Keep Your Eye on the Prize

Nadine turned to her half-wit, half-brother, chastising him with voice part sugary, southern kiss and part viper hiss, “Now, Darvis, when Momma told you to keep your eye on the future, she did not mean it literally. Put your goddamn glass eye back into that empty skull of yours. Lord knows you cannot afford to lose another thing up there after the accident. Frankly, that trick has gotten old after 8 years. This Van Gogh sketch is my future, my ticket out of here. Get your greasy fingers and piece of shit prosthetics off of it!”

Who would have thought that their weekly ritual of buying other people’s crap at the crack of dawn would have finally paid off? Who would have thought that a gaudy painting bought for $22 at the estate sale of some decrepit old hermit lady on Mortimer Lane was actually hiding an undiscovered Masterpiece behind it. Nadine may be the daughter of Mac and Merlene Hopkins, white trash Texas royalty, but she knew class and refinement, she knew art when she saw it. Nadine also could recognize a chance to escape “Armpit”, Texas once and for all. Now only if she could get rid of Darvis, her blood and her burden.

Inspired by Magpie Tales and the weekly photo prompt. 
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Time-Catcher

If time were trapped in a pocket watch
     golden timepiece that could be rewound
     to a single defining moment
    changing the course of an entire lifetime,
Would I go back to that right turn just to go left?
     to that yes to shout “No!”?
     to that no to whisper “Yes.”?
     to take back the dream snatched from my grasp?
     to reject what was “just for the best”?

This time-catcher, caressed by patina of time
     remains just an ordinary pocket watch
     tick-tocking away the moments of my life
     metronome to each judgment made in the moment.
I would not go back to turn left simply to do so.
     to shout the unpredictable no.
     to whisper the unanswerable yes.
     to dream a forgotten reverie.
     to reject what I could not understand.

I stand in this moment with complete understanding
     where I have chosen to be
     with a golden pocket watch, lifetime companion,
     reminding me, “Make the most of what you are given.”

A piece inspired by Magpie Tales.

Lipstick and Lies (Mag 9)

Marah peruses a Cosmo while her sister and the others set up for a Girl’s Night In. She knows she should probably help, but it’s so nice to have a minute to sit and to read something other than weekly reports and the Wall Street Journal. “Hey, Ladies,” she shouts towards the kitchen. “Did you know you can learn alot about a woman by the shape of her lipstick? Let’s see… a slanted tip, close to the original shape reveals a rule-follower. Um, a rounded tip to a point indicates a loveable, people-person. The easy-going, peacemaker will have an exceptionally rounded lipstick end, whereas the high-spirited, debater will have lipstick with a sharp, angled tip. Yep, I have proof now. You're all rule-following sheep!”

Magda, Marah’s sister, saunters over and teasingly snaps, “Which shape indicates a lazy ass who sits while her sister and friends do all the work?” Marah tosses the magazine to the side, opting to contribute to the night’s festivities. Besides, after the week, hell the decade, she has had, nothing sounds better than one of Deidre’s Mojitos with fresh mint from the window box. Off she goes to solve her problems with rum, lime, sugar, fresh mint and a night of debauchery with dear friends.

An hour and four Mojitos later, Marah and the others collapse onto the cream-colored leather of Magda’s oversized sectional. This is the type of evening all the girls long for. An evening without the demands of jobs, men and children, each sprawled out on the couch, somehow interlocked with the woman next to her. This is as close as it will ever get to the slumber parties and innocence of their youth. As much as she loves each woman on that couch and for as long as they have known each other, Marah cannot help but ruminate, “No one here knows me. They think they do, but really, it’s just an illusion. I will never again be that person they assume me to be.  Not since the day that he walked...”

Deidre, conjurer of liquid healing, startles Marah out of her private reverie. “Hey, McDreamy, snap out of it!” Tossing the daydreamer a $20 tube of Femme Fatale heisted from Marah’s own purse, Deidre demands, “So what’s your lipstick say about you, Mar-Mar?” Marah opens the tube, supposedly to reveal her innermost self. Magda leans over, bursts out loud with a horsey little laugh, “Geesh, Mar, you have the funkiest looking lipstick shape ever. Look at the weird curvey-pointy shape.  Here, hand me that magazine!” Magda rips the Cosmo out from underneath her sister's legs to continue the assessment.

