Tuesday Evening Sushi/Sake Love

I was not about to post a Sunday Morning Coffee Love, on account of the fact that my post was going to have a football flavor to it and I didn’t want to upset the delicate balance of the sporting fates by genuflecting on the maybe’s and what if’s before they went headlines. Especially seeing as how I got peeps on both sides of this battlefield.

Even though, I knew.

I knew the Patriots were going to end up in Minnesota because, well . . they’re the fucking Patriots and what would you expect. When the Jags were up by 10, my son texted me with “Are you watching this?” . . to which I replied simply “Wait,”. Because I’ve seen this movie before, and because as good as the Jags D was and as surprisingly effective as Blake Bortles was, they still play four quarters in the NFL. And you’re going to have to pry the championship from Tom Brady’s cold, dead hand. Because he only needs the one hand to get it done.

And later on, when the Vikings jumped out to a 7-0 lead in Philly, my Eagles pal texted me in horror with this one. “FUCK! We’re gonna blow it!!”. Eagles fans live and breathe worst case scenarios, so his rant was predictable enough. And so I replied in the same vein as I had hours earlier with my son. “Wait,”. Because as great a story as the Vikes were this season, I didn’t see another miracle happening. They were the perfect match up for Philly, and truth be told, I think Doug Pederson was kinda relieved they didn’t get New Orleans instead.

So we get us a Super Bowl rematch, thirteen years in the making. And if I had to bet money, I’m going with the Patriots. But if I had to bet based purely on heart and soul, it’s Philadelphia. And what makes this particular game so appealing to me is that I have two sides to cheer on. Not to mention, the history lover in me understands what a New England victory means. But an Eagles win? It would be sheer pandemonium, from Kensington to Upper Darby and all points in between. And outside of Pittsburgh, the celebration would run state wide . . until next football season.

No team might ever equal what the Patriots have already accomplished, not in my lifetime anyways. And I highly doubt there is a QB/Coach tandem out there that will dominate the next decade and a half the way Belichick and Brady have. The Patriots are the center of the sports universe.

The Eagles are South Philly and Rocky Balboa. They’re slumming it with football royalty and they don’t much care about the inhospitable reputation their fan base has gained over the last half century. A reputation they sure as hell deserve. But I’ll say this, seeing as how I have first hand knowledge of the situation. With Eagles fans, what you see is what you get. They wanted Andy Reid out because they insisted he wasn’t the guy to get them over the top. And while everyone- myself included- called them reactionary dunderheads, they happened to be right on. Because Andy Reid ain’t in Minnesota this week. Are they always right? Hells no! They criticized the Pederson hire two years ago, after all. But hey, that’s another thing I love. They may be wrong, but they are always certain.

Patriots fans are the new Yankees fans. They believe it’s their birthright to be rooting on their team in the biggest games. They’re more obnoxious than a Trump tweet, more entitled than Justin Bieber and more smug than Chris Matthews. And somehow they’re the more likable of two fandoms heading into the Twin Cities. Because as far as Eagles fans go, Minnesota will get to see what real Vikings look like, first hand, when these peeps hit town. Hide the women and children, grease the light poles (It doesn’t work!) and hurricane proof your businesses. The Midwest wouldn’t behave this way in the event of an apocalyptic event, so there’s that.

Basically, there’s no lesser to the two evils as far as these fans go. But that’s why Imma love it so. Because I get them. I relate to Patriots fans because I know what it feels like when people call my Yankees “The Evil Empire”. It’s fantastic! Because let’s face it, ain’t nobody hate the Oakland A’s. And Eagles fans? I get what it feels like to root on a football team that always teases you with promise in the fall before vomiting all over your hopes and dreams come winter.

And so I have two songs for two cities, in keeping with fans I know and love and the teams whose histories couldn’t be more different. Because maybe the Patriots are going to give us more of the same. Because maybe the Eagles are going to show the champs that the Northeast cauldron has their number, again. Because maybe I’m the only NFL fan wishing both teams could win.

Because why not?

For the Champs! . . . 

 

And for those miscreants down the turnpike . . . 

Trading in Nine Lives for Irish Silver

It occurred to me that this St. Patrick’s Day will be the ninth installment of The Irish Post. Which seems more impossible than Kelly Ripa’s love life. And as remarkable a thing as it is, and will be, I ain’t gonna lie. I’m already looking forward to next year.

Irish Post X. 

That is carazy with a capital Kong. It’s a hot Prada enchilada served up on a regatta in Nevada. To the ‘fo of ‘sho. To the legit of no quit. To the verve of swerve and to all of the many and mighty tilted verbs that sobered up inside the written word of a Holy Day’s debauched solemnity.

From the get, The Irish Post has been a crime of passion, and guilt its best defense. The annual Drinks post has never been content with the opaque formalities of absolution, where sins are treated as commodities which can be traded for free passes to the next not so great idea. Instead it regales in the fallen angel who doesn’t give a great good shit to apologize for the sins of every day and everywhere, and everyone.

