Almost Home

Since December two people have stepped in front of a train in a town that I pass through on to get to work ( yes, on a train )  and were struck and killed. I have to admit, I am haunted by the thoughts those poor Souls must have felt when they did that. I guess this little story is about that second when a very bad idea makes it way into you- and where it might come from.

amm

” I come here every morning at the same time, just a few minutes before the 1564 comes through and I ask myself-” she said to the people standing next to her ” Is today the day I feed the beast? Or do I keep walking with everybody else to the other side?”

They- the same dozen people who got off the train and crossed the tracks to the parking lot every single work day of the week- could hear the train whistle blow from up the tracks and within a minute or two the railroad gate arm started to lower, it’s lights started to flash and it’s bells started to ring.

Nobody wanted to look at her, nobody wanted to talk to her because even though she didn’t look like one of the homeless people who lived along the tracks she sounded exactly  like one of them on a bad day- she had the voice that merged on despair or hollow and forced jocularity tinged with anger.

The train was almost to the station and there was so much noise  it gave everyone there a reason to not look at the woman who was looking up the tracks towards the incoming train.

She was still talking, they could hear her just under the sounds of the bells and the train’s engine and they all felt the same- relief. Nobody needed to have crazy talked forced on them- they were almost home.

They were almost safe.

Not safe yet though, because each of those words was no only etching themselves  on their brains but the insides of their eyelids” Is today the day I feed the beast?”

They didn’t realize that was happening at that moment but they could feel it in their bones.

After the train roared by and the bells stopped chiming and the gate arm started to raise they heard her say, ” I might not feed the beast, ” did she laugh or was that sound she made a cough ” but someone here will. ”

” I can smell it.”

A few of them chanced it and looked around to catch sight of the woman, but she was gone.

A few others looked from one face to another and wondered if she had ever been there at all.

When they reached the other side of the tracks they weren’t walking so close together like they usually did, they weren’t chatting or even looking at their phones.

The words she put into their ears, the words that were nesting themselves in the darkest corners of their minds snuggled down and made themselves at home.

Someone here is going to feed the beast.

They were sure of that.

 

 

FOWC with Fandango — Crisis

Old Croak

A new name

fancy underwear

bottles of wine, good weed, scotch and  poker

music on the stereo  a veil separating the years

your hair artfully arranged around your face

so

nobody would guess how used up and broken you are.

But they know.

We all do

Old Croak.

Hamish and His Big New Years Eve Resolution

RDP FRIDAY: BREATHE

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Me and my best friend Kit were doing what we always like to do best on Friday nights.

We sit on our favorite bench in our favorite park and watch the lanterns flicker on just as the Sun sets.

The lanterns are old and I think they use those new bulbs that are supposed to last for a year but they still buzz and click before the lights pop on.

” Are you going to give it a try tonight?” Kit asked me.

” I dunno.”

” Well. It was your New Years Resolution. It was your only resolution. Are you seriously going to not even try?”

The lanterns buzzed and clicked and like magic the lamp posts glowed to life.

I stood up. Squared my shoulders. l lifted up my chin and closed my eyes.

” Oh for Pete’s sake what is the point?” I  asked. ” It’s not going to make me taller or  cute or thinner or sexier or smarter. ”

” It’s all about follow through Hamish. Go on. Give it a try.”

” This is stupid. ”

” Yes. But you swore on your Mother’s grave you’d do this. So get to it.”

 

We were talking about my Mother now and she was pretty damn great as far as Moms went.

When Mr. Finch and his two sons tried to put a bullet between my eyes because I was different and  touch on the emotional side when I heard Mozart and I was and still am fond of wearing pastels and getting mani-pedis,   it was  my Mom  who took matters into own hands and wiped the deck with all of them.

” I’d do it again Pumpkin ” she said as Doc Frances set her broken arm and taped her cracked ribs. ” Now, go on downstairs and see about dinner, would you? Doc helped me bring it in- on top of everything else he’s done for us  tonight.”

” I could eat a horse. ” Doc Frances said. ” Patching you up is hard work Domino.” he told my Mom.

Before anyone could say another word I turned tail and raced downstairs to the kitchen. I was determined to make the best dinner ever for my Mom- my beautiful brave Mom- and I did.

 

” Okay. For Mom. ” I squared up, closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

My first one ever since I turned in a Werewolf over 60 years ago, like everyone in  our family does when they turn 10 years old.

” How’s it feel?” Kit asked. He stood up on his hind legs and pushed his paws against my chest. He nuzzled at my chin the way cats do.

I exhaled a small jet of air from my lungs into his face.

” God.” Kit flinched and sneezed and gagged. ” What is that. I mean it Hamish. Did something crawl in their and die?”

” I don’t think so. I think it was something I ate.”

We looked into the bushes  behind our bench.

I shrugged, Kit flicked his tail.

” Well. Be that as it may, you kept your New Years Resolution,  you took your first breath in sixty years. Congratulations Hamish.”

” Happy New Year to you  Kit. Now let’s go see about dessert, shall we?”

The real life Hamish and his BFF “Kit ” Micey.
Photo A.M. Moscoso

 

Grapes With Rabies

RDP Thursday:PUCE

Photo by Little Visuals on Pexels.com

When my Dad

used to get angry with me

which he did often because I was never quite up to scratch

in the daughter department and he was never quite satisfied that I wasn’t a mental defective

his face used to turn an alarming shade of red when he started to yell at me.

I was always a little fascinated by that because he had red hair and green eyes that got

blood shot when he was super mad so it looked like his entire head was catching on

fire.

I would stare at him , you know waiting for him to spontaneously  combust,  and he

would screech

” wipe that look off of your face little girl

and I would try to not laugh because by the time I was 12 I was five foot five and taller

than him by an inch or two plus the thought of people going catching on fire for no

reason was comical to me. Probably too comical.

So now when I think of the color red it makes me laugh- which has created many an awkward situation  when I see blood.

 

On the other hand when my Dad wasn’t angry with me, just overwhelmed by the

human wreckage created by half of his DNA his face would turn purple and words

would fail him and he would just stand there, turning purple and trying to burn holes

into my face with this glare that was supposed to turn me into a puddle of cowering, spineless, goo.

It never worked.

Do you know what green eyes in a face purple with rage looks like to me?

A grape with rabies.

 

So rage at me, be disgusted try to intimidate me

I don’t mind- take your time and give it your best shot.

I want to see if you’re going to burst into flames or turn into a  rabid grape.

It’s one or the other, it always is and I am always amused.

Photo by Anni Roenkae on Pexels.com