10 Minute Exercise - Onomatopoeia - Steve

 10 Minute Exercise – Onomatopoeia

Late at night when nothing is disturbing the house – no TV, no music, no conversation, no random traffic out front - the mind can be a snare for random sounds magnifying as they arrive. The surprise of a clap of thunder raises the hair on your neck and prickles the backs of your ears. The soft, subtle drops of rain falling on the window draw your eyes toward the drips of water slipping down to the bottom of the sill. The clacking of the keys of your PC forcing you to first lose touch with the whisp of thoughts that were guiding fingers busily hammering out words. Then, conversely giving you the rhythm needed to drive toward the final letters of a satisfying sentence. At the end of it, all this commotion yields a quiet, peaceful finish to another day. Time for bed!

10 Minute Exercise - pistrophe - Steve

 10 Minute Exercise – Epistrophe

I just felt the stab of a recurring bad memory - weighing on me like a wet blanket. It was from a time when I struggled to free myself from the depths of depression resulting from being let go from a job for the first time and the only time of my life and weighing on me like a wet blanket. I couldn’t function properly; every move was labored – weighing on me like a wet blanket. I had no energy, wanted to lie down and give in to the heavy load – weighing on me like a wet blanket…

Connecting Three Pieces - Steve

 Connecting Three Phrases: Gun runner, By the zoo keeper’s office, Over the frozen pond

It was during a particularly severe cold snap in February that the call came in. It was from a reliable informant. A gang called the Northern Alliance was looking for 4 clean-wiped AR-15’s. Normally, this was the calm time of the year because the weather kept most everyone off the streets, including the bad guys. Sargent Green entered the news into the call log database so everyone on his team would be informed of the activity about to take place. 

The sources for this type of weapon were limited to the few known gun runners that frequented East Albany, so Green wasn’t too concerned about something happening without him being aware of it. Still, being this close to the border invited the risk of a new bad actor coming on the scene. Better to be safe than sorry, he thought, so he alerted the feds as well via BSAM (the Bulletin System for Arms Movement). They have a BS for everything, Green thought.

Greens’ next step was to inform his chief of the call, so he left his desk and dropped by the zoo keeper’s office, the moniker affectionately given to the chief by his staff. After all, they were a bunch of animals that collectively couldn’t be more diverse, natively wild, and in constant need of being watched over.

Chief Baker wasn’t in.  Maybe he’s in the john, Green thought. I’ll give him a minute.  

Checking his phone, Green saw a red-text flash that alerted him of a call for backup at the new shirt factory located on the north side of town. It had just been verified this morning that the owner was a mob boss with connections to the big city, so it wasn’t a stretch to assume that this was a cover for money laundering and who knew what else – maybe gun runners. Two officers had a warrant and were getting ready to breach the entry at the shipping dock but needed support to cover the front entrance of the building. Without hesitation, Green grabbed his coat, called for Adams to join him, and left the HQ in a silent run heading to the factory location. 

The 8-minute ride was uneventful, and he checked in with the lead officer saying he and Adams were on site at the entrance and ready. Green got the word that the team was moving and to cover the front. Within a few seconds, three men burst out of the front door. Fortunately, none of them were armed. Each of the perps headed a different direction, one left, one right and one, the dumbest one, straight toward the officers. Green took down the man that had made the mistake of going straight at them and Adams took chase of the one that went right, leaving the other suspect no choice but to try his escape over the frozen pond - his only pathway. Adams caught up with the perp that went right and took him down without much effort. Anyone in a suit and tie was at a disadvantage and in seconds, Adams had him cuffed and shivering on the ground.  

By this point in time, Green had taken up pursuit of the pond perp just as the two breaching officers came out the front door to join in the action. Evidently, no other bad guys were found in the single story building and they were eager to join in the hunt. Because the frozen pond had slowed the escape significantly, and the final perp was handicapped three to one, he was easily caught and detained.

A search of the “factory” yielded 10 AR-15’s and enough ammo for a small army – evidence that would convict the three stooges and send them away for several years. 

