viridian Empire.

Yesterday drivers from the Big Viridian launched an attack against our Elements community.  

Last night Big V forces blasted car horns driving past the Magnolia Center

Last night forces from Big V sped through our stop signs.

Last night Big V forces flew over our speed humps

Last night Big V forces ignored yield-to-pedestrian signs

Last night Big V forces blared loud music after 7pm.

And this morning, Big V forces started it all over again!

Big Viridian has, therefore, undertaken a surprise offensive throughout the Elements community.  The horrors and facts of yesterday speak for themselves.   The residents of the Elements have already formed their opinions and today speak for themselves.  We understand the implications to our very way of life and safety of our community. 

As commander and chief of the Elements Militia, I have directed that Citizens on Patrol, our bridge demolition team under Commodore Heim, and all other measures be taken for our defense.  Our community will remember the character of the onslaught against us. No matter how long it may take us to overcome this premeditated invasion, the Elements people in our righteous might will win through to absolute victory.  I believe that I interpret the will of the HOA and of the people when I assert that will not only will defend ourselves to the uttermost but will make it certain that these forms of treachery shall never cross our two-lane bridge again. 

Hostilities with Big V exist.  There is no blinking at the fact that our aging Boomers, our streets, the Magnolia, and our very existence are in grave danger.  With confidence in our Citizens on Patrol and hot-headed vigilantes, we will gain the inevitable triumph—so help us God.  


Ode to a Cemetery - Mike P

 Ode to a Cemetery


Far less than four score and seven years ago our Founding Fathers—Howard and Bob—brought forth on this once-toxic swampland a new community, conceived in blind profit and greed, and dedicated to the proposition that all babbling Baby Boomers are created to peacefully and safely live out their final years.


Now we are engaged in a great and sanctified civil war, testing whether the Elements can long endure. The heathen society encamped beyond the bridge atop the Tallahatchie river has engaged our brave Elements soldiers in the Battle of Beaver Creek, the Siege of Blackwood Cross, and the midnight dope-smoking raids into our holy Sculpture Park.   We have come today to dedicate a portion of this land to those who gave their lives shuffling across streets while walking their dogs. Gave their lives so other old-timers might never again be mowed down in crosswalks.   It is altogether fitting and proper that New Balance Memorial Cemetery be that place. 


But in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this David Weekly tract of ground. The brave residents—living and dead—have consecrated it.  The city of Arlington will take little note, nor long remember what we say here today. But it cannot forget what they did here!  It is for us the living to be dedicated to the great task remaining before us.  For those honored dead Elements residents, we take increased devotion to the cause for which they gave their final step off the curb and into the path of speeding caissons, caught in the headlights of slack-jawed teens on dirt bikes, or ground into the grill of raging Dodge Rams. 


We highly resolve that that these feeble Boomers shall not have died in vain. That the Elements, under Mayor Jim Carpino and the Social Committee shall have a new birth of freedom.  And that the HOA of the residents, by the residents, for the residents, shall not perish from this 55+ community. 


Dreams, By Steve

 Dreams… 11-16-23

Afternoons can be a great time to relax and take a break from the hustle of the day. Sitting down today

with a nice cold glass of tea with your feet propped up on the table on the back porch, my mind

wandered off and then for some reason filled with the fuzzy memory of last night’s dream. It was a crazy one, for sure.

The first thing I saw was my family, enjoying an outing together among a grove of trees overlooking a

stream of water flowing over rocks on its way to some lake or ocean. I was observing the group, not a

part of it, so my attention was focused on what they were doing and their reactions to one another,

rather than the interaction that normally involved me directly. It was odd to have the feeling of an

observer and not a participant – kind of like those odd moments when a party is happening, and you

become the outside observer; taking in the scene rather than helping to create it.

What made this more unique and odder was watching my two sons’ interaction. They were arguing

about Donald Trump, and both were yelling, waving their arms and hands around in a way that

suggested that they were more cheerleaders than merely expressing emotions. I caught myself laughing

until I caught part of the words flying about: they had each taken the opposite view of their waking

positions and to make it even more amusing, the conversation was centered around whether Trump

used a tanning bed or not. Then my laughing turned to amazement as I realized the basis for their

position lay in their appearance: one had a pinkish area around his eyes, clear evidence of a tanning bed.

That observation gave way to abandoning the exchange and shifting to my wife, sitting on the ground,

dressed in her mink coat, digging a small hole in the dirt with a gardening tool. My granddaughters

surrounded her as she explained, “the sides of the hole must be perfectly perpendicular if you even

hope the plant will grow properly.” Their attention – and silence – tempted me to interject some

wisdom into the scene, but knowing that this was their time together, I held back and instead, filed a

unique memory away, noting the girls’ silence.

Suddenly, there was a deafening boom! A sound that occurs in a dream, or my dreams at least, is an

unanticipated, unexpected happening. I hear people’s conversations on occasion, but sounds aren’t

usually something I recall after waking up from a dream. So, when a boom along with the sensory

impact hits, it makes an impression.

