Deep forest greens
block blue summer skies
and drop us in pearls of dew,
the moon wanes
the sun rides high
morning mists give way to the daylillies sigh
The gardener stands watch
His day, yet to begin
Surveys that, which his hands have wrought,
With scents as seductive
As the original sin
Natures battle, well won, fiercely fought
Soft blow the winds
As azure skies
Split the nights retreat,
Fat fuschias, periwinkles,
Morning glories and moonglows,
Our senses to entreat
Ancient oaks, frilly ferns,
Pretty primroses
All in a row
Daisy chains
And gin scented pines,
In abundance, flourish and grow.
The gardener smiles
His face weathered and worn
Giving proof to efforts untold,
Loving care
Unto natures wrath,
Unto this Eden, he has bartered his soul.
Rotund tomatoes
Fat on the vine
Red, luscious and sweet,
Basil, summer savoury, lemon thyme,
Smells to assail the senses
In the hazy summer heat
In the cool shade
Of the Weeping Willow,
Her tentacles loving embrace,
By a lazy river
In deep cool grass,
As sensual as leather and lace.
Unto all this
The gardeners embrace
Delicious and sublime
Sight, smell, touch, trace,
He caresses the face of The Devine
Embrace…
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Sunday, June 13, 2010
The Tears of A Fairie
A wee submission for The Inferno's theme of A Midsummers Night's Dream
From that place wherein mortal dreams are born and do sail on the warm midsummer nights’ breezes, a child of the fairie woods weeps. Shards of moonlight slash through the leaves of an ancient and gnarled oak, like daggers of light that shineth down from the pale yellow orb; as to witness this child’s sorrow. Her sobs were so soft and sweet, so as to hush the song of the nightbird. Herein begins my tale. Whilst thou follow me to this ancient place and harken to the words spoken and now written for all time?
“Delphenia, why do I cometh upon you in sorrow? Wilst thou not join the great Fairie Circle and dance with us?”
“Dear Pinus, I have no words to share with thee tonight. Can not the great maker of dreams lift me from this place and carry me off to where my heart wouldst feel no more?”
Pinus crouched low; his tiny features once sparkling and wizened, now tinged with expressions of sadness and perplexion.
“What hath led you to this state of despair dear Delphenia? The Queen of the fairies doth await upon your presence.”
Delphenia turned sharply to Pinus.
“Begone Pinus! I would not have this conversation with thee! Thou art a knave, and the messenger of the Queen! My heart hath been torn from my chest and I am smote by the careless and callous words of Acer! Here I would stay till I breathe no more and become one with Mother Earth!”
Pinus recoiled at the onslaught of words so spoken in anger as to loose his footing and fall backwards.
“My dearest Pinus, art thou safe? Please forgive my anger. I wouldst not lend this sadness upon one such as you.”
Pinus arose. His features lay witness more to his embarrassment of having fallen. Fairie pride runneth deeper than the roots of the tree of life.
“Pray tell Delphenia, as Acer may be likened to a fool that sitteth on a fools throne, what words could he use to wreak this havoc on thine heart?”
“I dare not say Pinus.”
Pinus looked into the eyes of Delphenia as she spoke. She was young, and easily hurt.
“Are we not of the same ilk Delphenia? Wouldst thou now spurn me and turn from my friendship and love? Am I now to return to the Fairie Circle without you by my side? A pain, once shared, becomes half a pain. Thou hast pained me in this place this eve, and will nought but leave to wonder from whence that pain is derived? No Delphenia! Thine sorrow is my sorrow. Speak the words to me so I make take them from your mouth and dash them on the stones of forgiveness.”
“Oh Pinus, unworthy as I am of thine love and friendship, I shall share his words with thee. Acer told me that I had the hair of a tangled bramble bush and a nose like a ripe nettle!”
Delphenia began to sob and wail. Pinus let a small smile fill his face.
“Dear, dear Delphenia. Doth thou not realize the reason for which Acer made those childlike insults? Me thinks that Acer doth hold thee in rather high esteem! And as thou has seen fit to not return his advances, he strikes at the one place that even you cannot protect. Negative attention is attention nonetheless.”
“But dear Pinus, mine heart is no longer mine to protect. For it belongs to another. It is he who must protect it.”
