Monthly Archives: June 2013

Do Your Dance

Candice’s relationship with dancing was much like the relationship some have with alcohol. She loves it.

Embracing the sounds, she lets the beat consume her and then, when full, when closes her eyes and lets the music sweep her away. She moves and turns as the music swirls. She bends and swoops and hops and turns, not so much inline with the words, for lyrics are subjective, but more to the root rhythms that reveal the soul of the piece.

Fast or slow makes no difference, for to music she was eternally indentured. At least for as long as the music continues or until someone like Agnes comes along. And in Candice’s world of dance there always seemed to be an Agnes. Someone bold enough to approach her in the middle of her deluge of self expression to say, “You look like you’re in agony dear. The restrooms are over there.”

The Lost

Angel was the only one who still spoke the old language. And ‘spoke’ was a very loose interpretation.

For the longest time, she thought is was just something she made up in her head. The Lonngdaax tongue was not so much a language as it was an odd collection of vocal ticks and whistles strung together with low grunts and a humming noise that came from the very back of one’s throat.

Still, here at the trial, the particular point of law was complex enough that the leaders felt the need to have the laws read from the scrolls. To read and interpret the law correctly was everything. Even the smallest errant click could change the verdict and Tildie could die.


Bertrum had no idea what he could have done to draw the ire of the rain, or whom, or whatever was responsible for making the rain, but it was clear that he did something.

When he got into his car everything was dry. Cloudy, sure, but dry.

It was dry for the 15 miles he drove to the Valley Bridge Medical Center.

It was dry the entire time he searched for a spot to park amidst the sea of cars that carried the afflicted to this place.

It was only when his foot hit the hot pavement did the first drop fall. The one turned to many quickly and as he bent to sprint toward the building, the deluge came, blinding and heavy. The roar of the water hitting the cars surrounding him was much like the applause of an audience well entertained by his predicament. The faster he tried to go, the harder the rain came. Finally, he pushed through the door, breathing heavy and soaking wet.

Inside everyone looked at him, a brief distraction from their current woes. Standing there posed like a wet cat in shock.

Bertrum silently tried to gain some common understanding, if not sympathy, by turning his head and pointed a thumb toward the onslaught that befell him. A double take jarred his head when he realized the rain had stopped. The sun was beaming and already the walkways and tarmac were starting to dry.


Julius loved the laundromat. It was the optimum location for practicing his particular set of skills. Because everyone there, at least at this location, seemed slightly off center anyhow he wouldn’t appear out of place once he got busy.

Clairvoyance can be a gift or a curse for those who both recognize and accept their affliction. It’s all in what you do with it.

Julius found it particularly productive to ‘trance’ in front of one of the machines as the laundry spun and churned before him. The machine worked to free the dirt and the guilt of the days from the items which shared everything from the most inane to the most intimate moments of the owner’s daily lives.

The owners find a calm in the sense of cleansing away the residue of the days gone by.

If they only knew.

As the essence of those shadows are released, Julius was there to claim them. To read them. To embrace them. To categorize them and then determine who may need his particular brand of help.


How many times had he told himself, nay, vehemently warned himself not to go ‘there?’ Millions? Billions? And yet, he goes…there.

Almost always.


Despite some of his very best arguments, there he goes.

Each time it defies his own logic, very frequently leaving him dumbstruck at the moment of departure. For while the immediate payoff of ‘going there’ was often a meaty, if not mildy guilt laden gratification, he often discounted the memories of others and their ability to rehash his frequent trips to ‘there’ at times when it is less than convenient.

It’s not their fault. He goes ‘there’ a lot. It’s as if, at the critical moment when he has firmly decided NOT to go there, a tiny Leroy Jenkins pops into his head and slops the agenda. He is then left to clean up the mess, with the words of tiny Alice echoing in his head, “But that’s just the trouble with me. I give myself very good advice, but I very seldom follow it.”


He’d have a drink.

That seemed sensible.

That’s what men in the movies did after a particularly trying experience, and this was that for him…trying.

Finding a drink however, was not as easy as deciding to have one. A good rummage through the cupboards rendered a pathetic array of alcohol containing items – vanilla extract, soy sauce, and a crusty/rubbery tipped, practically empty bottle of cooking sherry long forgotten and pushed back into the corner where rarely used spices are condemned to expire.┬áNot that any alcohol he found would mix well with the half a cup of lemonade, or the quarter-full jug of ‘this smells like it’s gone bad buttermilk the refrigerator offered.

Not even something as simple as having a drink was going to work out. He shook his head and opted for water from the tap, but poured the first glass he drew down the drain, deciding instead for hot water from the tap. At least that had a little bit of danger about it.


Rixx held down the paper cup with pride and pleasure, directing his hatred and disgust for all houseflies at the single example of this winged vermin that buzzed and tapped it’s way around the inside.

Had it been capable, the fly might have been flattered that Rixx considered him such a worthy foe, at least up until the time of the capture.

During the chase, Rixx had commented – while swiping at the insect with the kitchen towel or the handful of mail – that he had been tricky, and clever, and a bastard. And while Rixx was convinced the fly was in the apartment to taunt him, to…torture him, the fly’s motivations and ‘feelings’ on the matter…if there were any…were more base.

Rixx aimed to kill that fly for all the horrible things it was and he nearly broke his mother’s antique Rosemont lamp to do it. All the fly thought of was food.