Sargent Green intended to mark this as the shortest successful crime cycle in the history of zoo keeper’s tenure in East Albany and apply for a promotion that he knew he wouldn’t get. At least it would be worth an extra donut at the morning call session.

Bradley Wilson - Steve

 Bradley Wilson

A New Beginning - Steve

 

A new beginning? Why? Is my life so bleak or broken that I am required to start over? Maybe, but before starting out with that directive, let’s step back and look at where I am relative to where I want to be.

Here are few basic realities: 

Am I perfect? Far from it.

What is taking up most of my consciousness and is this “worth” the allocation of time and effort?

Am I fulfilling the justified demands of my life – to my wife, my family, my friends?  (feeding the connections that in turn, sustain my happiness; being sufficiently responsible for my health and wellbeing; awarding them the time and attention needed; 

After considering these allocations and necessities, what is it that I really want out of life; what goals are appropriate? 

The Last Season - Marc

 THE LAST SEASON

The fog parts

for the briefest of moments

Spring appears

then disappears as I reach for it

Leading me to doubt

I ever knew it

Summer, oh summer

superman I was

First love, invulnerable

first heartbreak

Never ending

but it did

Autumn, I know you

Working like a rabbit

On the run

in a race, chasing

Chasing, chasing

things that never mattered

Now, winter

in this forest of trees

All dead

Through the cold wind

I walk on

to my fate

Dreams in the Holler - Nancy

 The wind is blowin hard down the holler like some injured coyote howling in pain. I button up that last button on my shirt, put on my cap and head out the door with my pole. If I don’t get to it none of us will eat tonight. I head down on the well-worn trail that leads to the pond over the ridge. Just then I hear Hatch holler out to me, Hey June Bug hurry up, there are a gob of fish all gaum up here in the cove just right for catchin. My word I say with amazement. It’s like Jesus done did with Peter when he put out his net to fish. The catfish were practically jumping on to the shore for us to catch. I’m not sure why this was happening. But I knew I was going to have a tough time toting these here fish back over yonder.

I opened the front door with my load of fish to find mama still sitting in her chair looking out to nowhere. Since daddy died in the coal mine mama has never been the same. The kids were out back swinging on the vine and chasing around old Hank our mutt of a dog. “If you want to eat youngins you best be gettin some vegetables from the garden and gathering some eggs.” I started skinning the fish to dip in some flour batter when that Peckerwood from the government office comes bouncing up the road in her truck. “Hurry up Dolly and Loretta get in here the law is a coming”. They knew what I meant and what to do as we’d done this before. Fat Fani, that’s we called her cause her britches clean split in two waddling up to our cabin one time.  She thought because mama was out of her head due to too much moonshine and meth that us kids needed to live with a bunch of strangers. They can send me to the gates of hell before me and my sisters are going to live with a bunch of jaspers I yelled out to no one.

 I locked the door and cocked the shotgun. “You best be gettin your sweet ass off our mountain or this 12 gauge will be helping you to it. “Don’t think I won’t be back June” she said with certainty. “If you want to live like the rest of these hillbillies you can. But those youngin girls need a real mama who can school them while there is still hope for them.” “I school them just fine” I shouted through the door. “Now get with you.” 

As she drove off, I knew I had to hunker down with these girls and get them to learning good. I had finished 8th grade with almost all A’s. But that was before mama took a turn for the worst. Now I was the mama taking care of everyone. I wasn’t complaining. I was good at fishing and huntin. The girls loved to garden. And granny Willis taught us how to sew and crochet so we would have clothes on our backs and blankets on our beds. Everyone in the holler took care of one another. If you had too much of something you shared it. And if you were needing something you would most likely end up with a heap of it from folks stoppin by to give it to you.

Once awhile back there was a lady who had come to town. Talk all over the holler was she was from the big city and here to write a story about us mountain folks. I wanted to see what a big city person looked like so I took our old chevy truck missing one of the doors and drove it down into Hazard to take a look. When I saw her, it was like seeing a princess. She had beautiful long yellow hair, shiny like corn silk, ruby red lips and a full mouth of the brightest white teeth I’d ever seen. She smelled like a field of lilacs. She said her name was Diane, Diane Sawyer and that she was from Kentucky too. I always wondered if she was kin to the Tom Sawyer I’d read about in the books at school. 