Pinus looked bewildered. Even the wisest of fairies may sometime make a mistake in doing that by which all mortals are bound, not realizing the obvious. And as the realization became obvious on Pinus’ face, Delphenia smiled and moved closer.
The evening air crackled as Delphenia and Pinus embraced and a great dream swirled about them and rose high into the midsummer nights sky, and sailed off to the land of mortals.
I am the keeper of fairie dreams. Therefore, by the power of the Fairie Circle, I now entrust this dream to thee. Pinus and Delphenia dance still, and will always do so, on these warm midsummer nights; creating dreams.
And herein, my tale doth end, but simply in the telling.
From that place wherein mortal dreams are born and do sail on the warm midsummer nights’ breezes, a child of the fairie woods weeps. Shards of moonlight slash through the leaves of an ancient and gnarled oak, like daggers of light that shineth down from the pale yellow orb; as to witness this child’s sorrow. Her sobs were so soft and sweet, so as to hush the song of the nightbird. Herein begins my tale. Whilst thou follow me to this ancient place and harken to the words spoken and now written for all time?
“Delphenia, why do I cometh upon you in sorrow? Wilst thou not join the great Fairie Circle and dance with us?”
“Dear Pinus, I have no words to share with thee tonight. Can not the great maker of dreams lift me from this place and carry me off to where my heart wouldst feel no more?”
Pinus crouched low; his tiny features once sparkling and wizened, now tinged with expressions of sadness and perplexion.
“What hath led you to this state of despair dear Delphenia? The Queen of the fairies doth await upon your presence.”
Delphenia turned sharply to Pinus.
“Begone Pinus! I would not have this conversation with thee! Thou art a knave, and the messenger of the Queen! My heart hath been torn from my chest and I am smote by the careless and callous words of Acer! Here I would stay till I breathe no more and become one with Mother Earth!”
Pinus recoiled at the onslaught of words so spoken in anger as to loose his footing and fall backwards.
“My dearest Pinus, art thou safe? Please forgive my anger. I wouldst not lend this sadness upon one such as you.”
Pinus arose. His features lay witness more to his embarrassment of having fallen. Fairie pride runneth deeper than the roots of the tree of life.
“Pray tell Delphenia, as Acer may be likened to a fool that sitteth on a fools throne, what words could he use to wreak this havoc on thine heart?”
“I dare not say Pinus.”
Pinus looked into the eyes of Delphenia as she spoke. She was young, and easily hurt.
“Are we not of the same ilk Delphenia? Wouldst thou now spurn me and turn from my friendship and love? Am I now to return to the Fairie Circle without you by my side? A pain, once shared, becomes half a pain. Thou hast pained me in this place this eve, and will nought but leave to wonder from whence that pain is derived? No Delphenia! Thine sorrow is my sorrow. Speak the words to me so I make take them from your mouth and dash them on the stones of forgiveness.”
“Oh Pinus, unworthy as I am of thine love and friendship, I shall share his words with thee. Acer told me that I had the hair of a tangled bramble bush and a nose like a ripe nettle!”
Delphenia began to sob and wail. Pinus let a small smile fill his face.
“Dear, dear Delphenia. Doth thou not realize the reason for which Acer made those childlike insults? Me thinks that Acer doth hold thee in rather high esteem! And as thou has seen fit to not return his advances, he strikes at the one place that even you cannot protect. Negative attention is attention nonetheless.”
“But dear Pinus, mine heart is no longer mine to protect. For it belongs to another. It is he who must protect it.”
Pinus looked bewildered. Even the wisest of fairies may sometime make a mistake in doing that by which all mortals are bound, not realizing the obvious. And as the realization became obvious on Pinus’ face, Delphenia smiled and moved closer.
The evening air crackled as Delphenia and Pinus embraced and a great dream swirled about them and rose high into the midsummer nights sky, and sailed off to the land of mortals.
I am the keeper of fairie dreams. Therefore, by the power of the Fairie Circle, I now entrust this dream to thee. Pinus and Delphenia dance still, and will always do so, on these warm midsummer nights; creating dreams.
And herein, my tale doth end, but simply in the telling.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Beauty In The Eye of The Beholder
Lost in her book, the old lady’s appearance in her shop of once loved items became an annoyance. Take what you will and go! Yes, you can have that distraught teddy bear for a pittance! Just take it and be gone! The old lady seemed bedazzled and lost in delicious memories of a time lost in the pages of a school girls’ diary. Clutching the musty mementoes to her bosom, she weaved her way slowly to the cash register. With trembling hands, she counted out the neatly folded bills that would finalize the transaction that would make these treasures hers.