“The sharp-angled boxed curve suggests that this person is extremely talkative, very creative, and falls in love easily. Mar, this is so you. You could talk the paint off the wall, you’re practically the poster child for Adult ADHD, and you change boyfriends with the price of gas!” This brings an onslaught of drunken giggles and a mocking that can only come from people who genuinely care. Marah laughs with them, but inside she carries on an entirely different conversation.

Ten years ago, I probably would have agreed. Most assuredly, I am quite the chatterbox with a million whirling dervishes frantically dancing in my mind, so wildly that most of what’s in there scatters and hides. However, the part about “she falls in love easily,” I highly doubt.

Does the sharp-angled boxed curve reveal the fear and trepidation that has frozen this heart that once pumped hope and faith through these veins? Can a tube of lipstick expose this soul’s invisible scars that cause the heart to atrophy? In the curve on that lipstick, will they all finally see the wall, overgrown with hesitation and self-preservation, fortress that protects the shattered spirit? Probably not. I am quite adept at deflecting any real assessment. If these ladies, whom I love dearly, don’t even see the truth, why shatter the illusion now? I can play along with the rest of the world to play the light-hearted lover they expect me to be.

After resetting the defenses of her heart, Marah smiles and lets out a forced laugh. “You’re right. My lipstick is crazy looking. So this curvy part here says I’m creative, enthusiastic, talkative, and fall wildly and madly in love at the drop of a hat, huh? Well, of course I do, you ding-dongs. I mean, ain’t love grand? Especially when love comes in the shape of a yummy lifeguard in Cabo or that lawyer, Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Delicious. As a matter of fact, ladies, I have really should run. I met this very charming and very young college boy at Bookman’s Alley last week. I’m going to take the gamble that he’s there tonight, all alone, and perhaps in need of some ‘research assistance’. Pardon me while I go and ‘fall in love easily’ right this very moment. “

With the serenade of catcalls and bawdy words of wisdom, Marah finds her keys, throws the lipstick into the Gucci, and grabs the Cosmo, all with a bravado and swagger that is nothing more than an act. Hurriedly kissing each woman good night, she dashes off as if in a rush to have tryst with a new lover; in reality, she is fleeing before she breaks down and confesses the truth. Once in the shelter of the car, tears begin to flow as sobs escape from behind the fortress wall. In the light of the street lamp, she stumbles through the pages of the Cosmo desperate to read her fortune once more. Finding the page, she reads aloud through sobs in a hushed whisper, “...falls in love easily,” repeating it over and over again. After several minutes, Marah looks up, and to whom she is unsure, begging to know “When? “

A piece inspired by Magpie Tales.

 

Nailed

Freiderich, a brash, young man itching to explore the limitless universe, wanders aimlessly and angrily, trapped in his grandfather’s antiquated hardware store. Freiderich’s father had decided, for the summer, it would be “character building” if his dreamer son got his hands dirty with the honesty of a good day’s work.

Finally the frustration of this fruitless endeavor erupts from the confines of the young man’s mind. Picking up a box of outdated nails, he waves the box and attacks, “Opa, what could a single nail offer the 22nd century? What possible advancement could it offer modern man when bio-computers, the InPlaNet (Intra-Planetary Internet), and teleportation have launched us all into the reality of your Ray Bradbury’s dreams? A nail has nothing of value to offer anyone, especially not to me.”

With strength of voice that comes only with time and wisdom, Hans turns to his upstart grandson. “What power does a single nail possess? It was a single spike that united this great land from east to west, taming the once Wild West. It was the nail that built houses that have endured for centuries, houses once a refuge of love and joy. It was the nail that pierced His Flesh, as he was placed upon a wooden cross to redeem the unworthy and the flawed. A nail can change the history of a nation. It can create a home. A single nail can deliver salvation. But then again, how could that possibly matter to you in the 22nd century?”

Inspired by the Magpie Tales.