27 November 2013

A Fat In Line

There’s only one allowed in at a time. She switches her enormous weight onto the other leg.  The man in front of her moves up half an inch, making room- not wanting to be close.  This can be passed off as polite but she knows the real reason.  The anger swells in her massive belly.  She grits her lips together, afraid of what spite may spew out if she opened it.  A young couple joins the queue.  She’s fat, they’re thinking.  And gross.  No one wants to stand too close.  Obesity is contagious.  The sweating begins.  This happens in crowds.  
The man in front stares silently, still, at the back of the head in front of him.  The couple is engrossed in their chatty dialogue.  But they are staring at her, inside they stare at her.  They’re thankful they don’t look like her.  The anger inside builds to rage.  Why do they all glare with their minds?  Why can’t they just accept her and let her be?  Why must she teach the world how to behave appropriately in social situations such as this?  The rage travels to her throat.  She wants to scream at all of them.  Close her eyes and let her tongue swing with fury. “Next.”  A voice from the room.  The crowd moves up a place.  She notices the inches in between her and the others in line.  More inches than should be. 

25 November 2013

The Drummer and the Sea






Ships slip into and out of the docks, mimicking the tide. The bump, bump, of Floatation buoys against the wooden pier keeps rhythm with the unhurried pace of life here.
Near the pier the kick of a drum is on tempo with the sounds of the sea.  It’s a lone drum, commanded expertly by a drummer who lost his sight years ago.  He’s comfortable with his blindness.  Sometimes, when people ask- usually small children full of innocent and annoying curiosity- he tells them the vibrations of his snare allow him to see.  They don’t but he likes to pretend- and it shuts up the children.  He can hear them staring after that.  But that’s less irritating than having their high-pitched voices destroy the leisurely symphony of the sea.  He will then beat out a prayer that they stop asking questions.  Thank god there are no children out today.
The buoys Bump against the wood pier-  his cue to slow the pace. The tide is ebbing.
There are only regulars at the dock who pay the Blind Drummer no mind.  This is how he likes it.   He can tell the regulars by their footsteps.  Each has a unique pace, a special plod that amplifies his composition.
A Chinese Man, new to this seaside town, sits at an easel near the Blind Drummer.  He unwraps a cloth and takes out calligraphers tools.  He begins creating art in his words. 
We are all players on stage, The Blind Drummer thinks as he allows the sounds to drive his opus- the Bumps, the footsteps and what’s that?  A Swoosh. Then a quick Swish.    The Calligrapher.  The sound’s ever so faint but yet fills the Drummer’s ears. He’s attracted instantly to the delicate sound.  Swoosh. Swish.  This beautiful tone is now the heart of his creation. His drumsticks follow in perfect rhythm as he falls into measure with this exotic sound.  He can’t place the sound.  It makes him angry that he can’t see.  More angry than he’s been for a long time.  What could it be?
The Calligrapher picks up the black Chinese letter he just drafted and allows the paper to waft out of his hands to the sea.
The Drummer stops. The Swish no longer fills the air around him. The song is over.

14 November 2013

12 November 2013

Digg! My Zimbio