It didn’t change my status as an observer, though and my reaction was subdued in comparison to the

people in the scene. What occurred next was akin to a Three Stooges movie. Everyone began running

around bumping into each other, looking up to the sky and then down to the ground making sure they

weren’t about to be swallowed up by the earth. The blue skylight rapidly changed to an amber cloud

cover. A fleet of giant low, slow flying airships floated across the sky. So many that they appeared to be

almost touching one another, but somehow able to maintain an equal distance that formed a cartoon-

like picture of an old World War 2 propaganda poster. My exact thought was: OK, airplanes in dreams

mean something, but what?

With a flash, the sky cleared. When I turned my attention back to the ground, everything was baren: no

trees, no stream, no people, nothing. Only empty space covered in amber light. I laid down. Feeling

confused but content, I work up.

Saturday, November 11, 2023

Working on setting from Dancing Fool

Setting of the consignment shop

Kathy Heim

11-9-23


Luckily, Benny found himself with several minutes to spare, auditions didn’t begin until 9:00. He slowed his pace to catch his breath and calm his heart. Just ahead of him, on the right, he noticed a navy blue awning jutting out over the sidewalk.  “Connie’s Consignments” was spelled out in gold scripted letters. He’d never noticed this shop even though he’d passed by hundreds of times before.  Curiosity drew him near the entrance.  The top half of the stained wooden door was glass where an “Open” sign hung on a hook from the inside. The hand drawn sign on the storefront window, lettered in pink chalk paint stated,  “Second Chances are Waiting for You!”   Intrigue and the need for an unstained shirt drew him inside.  The door creaked open and a bell rang as he entered and a tabby cat leapt off the counter and scurried to the back of the store showing no interest in him.  Show tunes softly played in the background,  Bali Ha’i he thought from South Pacific.  Such a soulful song he mused.  Benny looked around to get his bearings.  Crowded racks of clothing crammed the little shop.  Women’s in the front, and men’s in the back. Framed artwork from local artists hung along the walls.  Most were watercolor paintings of Broadway playbills, Damn Yankees, Nine, Lion King, Wicked, Damn Yankees, and the like.  The middle of the shop opened up to a square shaped area with a raised wooden floor. A three way mirror anchored one side.  Along another side were tables of handbags, shoes, and men’s ties.  His eyes landed on an old stereo system topped with tens of 45 records and cassette tapes. It clicked a few times and  “Wash that Man Right Out of My Hair” began to play.  Benny was tempted to soak up more of the store, but he reminded himself of his need to buy a fresh shirt, so he headed to the back straight for the men’s shirts.  


Friday, November 10, 2023

Change Your BIg Girl Panties

 Change Your Big Girl Panties

Kathy Heim

(Playing with anaphora in poetry & a 10 minute paragraph below)



Change your big girl panties is what my dad always told me 

From when I can't remember

Til days I can’t forget

Change your big girl panties he wrote

To a young girl at camp

Needing to be reminded

Change your big girl panties he whispered

To a young competitor losing a 

Competition she should have won

Change your big girl panties he winked

To a young lady heading off to college 

Be brave, try new things, and be safe

Change your big girl panties he cried

As he walked a young bride down the aisle

Marching into the unknown

You’ve got to change her big girl panties he smiled

While I held my baby girl

Changing my big girl panties I silently whisper

To myself as I lay my dad to rest. 




My dad used the phrase change your big girl panties as long as I can remember.  It started with potty training,  I apparently was not an immediate success, and I suppose he, and my mom,  had to literally change my big girl panties often. The summer I was 9, I went to camp in Michigan for three weeks. He wrote to me almost daily, ending each letter with “Change your big girl panties.”  Did he think I’d forget?  I came home telling him all the fun I had riding horses, learning how to kayak and canoe, and sang all the songs I learned.  And he  asked me if I changed my big girl panties - which I did.  As a young equestrian, he followed me to shows, cheering me on and keeping my attitude in check.  When I messed up, he’d often tell me to change my big girl panties.  The phrase evolved from the literal to the symbolic.  He meant, change my attitude.  This phrase became part of my adult mantra and a phrase that always brings me back to my dad.  When beginning college out of state, he used this phrase to remind me that I would experience new things and to roll with the punches and control my future with the choices I made.  As a new grandpa, he looked down at me one day as I held my baby daughter, and reminded me that I would literally be changing her big girl panties until she was old enough to do it herself.  A big responsibility that he had once assumed for me.  Oh my sweet dad.  When it was time to bid him a final farewell, that’s the phrase I thought of first.  I need my big girl panties more than ever now that he’s gone. 

Friday, November 3, 2023

Dancing Fool - Kathy

I tried to tell a (longer) short story this time. This is a first draft.  If you have the time, I'd love your feedback, especially what I'm missing or places I'm not as effective as I could be.    Thank you!

Dancing Fool 11/9

REVISED 11/14: Dancing Fool Second Draft