Marnie and Roger, odd story segment

The pen flew in a perfect arch. When it hit the pool of blood, drops sprayed up and hit Marnie's cheek. She straightened from where she had been investigating the body and glared at Roger. She reached for the gun in the holster on her hip, but Roger held out his hands and said, “Sorry! It slipped.”

Marnie glowered as she looked back down at the mess on the floor. She absently wiped the blood from her face and said, “Well, this looked pretty clean until you tossed your pen in there. I assume you have your fingerprints on the pen?”

“What, do you think I’m stupid?” Roger said, holding up his hands to show surgical gloves. “Don’t answer that.”

*****

It could happen to anyone

(Feel free to add on in the comments section.)

A note from Wind

      I fill the spaces with air and water. Movement is everything. Today, I passed by your house. Did you hear me? I whispered to you. It’s all right if you missed me; I’m still there if you listen for me. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll shout.

      Do you notice the world’s texture? I feel it everywhere I go. The sharp edges you humans like to construct – I strike these and it makes me curl back on myself. I feel the smoothness of glass and painted siding, and the wonderful roughness of brick. I love trees the best – each one has a different feel. Some have bark so deep, I could explore there forever. The branches and leaves are so playful the way they try to catch me and hold on. Can you hear when they laugh? It’s hushed, not like your vocal laughs (which are wonderful in their own way – do you realize you make me with those outbursts?), so you must open your ears to hear. And the way they wave as I pass! Oh yes, I love the trees.

Fun with Wind

(Photo thanks to samlevan on stock.xchng)

      Ah, I wanted to thank you for hanging the chimes! I so like to sing through them. When I first found chimes, I really knew that you had an ear for wind-song. It was a happy day for me, to realize I was not alone and unnoticed.

       I’d like to sing with you someday. Will you step outside some summer afternoon and stand by that wonderful maple tree that shades your yard and just hum along with the leaves’ laughter? Oh, that would be grand!

Isn't music what life’s all about anyway?

Waves at Fort Worden

Waves. Where might the writing go with waves crashing along the shore, dredging up the sand and stones, tossing huge drift logs that seemed so stable and solid before the wave that came up high enough to rush around it and undermine its foundation, made of sand after all.

They keep coming

From the relative safety of shore, I see the water that at first glance seems to be a flat surface covered by waves is actually an undulating mass, rising and falling as if disturbed by immense submerged creatures. Out of these undulations arise the great shore waves that seem to appear from nowhere to surprise the unwary, the unmindful. These waves first suck water from the shoreline, pulling it back as if into a vacuum, adding its substance to the wave so that it rises up and begins curling into that cupped shape like a curled tongue, only to break apart and crash into white foamy water, effortlessly churning the sand and stones, breaking them down even more, before moving up the shore’s slope an unpredictable distance.

Then, in retreat, the water slides down the beach, curling around larger rocks or chunks of wood, caressing them with a deceptively gentle flow before being pulled into the next large wave. The cycle continues endlessly, or so it seems, and I imagine all the rocks being broken down into stones, stones being smoothed and worn down to sand until it would seem there must be nothing left but ocean.

On a calmer day, the beach is a safer place. The waves still come and play their little game of tag, fooling me into thinking I know their limits, but always they win, forcing me back at least once. Their game is gentle, chiding, reminding me that they could have me if they wanted me, but they are content to warn and let me explore the treasures that were unearthed during the time when the waves weren’t so friendly.

The stones along the south side of the point where the Fort Worden lighthouse stands are well worn, varying in size from tiny pebbles barely larger than sand to larger stones shoved further up the shore where they have to endure the erosive waves for a smaller part of the day. The stones near the tide line are marble size and still wet. Glistening with seawater, their colors glow with such rich intensity that I want to take them all with me when I go to savor their palette, but I know from experience that they look different once they dry, their color retreating into a faded memory, and it seems wrong to take them away from where they express themselves most fully.

Yes, these are rocks. And sand.

Still, I sift through stones and squat in spots to see what jumps out at me. There’s a lesson in seeing here. The first glance reveals only the most distinctive rocks, those that leap out for whatever reason, but as I continue to look, more and more reveals itself. I know it was all there all along, but it takes time to see it and I wonder how much I miss as I rush through the world, not taking that time. Tiny stones with colors I’ve never seen, or etched with lines as if painted by a master artist and left there, a free masterpiece to be enjoyed by the attentive. Bits of beach glass of azure, brown, green or white with a hint of lavender are easily missed amongst the display of the stones. It occurs to me that the beach glass is a bizarre twist on coming full circle. Stone to sand. Sand to glass and then, litter to be etched by the waves and sand into bits of color shaped like the stones from which they came.

Morning Coffee

Burns knew he could be wrong. He swished a mouthful of the warm liquid and could almost get it. It was not vanilla, that he was sure of. Was it almond, then? Or caramel? The coffee and steamed milk complicated the matter, but it was his allergies that really threw his taste buds for a loop.

He thought of standing up and returning the latte for what he had originally ordered, but the longer he sat trying to guess the flavor of what he had, the more he realized how nice it tasted. It was a change from his routine.

Every morning he stopped at the same place on the way to work. The muted forest greens, rust walls and carpeting relaxed him. It felt safe, a haven, no matter how temporary. The fact that it was such a familiar place, so known and comfortable, added to the feeling that he was protected. As soon as he walked through the doors, the familiar surrounded him as the pleasant smells of coffee wafted by his nostrils. All the sounds that fit the place filled his ears — the gurgle-hiss of milk being steamed, the pounding, rapid taps as the baristas dumped used coffee grounds from the little holder so they could refill it anew, an endless cycle as more people streamed in.

Then there were the voices, some loud, some soft, all blending into a sort of background noise, just on the edge of resolving into meaning, but always just out of reach. He liked it that way — indistinct noise without the demand of having to listen, decipher and possibly respond. The people around him were held at a distance by the conventions of social agreement. The magic of the haven did not fail him.

So he sat on the hard white maple chair, cozy and normal beneath him, the delicate grain on the table in front of him was a circular map, the lines rivers and contours of a world that existed only in his imagination. The only new thing, the only thing that did not fit was the new flavor, the mistake. But, it was okay. He felt proud to be handling it so well, to be so calm. Yes, he felt he could just sit there and finish the drink quietly before having to go back out in the world.

But, how would he know what flavor to order if he wanted to try this new one again? He would have to go to the counter and ask. A bead of sweat formed along the edge of his receding hairline and he felt his face flush. No, he would just have to either guess the flavor or forever give up the choice, ordering his usual and maybe hoping that another mistake might come his way and shake up his routine.

He decided to try again to discern the flavor. He had sipped amaretto before and seemed to remember that amaretto was almond based. Yet, what he was drinking was different, so he concluded that it must be caramel. He let that idea roll around in his mind, playing with it with an imaginary tongue and he decided he liked the flavor of it. Satisfied, he sank lower into his chair and relaxed, staring at the lines in the wooden table.