Smiling, she gathered up the change and dropped it in her bag. “It’s a lovely night. I am sorry to have disturbed you. Go back to your book.”
Her smile and the twinkle in her eye left no doubt that there was nothing malicious in her statement, and so, with the closing of the front door, she returned to her novel.
The air was thick with scents. Magnolia, Cypress, Spanish Moss, but none as intoxicating as the deep rich earth that permeated all. It carried on the night winds, soft and sultry. The chorus of bullfrogs echoed through the Louisiana night. These were heady smells.
Charles stared down at the gardens, dark shadows now blanketing the riotous colours that would come with sunrise. As he rose, the moonlight seemed to fill the room with an exquisite glow. Sumptuous, and erotic. Bathed in this golden hue, his body tensed at the sight that lay before him. Muscles taught, his blond hair, wild and untamed, dampened by the perspiration of unbridled wanton desire. His eyes turned to her. To Madelien. Her raven hair, tangled, falling over the pillows. Her soft breathing, lost in some unknown dream. The silk sheet, half draped over her nakedness. One perfect breast, exposed, and the shimmer in the moonlight of sweet summer sweat.
Her beauty was undeniable. His need was without question. His manhood stiffening in the eroticism of the moment, he let forth his tongue, and drew it from the bottom most part of her lower back and languidly worked his way her shoulders. Her soft sigh left no doubt as to his prowess in the ministrations that Charles knew all too well. Her salty taste on his lips was too much to bear. The kiss was savage. Biting lips and burning lust! Turning, and giving in to her own desires, Charles seized her and devoured her as he had with no other woman.
Lying in that four poster bed, the spires reaching out; like a fortress of secret dreams, Charles and Madelien fell; spent; to dream dreams that only lovers may. And all the scents of Cypress and Magnolia and Spanish moss, but most of all, the earth; the deep rich earth of Louisiana, and the chorus of the bullfrogs, as deep sleep fell.
Smiling, she gathered up the change and dropped it in her bag. “It’s a lovely night. I am sorry to have disturbed you. Go back to your book.”
Her smile and the twinkle in her eye left no doubt that there was nothing malicious in her statement, and so, with the closing of the front door, she returned to her novel.
The air was thick with scents. Magnolia, Cypress, Spanish Moss, but none as intoxicating as the deep rich earth that permeated all. It carried on the night winds, soft and sultry. The chorus of bullfrogs echoed through the Louisiana night. These were heady smells.
Charles stared down at the gardens, dark shadows now blanketing the riotous colours that would come with sunrise. As he rose, the moonlight seemed to fill the room with an exquisite glow. Sumptuous, and erotic. Bathed in this golden hue, his body tensed at the sight that lay before him. Muscles taught, his blond hair, wild and untamed, dampened by the perspiration of unbridled wanton desire. His eyes turned to her. To Madelien. Her raven hair, tangled, falling over the pillows. Her soft breathing, lost in some unknown dream. The silk sheet, half draped over her nakedness. One perfect breast, exposed, and the shimmer in the moonlight of sweet summer sweat.
Her beauty was undeniable. His need was without question. His manhood stiffening in the eroticism of the moment, he let forth his tongue, and drew it from the bottom most part of her lower back and languidly worked his way her shoulders. Her soft sigh left no doubt as to his prowess in the ministrations that Charles knew all too well. Her salty taste on his lips was too much to bear. The kiss was savage. Biting lips and burning lust! Turning, and giving in to her own desires, Charles seized her and devoured her as he had with no other woman.
Lying in that four poster bed, the spires reaching out; like a fortress of secret dreams, Charles and Madelien fell; spent; to dream dreams that only lovers may. And all the scents of Cypress and Magnolia and Spanish moss, but most of all, the earth; the deep rich earth of Louisiana, and the chorus of the bullfrogs, as deep sleep fell.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Into The Oblivion
Two stories for The Inferno's challenge.......