The people with all the fancy equipment asked me if I wouldn’t mind meeting Ms Diane. And so we sat and talked for a spell.  She talked funny not like the folks around here. But it sounded real nice. She was nice. She asked me all about my life. I told her about mama, the girls and that I could cook fried chicken, collard greens and hot biscuits that would make you cry for more. She asked me what we did for fun when we weren’t working the land. I told her how all the folks gather almost nightly on Mr. Joe Don’s big porch and bring their fiddles, banjos and harmonicas and play knee slappin music we can all dance to. I told her me and my sisters can sing like songbirds in harmony to almost any song. Mama named us all after country singers she would listen to on the radio. I think we were singing in her womb before we were even born. She asked me to sing for her. I said better yet, you need to come tonight to Mr. Joe Don’s porch and hear for yourself how these magic mountains’ sing along with us. 

The word spread like wild fire that this Lady Diane would be coming to our social on the porch that night. Everyone dressed in their best overalls, pies were baked, viddles prepared and a little moonshine poured for inspiration.  Just like she promised she came with a few of those city folks in a fancy truck that looked worse for wear after climbing up those dirt mountain roads. The music started playing and me, Dolly and Loretta started singing our hearts out. After a few rounds of Blue Kentucky Girl and Jolene Ms Diane came up and hugged me hard. She looked me straight in the eye and said, “Sweet June you have the voice of an angel. You need to share this God given talent beyond these mountains.” A big tear welled up in my eye and I couldn’t stop it from running down my cheek. Nobody has ever told me I was special or had talent from God. She said, “Well you do young lady. Your beautiful voice could be the means for you to support your sisters, get your mama help and live in a house with real plumbing.” But how?” I said. Let me see what I can do. She left that night leaving my heart full of dreams. 

Several months later a delivery truck found its way to our little cabin. A man called out, you Ms June Swift? This here box is for you and it’s come all the way from New York City. Well, I’ve never heard tell that such a package bigger than the man himself could come to me from such a faraway place. It must be from Ms Diane.  I hurried and opened it up with my jack knife. It was like a treasure box full of gifts. There were lots of books, novels she had called them. There was a bottle of perfume that smelled like lilacs just like her. There were smelly soaps, fluffy towels and shoes and clothes for the girls. There was also the most beautiful dress I’d ever seen made with flowers in every color spilled all over it. And at the very bottom of the box was a funny black box that had a note on it that said, push this button. So, I pushed it. Out of that black box comes the sound of me singing. It was like I was singing on the radio. There was an envelope with a letter inside. It said, Dear June, I was so glad to meet you. I have met important people from all over the world whom most of them think they are very special and they’re not. But you sweet girl are very special and you don’t know it. The love in your heart for your sisters, mama and neighbors shone through you like a  light beam. That radiant light carried through in that fresh angelic voice of yours. My husband was the best at spotting talent and bringing it to full bloom. Perhaps I learned a thing or two from him, because I believe in you. So put that pretty little dress on and come sing to the real Dolly next week. I’ve arranged everything. A car will come pick you and your sisters up and bring you to Nashville. Pack a bag. You are coming to Dollywood.  

Retired Priest - Nancy

 Retired Priest, Mug Shot, Around the Bend

It was a cold January day with dampness  that chills you to the bone. Everyone hurried in to the church to try and find some relief from the brisk winds. The 80 year old church and it’s ancient furnace didn’t give much warm relief. 

The pomp and circumstances of Christmas was well over and dull grayness of winter had an effect on me. I had to try and keep delivering inspiring sermons each Sunday until Easter came where once again festivities would brighten the spirit. 