I am late
I am late. The steady drone of the traffic and drunks that pass below on Madison Avenue annoy me. The heat is oppressive. I sit here illuminated in the blue light of a blank screen on my laptop hoping against all hope to come up with the words that will save me from an editors wrath. My surroundings are dismal to say the least. Three days without air conditioning have taken their toll. My brilliance at constructing the most devastating foray into the human frailties are failing me.
As I sit back and watch the sweat flow and puddle into my navel, I remember Mr. Schmidt; a mediocre high school English teacher who told me that I would amount to nothing. How prophetic! How very sublime those words now seemed as they resonated in my addled brain, grown heavy with the demons of a vicious world. He would smile right now, seeing me like this. That garish all knowing smile. I detested him; his attempt at art; his disdain for all but classical. He was as unchanging as mans contempt for change. I loathed him. His only saving grace being that he had lived longer to read more than I! But that would change.
The brandy is playing tricks on me. As I watch the golden hue and see the fumes waft the droplets in my snifter upwards, I smile. The words will come. I know this. I look at the syringe. Sinister. Beckoning. I have always been afraid of needles. A family doctors compulsion of a shot of penicillin as the cure all put me in this state. And yet, tonight, the moonlight shined on the tip, a diamond, sparkling, luring, sensual and seductive. I knew my reprieve would be in its driving home.
I detest writing. The world feeds on me and those of my kind. They take from us what they will, and so callously spit on that which they believe below them. As tho they have rank! And this we do for a pittance. Some bauble of recognition. Acceptance. Yes, acceptance!
Reason falls away as the wail of the street rises to crescendos of depravity not known since Lucifer smiled at the sublime death of the chosen one. In the repressive heat, I gather up that great sword; and plunge it deep into my vein. I swoon, and feel the rush of the drugs overtake my human senses, and plunge me deep, deep, deeper still, into the chasm, into the still night, into oblivion.
Into Oblivion...
The rank stench of death smothers me. The gagging taste of opiates fill my mouth and assails my nostrils. Surrounded by loved ones; here on my deathbed; I am alone. They don’t know I am alive! I hear their every word!
Icy fingers clasp me from the sweat drenched cotton sheets that shroud my shriveled remains. How can I scream when I have not the strength to flutter one eye lid? Odd, I feel no pain. Is this what it’s supposed to feel like? No one prepared me for this. How will it end? Is this really the end?
I should not have cursed God all those years past when Sarah was ripped from my loving arms. No, God could not exist! Or could he? I see no angels through the mist; no angelic choirs beckoning me home to HIS throne. All I hear is the incessant clicking of the rosaries and the drone of biblical prayers in hushed tones, so as not to disturb me. Disturb me from what? The perfect death? The very thought repulses me. I will lie here; mouth agape; drained of bodily fluids.
The very thought of what awaits the person who shall gather up my corpse and prepare it for the ride to the place where my body will be defiled and injected with all manner chemical preservatives sickens me. I am a prisoner to my fate. It has been said that people simply lose their will to live, and in so doing, die. I lost my will a long time ago it seems, and still, here I am. Maybe I can will myself to die? Die! Die!
Spare me your rosaries and prayers! I want them all to leave. Leave me now. I have so many questions, and so few answers. Though unafraid, I fear the final moment. What is beyond that final moment? The bile rises in my throat; hot and acidic. It burns. The pain is searing! I hear my heartbeat drumming in my ears. Louder, louder, louder. I can feel the convulsions now take my body; unable to stop them; I am lost, afraid. I hear a rattle escape from my throat, and feel a waxiness cover my face. And I suddenly smell my own bodies’ demise; in one great gush of dispelled matter.
And then into the abyss I fall, into the great unknown, into oblivion.
I am late
I am late. The steady drone of the traffic and drunks that pass below on Madison Avenue annoy me. The heat is oppressive. I sit here illuminated in the blue light of a blank screen on my laptop hoping against all hope to come up with the words that will save me from an editors wrath. My surroundings are dismal to say the least. Three days without air conditioning have taken their toll. My brilliance at constructing the most devastating foray into the human frailties are failing me.
As I sit back and watch the sweat flow and puddle into my navel, I remember Mr. Schmidt; a mediocre high school English teacher who told me that I would amount to nothing. How prophetic! How very sublime those words now seemed as they resonated in my addled brain, grown heavy with the demons of a vicious world. He would smile right now, seeing me like this. That garish all knowing smile. I detested him; his attempt at art; his disdain for all but classical. He was as unchanging as mans contempt for change. I loathed him. His only saving grace being that he had lived longer to read more than I! But that would change.
The brandy is playing tricks on me. As I watch the golden hue and see the fumes waft the droplets in my snifter upwards, I smile. The words will come. I know this. I look at the syringe. Sinister. Beckoning. I have always been afraid of needles. A family doctors compulsion of a shot of penicillin as the cure all put me in this state. And yet, tonight, the moonlight shined on the tip, a diamond, sparkling, luring, sensual and seductive. I knew my reprieve would be in its driving home.
I detest writing. The world feeds on me and those of my kind. They take from us what they will, and so callously spit on that which they believe below them. As tho they have rank! And this we do for a pittance. Some bauble of recognition. Acceptance. Yes, acceptance!
Reason falls away as the wail of the street rises to crescendos of depravity not known since Lucifer smiled at the sublime death of the chosen one. In the repressive heat, I gather up that great sword; and plunge it deep into my vein. I swoon, and feel the rush of the drugs overtake my human senses, and plunge me deep, deep, deeper still, into the chasm, into the still night, into oblivion.
Into Oblivion...
The rank stench of death smothers me. The gagging taste of opiates fill my mouth and assails my nostrils. Surrounded by loved ones; here on my deathbed; I am alone. They don’t know I am alive! I hear their every word!
Icy fingers clasp me from the sweat drenched cotton sheets that shroud my shriveled remains. How can I scream when I have not the strength to flutter one eye lid? Odd, I feel no pain. Is this what it’s supposed to feel like? No one prepared me for this. How will it end? Is this really the end?
I should not have cursed God all those years past when Sarah was ripped from my loving arms. No, God could not exist! Or could he? I see no angels through the mist; no angelic choirs beckoning me home to HIS throne. All I hear is the incessant clicking of the rosaries and the drone of biblical prayers in hushed tones, so as not to disturb me. Disturb me from what? The perfect death? The very thought repulses me. I will lie here; mouth agape; drained of bodily fluids.
The very thought of what awaits the person who shall gather up my corpse and prepare it for the ride to the place where my body will be defiled and injected with all manner chemical preservatives sickens me. I am a prisoner to my fate. It has been said that people simply lose their will to live, and in so doing, die. I lost my will a long time ago it seems, and still, here I am. Maybe I can will myself to die? Die! Die!
Spare me your rosaries and prayers! I want them all to leave. Leave me now. I have so many questions, and so few answers. Though unafraid, I fear the final moment. What is beyond that final moment? The bile rises in my throat; hot and acidic. It burns. The pain is searing! I hear my heartbeat drumming in my ears. Louder, louder, louder. I can feel the convulsions now take my body; unable to stop them; I am lost, afraid. I hear a rattle escape from my throat, and feel a waxiness cover my face. And I suddenly smell my own bodies’ demise; in one great gush of dispelled matter.
And then into the abyss I fall, into the great unknown, into oblivion.
Monday, February 22, 2010
The Grey Time
The Grey Time
In the grey time, I come to you,
when the shadows of the night give way to the creeping gold
that is to be the day,
The city sleeps, and the mist rises over the mountains, dreams untold,
babies breath, the stir before the awakening.
Looking out onto this grey, stark landscape, I turn
and see the beauty that lies just within my grasp,
the smoke from my cigarette wafts, and I know I'm home,
in the arms of my love, the city will awake, the sun will shine,
and I, once again, will love and be loved.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Dishonour, Chapter 11
Special Agent Joshua “Perco” Perkins walked at a brisk pace towards his superiors’ office. He had no idea why the call was so urgent, but having been in the Secret Service these few years had taught him to never question; simply obey. As he arrived at the Directors office, the secretary rose and rapped sharply at the door, opened it, and waved Josh in.
Apart from the requisite portrait of The President, and a bevy of flags, the room was quite sparse. The Director, sitting behind his massive oak desk, looked older than when Josh had last seen him. His hair thinning and his paunch having increased in girth gave him a bloated look. He appeared for all concerned to be a man who had spent far too many nights pouring over documents, caught up in the bureaucratic nightmare of the present administration, all the while preparing for a new administration that would surely have effects on his department. It was all the talk amongst the younger agents these days. Who would be the next President and what would it mean to the men and women that would be delegated to protect him.