As I began to deliver my sermon I looked out over the  congregation and saw Doc Crawley’s head nodding as he tried to stay awake. There was Mrs. Ludwig trying to keep her 3 kids from acting up. Mr. Ludwig was not much of a church goer. He said he knew the Lord knew he loved him and he didn’t need a priest to intercede. There was Mrs. Bradley who always sat in the front row saying the rosary feverishly. She said she felt closer to God the closer she was to the altar. The congregation was aging just like the building and myself. I was performing funerals more regularly which meant the number in attendance was declining steadily. So, to see a new face sitting in the back pew by himself was quite unusual. I tried not to stare for not wanting to make him feel uncomfortable. But I was most definitely curious of who this fellow was. He was old and gray headed like the rest of the members. Probably in his 60’s or 70’s. He looked worn out and empty. 

After the service was over, I tried to rush over to say hello to this gentleman but I was caught by Mrs. Burns. “Father O’Connor” she shouted out, “won’t you please join me and Bev for dinner this evening. I’m cooking a pot roast and I’ve baked a peach pie.” I so wanted the solace of a meal to myself but said yes anyways. I would endure the town gossip between these two sisters for a home cooked meal and a slice of pie. By the time I looked up the gray headed man was gone. 

It was now Wednesday which meant it was confessional day. I opened the curtain to the booth, and sat preparing to hear the same routine confessions of judgement, gossip and unfriendliness. I was not disappointed as the sins were the same. I guess I should be glad that these people’s lives have only minor temptations. 

As I was preparing to leave after the last prayers of confession were said someone entered the booth. It was dark and the shadowy figure of a slight man was all I could see. When he spoke, it was soft and gravely. He spoke without prompting. “Bless me Father for I have sinned. My last confession was over 50 years ago.” Was this the man from the back pew? “Go on my son” I said trying not to sound eager to hear what he had to say. He took a minute before speaking as if he needed to summon courage. But without taking another breath he told his story. “Father I am dying and I need to ask the Lord for forgiveness before I take my last breath. I killed a man. A boy really. I was 14 and he was 15. His name was Kenny. I was with my best friend Jimmy swimming down at the quarry like we did most every weekend. Kenny rode up acting like a big shot, mouthing off about how we were a bunch of sissies. He was especially cruel in his curses to Jimmy who was a meek shy kid. He dared us to jump off the railroad trestle. We knew how dangerous the trestle was and wanted no part of it. Somehow, we managed to worm out of the dare and hopped on our bikes and road home. Well, that’s at least what Jimmy thought I did. Once he was out of sight I turned around and went back to the trestle. Kenny was still there. He said, “well I see you do have some balls boy. Come show me what a tough guy you are and jump.” Father this guy was a bully through and through. And too many times to count he caused kids to cry with his relentless teasing and physical assaults. My best friend Jimmy was one of his favorite targets.  I guess I had enough of it. We were standing on the trestles edge when I heard the train blow its whistle. I figured it was now or never. I pushed Kenny as hard as I could. He went flying in the air and let out a scream I can still hear today. I saw him land like a pancake in the water 40 feet below. He didn’t move. The train was coming around the bend with the whistle piping its plumes of smoke. I ran fast across the railroad ties and made it to the edge of the woods just in time. To this day Father, no one knows I was there or what I did. Everyone thought it was an accident.” He finally took a breath and then said, “This sin I have carried with me has destroyed my life. But now I am dying and want forgiveness. Do you think the Lord will forgive me Father?” he asked with a whimper.

I was so mesmerized and in shock from hearing his story I was at a loss for words. I mustered up “Our Lord is a merciful and forgiving God. If you are truly sorry for your sins and ask for forgiveness the Lord will grant you peace. Go and pray from your heart the Our Father and the Apostles Creed. May the Lord lead you to confess to the police as well.  In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.” I could see him through the lattice do the sign of the cross. And with that he left the booth. As I waited a minute to collect my thoughts. I heard the door to the chapel open and close. And with that the man was gone. 

I looked for him every Sunday but I was never to see him again. I thought a lot about him over the years wondering if he confessed to the police. Or if death had found him?