Without so much as a hello, and without raising his eyes from the folder before him, the Director asked Josh to take a seat.
“Special Agent Perkins. Are you aware of a person or persons calling themselves The Patriot?”
Josh looked at the Director now staring him squarely in the eyes awaiting his response. Cool blue eyes; piercing and dangerous.
“No sir, I have not.”
The Director returned his gaze to the open file before him.
“I’m not surprised. Until today, I hadn’t heard of him either. I see that you were an outstanding cadet at Rowley Training Center. What I am about to ask you could very well put that training to the test. We have a delicate situation on our hands here and we feel that you are the man for the job.”
Josh felt his throat squeezing and his stomach muscles tightening. Whatever was going down, it sounded dangerous. Still, this is what he was trained to do; without question.
The Director continued.
“We received a letter that was addressed to The Washington Post and signed The Patriot. This letter states that Senator Alex McCulloch is an enemy to the people of America and to quote, ’should be shot down in the street like the mongrel dog that he is.’ And that, to us Special Agent Perkins, represents a clear and present threat to possibly the next President of The United States Of America. We believe that this is an idle threat from the mind of some disillusioned nutcase. However, we take no threats against the lives of the people we serve mildly. I want this crazy son of a bitch brought in Agent Perkins! I want it done quietly and I want it done fast!
My secretary has a folder for you that contains all the information we have on this so far. The actual letter has gone off to the lab for analysis. You will get the results as soon as they come in. You have a free hand to use any means possible, and that includes personnel, to catch this idiot before he causes any more trouble. And one last thing. I understand that you have a friend, Special Agent Sam Banks, who works with the FBI?”
Josh cleared his throat and swallowed hard at spit that was not forthcoming.
“Yes sir. We were in the Academy together. We were roommates and have remained friends.”
“Good. The FBI is aware of this and we have spoken with Agent Banks’ superiors. Getting this Patriot fellow will be a joint effort and Special Agent Banks is being briefed as we speak. He will be your partner on this mission. But make no mistake Special Agent Perkins. You are to report to this office only! I am prepared to collaborate; but only so far! Are we clear on that?”
Josh looked at that clear blue stare once more and knew the full meaning of the Directors last words.
“Very much so sir, yes.”
“Good. Helen will give you the file on your way out. Good hunting and keep me posted. That’s all Agent Perkins. You are excused.”
Senator Davis Flatt stared at the the three men facing him; a murderous rage contorting his features.
“Have you all lost your god damned minds? Do you know the money, time and effort that I have put into this campaign? I should fire all your sorry asses and be done with it! How the hell can this countrys’ biggest Union decide to go over to that fucking McCulloch’s camp? How did this happen?”
“Senator Flatt, I was,,”
“Shut your god damned mouth or I’ll rip your tongue out! These things tend to have a domino effect. Once one goes over, the others gain confidence. Before you know it, that bastard McCulloch will get them all. That cannot and will not happen! I’ll put forward a motion for arbitration on every bloody contract that is outstanding! And, we will own the judges! It will not go well with them, I swear it!”
“Senator, may I say something?”
Senator Flatt rose and walked over to the window, staring blankly at the world, now passing him by.
“I honestly don’t know why I even try sometimes. Maybe the people of this great country aren’t worth saving. Say what you have to say, than get the hell out of my office!”
The three men looked at each other in disbelief. For the first time in their lives, Davis Flatt sounded utterly rejected and full of remorse and loathing self pity.
“Senator, I would be amiss in not advising you that your strategy of implying sanctions on the unions and business concerns of America is blowing up in our faces. They are not taking kindly to it. In fact, they see it as a sort of strong arm tactic to garnish their support. McCulloch is talking about downsizing the Military budget and putting that money into programs that support Americans buying products made in America. This all translates into bringing the boys home and creating new employment. A pie in the sky approach, I agree, but the people seem to love it. We have got to develop a new strategy, fast!”
Flatt looked out at the Washington sky, and for a moment imagined the blue skies of Texas. A calmness returned to him as he turned to face the three men awaiting his response.
“Get out of my office! Get out now!”
Flatt wandered over to his desk as the three men scampered out. As he sat down, his thoughts drifted off to Texas, and the wide plains where he grew up. He could almost smell the air; scented with desert rose and sagebrush and sand. Dry and warm. He almost smiled. Almost.