 Several years later, I was enjoying the comfortable life of retirement sitting in my easy chair with a glass of wine and some crackers watching Cold Case on TV. Crime stories are one of my hidden pleasures. While adjusting the volume a picture came up on the screen that looked somehow familiar. It’s wasn’t a mug shot but a rendering of a boy to an aging man. My attention peaked and I turned up the volume. The commentator told the story of a boy named Kenneth Dawson that died from falling off a trestle and breaking his neck in Chillicothe Ohio back in 1965. The siblings of Mr. Dawson were seeking answers through new found science of DNA found at the scene. They did not believe their brother accidentally fell but was pushed as they knew Kenny had a lot of enemies. With that, I spit out my crackers and nearly knocked over my  wine trying to get closer to the TV to hear more. Who are they looking for? What is his name I shouted at the TV. As if they heard me the announcer said, The police are looking for a Joseph Peterson as a person of interest. He would be around the age of 65. I was dumb founded. That was the man that came to confession. 

Swearing to the Profession of Faith requires that I never disclose what I heard in the sacrament of penance. Was Joseph still alive I wondered. If he has died, should I share what I know to the family of Kenneth Dawson to give them peace? My head was swirling with conflict. I knew in my heart the right answer. This secret that I knew must be between me, God and Joseph Peterson. I will take your confession to the grave Joseph I said out loud. May you and Kenneth Dawson both rest in peace.

Eleanor Rigby's Love - Nancy

 Eleanor Rigby picks up rice in a church where a wedding not hers has been

Father McKenzie reads his sermon while dreaming of her in lustful sin

Oh, these two lonely people

Where do they go from here

Will love miss them they fear

Eleanor Rigby, she smiles at him with a hopeful heart

Perhaps when his collar retires love can start

Oh these two lonely people

Wearing a face kept in a jar

No one suspect yet thus far

Father McKenzie, He loves the Lord but he loves her too

Is yearning for a woman’s touch well over due

Oh, these two lonely people

Looking for love in the wrong place

Holding on to hope with bad odds that they face

Tom Joad Meets Alvin Toffler - Mike P

 Tom Joad meets Alvin Toffler

Alvin Toffler’s 1970 book, Future Shock, underscores the anxiety

people face grappling with change. Too much, too soon, unable

to process and adapt. This is the upheaval we feel when change

outpaces our ability to adapt. This, in turn, leads to feelings of

frustration, disorientation, and loss of control of our lives. Toffler

argued that such conditions leave people ripe for the picking and

susceptible to con artists and quick fixes.

I just finished reading The Grapes of Wrath. The poor Joad family

faced their own future shock as the world changed around them.

Unable to adapt to the Great Depression, they lost their farm, their

home, their way of life. Oklahoma could now offer only death. Yet

the dream of a better life in California turned into a nightmare.

“Okies” were not wanted! They were derided, abused, and used

as the cheapest of labor. Frustration, disorientation, loss of

control, the family began unravelling and finally disintegrating by

the novel’s close.

I think future shock has always been with us. Only now does it

become so apparent with the ocean of information available with

the click of a mouse. Bob Schieffer, retired CBS Newsman, said

technology has made a publisher out of just about anyone with an

opinion and a computer. In the purest sense, more information is

fine. But is more always better? You can find someone or some

site to confirm just about any belief you have. Thinking the world

might be flat? There’s a site. Sensing that Dennis Rodman from

the Alpha quadrant? There’s a blogger. Believing that vaccines

cause autism? There’s a Kennedy. Knowing you’re a victim? Get

in line.

I try to arrive at conclusions based on at least some shred of

evidence. For instance, I believe we landed on the moon in

1969, I’m darn sure Elvis is dead, and lock-solid that 2 + 2 = 4.

However, when I was 17, I was convinced that Paul McCartney

was dead. Every kid in school knew it. You could tell! Clues

sneakily planted on the album covers from Sgt Pepper to Abbey

Road. Any fool could see that Paul was dead. But you had to

look long and hard! Connect the dots, see the evidence, and

expose the dark, shady men behind the curtain! We all knew the

truth—Paul was stone cold dead! Except for one small detail. He

wasn’t.

Future shock will always be part of our lives. The only question

is, are we grounded enough to manage it.