Staring at the phone, his thoughts returned to McCulloch. No, he would not be cheated out of his moment in history! Not McCulloch; not his incompetent staff; not the greedy unions and hungry corporate America; no one would cheat him! Not now, never!
As he reached out, the phone rang.
“Bill? I was just about to call you. What? Who? Who the hell is the Patriot? Oh shit! When? The FBI and the Secret Service? Bill, shut it down! Do it now! Shut it all down! We’ll resume when this wild ass is caught. You shut it down now Bill! You hear me? DO IT NOW!”
Davis slammed the phone down and made his way over to the bar, poured a large Wild Turkey and gulped it down in one swift swallow. He grimaced as the whiskey made its way down his throat and wandered back over to the large windows and stared out.
Texas and home were far away. He never felt so alone in his life. He imagined McCulloch in his office, wringing his hands in glee at having won over the biggest union in the country and that thought made Senator Davis Flatt an even more dangerous man. He would bide his time, for now. But McCulloch had to die!
Apart from the requisite portrait of The President, and a bevy of flags, the room was quite sparse. The Director, sitting behind his massive oak desk, looked older than when Josh had last seen him. His hair thinning and his paunch having increased in girth gave him a bloated look. He appeared for all concerned to be a man who had spent far too many nights pouring over documents, caught up in the bureaucratic nightmare of the present administration, all the while preparing for a new administration that would surely have effects on his department. It was all the talk amongst the younger agents these days. Who would be the next President and what would it mean to the men and women that would be delegated to protect him.
Without so much as a hello, and without raising his eyes from the folder before him, the Director asked Josh to take a seat.
“Special Agent Perkins. Are you aware of a person or persons calling themselves The Patriot?”
Josh looked at the Director now staring him squarely in the eyes awaiting his response. Cool blue eyes; piercing and dangerous.
“No sir, I have not.”
The Director returned his gaze to the open file before him.
“I’m not surprised. Until today, I hadn’t heard of him either. I see that you were an outstanding cadet at Rowley Training Center. What I am about to ask you could very well put that training to the test. We have a delicate situation on our hands here and we feel that you are the man for the job.”
Josh felt his throat squeezing and his stomach muscles tightening. Whatever was going down, it sounded dangerous. Still, this is what he was trained to do; without question.
The Director continued.
“We received a letter that was addressed to The Washington Post and signed The Patriot. This letter states that Senator Alex McCulloch is an enemy to the people of America and to quote, ’should be shot down in the street like the mongrel dog that he is.’ And that, to us Special Agent Perkins, represents a clear and present threat to possibly the next President of The United States Of America. We believe that this is an idle threat from the mind of some disillusioned nutcase. However, we take no threats against the lives of the people we serve mildly. I want this crazy son of a bitch brought in Agent Perkins! I want it done quietly and I want it done fast!
My secretary has a folder for you that contains all the information we have on this so far. The actual letter has gone off to the lab for analysis. You will get the results as soon as they come in. You have a free hand to use any means possible, and that includes personnel, to catch this idiot before he causes any more trouble. And one last thing. I understand that you have a friend, Special Agent Sam Banks, who works with the FBI?”
Josh cleared his throat and swallowed hard at spit that was not forthcoming.
“Yes sir. We were in the Academy together. We were roommates and have remained friends.”
“Good. The FBI is aware of this and we have spoken with Agent Banks’ superiors. Getting this Patriot fellow will be a joint effort and Special Agent Banks is being briefed as we speak. He will be your partner on this mission. But make no mistake Special Agent Perkins. You are to report to this office only! I am prepared to collaborate; but only so far! Are we clear on that?”
Josh looked at that clear blue stare once more and knew the full meaning of the Directors last words.
“Very much so sir, yes.”
“Good. Helen will give you the file on your way out. Good hunting and keep me posted. That’s all Agent Perkins. You are excused.”
Senator Davis Flatt stared at the the three men facing him; a murderous rage contorting his features.
“Have you all lost your god damned minds? Do you know the money, time and effort that I have put into this campaign? I should fire all your sorry asses and be done with it! How the hell can this countrys’ biggest Union decide to go over to that fucking McCulloch’s camp? How did this happen?”
“Senator Flatt, I was,,”
“Shut your god damned mouth or I’ll rip your tongue out! These things tend to have a domino effect. Once one goes over, the others gain confidence. Before you know it, that bastard McCulloch will get them all. That cannot and will not happen! I’ll put forward a motion for arbitration on every bloody contract that is outstanding! And, we will own the judges! It will not go well with them, I swear it!”
“Senator, may I say something?”
Senator Flatt rose and walked over to the window, staring blankly at the world, now passing him by.
“I honestly don’t know why I even try sometimes. Maybe the people of this great country aren’t worth saving. Say what you have to say, than get the hell out of my office!”
The three men looked at each other in disbelief. For the first time in their lives, Davis Flatt sounded utterly rejected and full of remorse and loathing self pity.
“Senator, I would be amiss in not advising you that your strategy of implying sanctions on the unions and business concerns of America is blowing up in our faces. They are not taking kindly to it. In fact, they see it as a sort of strong arm tactic to garnish their support. McCulloch is talking about downsizing the Military budget and putting that money into programs that support Americans buying products made in America. This all translates into bringing the boys home and creating new employment. A pie in the sky approach, I agree, but the people seem to love it. We have got to develop a new strategy, fast!”
Flatt looked out at the Washington sky, and for a moment imagined the blue skies of Texas. A calmness returned to him as he turned to face the three men awaiting his response.
“Get out of my office! Get out now!”
Flatt wandered over to his desk as the three men scampered out. As he sat down, his thoughts drifted off to Texas, and the wide plains where he grew up. He could almost smell the air; scented with desert rose and sagebrush and sand. Dry and warm. He almost smiled. Almost.
Staring at the phone, his thoughts returned to McCulloch. No, he would not be cheated out of his moment in history! Not McCulloch; not his incompetent staff; not the greedy unions and hungry corporate America; no one would cheat him! Not now, never!
As he reached out, the phone rang.
“Bill? I was just about to call you. What? Who? Who the hell is the Patriot? Oh shit! When? The FBI and the Secret Service? Bill, shut it down! Do it now! Shut it all down! We’ll resume when this wild ass is caught. You shut it down now Bill! You hear me? DO IT NOW!”
Davis slammed the phone down and made his way over to the bar, poured a large Wild Turkey and gulped it down in one swift swallow. He grimaced as the whiskey made its way down his throat and wandered back over to the large windows and stared out.
Texas and home were far away. He never felt so alone in his life. He imagined McCulloch in his office, wringing his hands in glee at having won over the biggest union in the country and that thought made Senator Davis Flatt an even more dangerous man. He would bide his time, for now. But McCulloch had to die!
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Shifting Shadows
A smothering sky, black as coal
Choked the landscape of red and gold
And in its’ wake, the evil unfolds
Dreamless night, dank and cold
A lonely rider, high on a bluff
Inches his mount along a trail rocky and rough,
Numb from the cold, rested barely enough
The reigns slip, from finger to cuff
Slumped in the saddle, he whispers a prayer
He raises his eyes, as though someone is there
But no one is listening, nobody cares
Slumping further, he clutches his mare
The winds whisper, succumb to your fate,
Your life has been filled with anger and hate
Beseech your God, his answer await,
Till then you are mine, your peril is great
He watches the stones tumble and fall
Sees the blackness that covers all
His soul beaten, slashed and mauled
And then he feels nothing; nothing at all
Like the freefall of the condemned, upon the gallows
The cold anticipation that chills to the marrow
A bone crushing death, below in the dark hollows
Another victim of shifting shadows...
Choked the landscape of red and gold
And in its’ wake, the evil unfolds
Dreamless night, dank and cold
A lonely rider, high on a bluff
Inches his mount along a trail rocky and rough,
Numb from the cold, rested barely enough
The reigns slip, from finger to cuff
Slumped in the saddle, he whispers a prayer
He raises his eyes, as though someone is there
But no one is listening, nobody cares
Slumping further, he clutches his mare
The winds whisper, succumb to your fate,
Your life has been filled with anger and hate
Beseech your God, his answer await,
Till then you are mine, your peril is great
He watches the stones tumble and fall
Sees the blackness that covers all
His soul beaten, slashed and mauled
And then he feels nothing; nothing at all
Like the freefall of the condemned, upon the gallows
The cold anticipation that chills to the marrow
A bone crushing death, below in the dark hollows
Another victim of shifting shadows...
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