The installments of this particular series have run wild with comedy and deep with tragedy, as if the flag of Ireland was whispering its tab to the man settling its check. It has tipped the velvet, slow danced with the mysteries and kitsched up the woebegone of days well spent and nights deigned less so.

And what a glorious thing this will always be, to paint pictures of the heavens from the warm embrace of the fiery pits. To dream in colors possessed by sounds. To walk through the wildest fantasies of Joyce and Wilde and all those brilliant madmen whose pens sang acapella with the cosmos. Imagine all that, dressed up in roman numerals.

I’m guessing this year’s Irish Post will just have to make due.

Be sorry less, be certain always . . . or something like that

I was trying to figure out the best way to reveal the new WordPress crib I got going and then it hit me . . do a re-blog. But it’s pretty fucking pretentious to do a re-blog of your own shit, so I decided I would simply provide a link at the bottom of this post. Not exactly the most exhaustive way to go, but simple. And I am all about simple.

A quick spill on the new place? Sure why not.

Drinks Well with Others was akin to Michael Corleone’s promise to Kay about taking the family into legit business. His “gimme a year or two” turned into several times more than that. And so it was with Drinks, and its getaway driver Cayman Thorn. It lasted much longer than I planned on, and that’s entirely because the company I kept was so damned good.

It was a beautiful, unassuming stretch to be certain. But the plain simple fact is that this blog’s creation was borne of a runaway note. For years, my legs were a scoundrel of  muscle memory borne of the sprint from a wicked little tree. But now, my spirit has stopped giving a shit to hide. I needed some place, somewhere different. I needed to break free of the acrimonious pseudonym and just be me. I needed to be fair to yours truly, and I had to see if it was something that had legs to it. Which explains the lag time of this introduction.

A BIG thank you to all of ‘yall who sent me lovely emails wondering what had become of me. And as promised, here is the new place. You are under no legal obligation to check it out. If you dig Drinks and want to stick with Cayman, I totally understand. I’ll be dishing up my love on Sunday mornings. If you decide you want to take the red pill, it’s just gonna be different.

In the immortal words of Alan Shepard, let’s see where this fucker can take us!

 

 

A Christmas Eve Wish

Christmas Eve on WordPress is like Friday night in a newsroom. Ain’t nobody paying attention to what comes down, because there’s life to attend to. It’s the perfect time to drop this post in, really. Everyone is busy doing their Christmas Eve things, to be followed by Christmas Day things.

This post will just be.

It’s kind of the way Drinks has comported itself over all these many years. It has enjoyed many incarnations in its existence. Each chapter was unique, significant and full of a soulful earnestness that can only happen if you’ve got the attitude for the latitude. If nothing else, this place is all about the importance of being earnest. Over the last seven years, Cayman Thorn was able to choreograph a mostly symphonic facsimile of the voices in his head. It wasn’t always pretty, but it was always him . . . me. Both. He went all hard pipe hitting on the every day annoyances with the savage pith of a sailor on permanent leave. He deconstructed the daily grind whilst laying waste to the minutiae like a Minotaur on meth (say that one time fast). He micro waved the personal into a macro salad of big picture recipes whose meta was a dish best served bold.

I come here not to bury Cayman, nor to praise him (since, yanno . . . I’m him?). I come here to tell you, my beloved blogging friends, that he’ll be “retiring”. As you can see, I have utilized a dub hugging quotation device in order to qualify this retirement gig for Cayman Thorn. He ain’t going away. He’s just gonna work less so’s he can golf more. While I continue to work for the man, of course.

Scaling back on Cayman’s shenanigans means that I’ll be posting on Drinks once a week. The Sunday Morning Coffee Love post has always been a favorite of mine, and now it will become a summary of the week that was, with a musical spill attached. I figure the music videos will help my cranky rants go down just a ‘lil bit easier, so there’s that.

Oh but wait, there’s umm, more! I have a new blog. The new place is in its embryonic stages, but it is finding its legs and it is going to be a lot of fun to grow. I figure the new year is a perfect time to throw a reveal out there for anyone who might be interested in reading. No obligations or expectations, of course. If you’re down, coo. If not, that’s coo too.

But that’s for next week, and next year. For tonight, this night . . for Christmas Eve and for Christmas Day and for Christmas Week, Imma just say thank you for being the reason this place had legs. You made this place worth coming to. You made this place funny and passionate and interesting. You made this place worth it. You, every single you, are the Others that made the drinks friendly. You made this blog a home.

I wish you all a very Merry Christmas

 

Finding Zen from the voices in my head

I learned something about myself as far as storytelling is concerned. I’m really not the natural I thought I might be at this. Being an outgoing person is one thing. Getting up on stage in front of a crowd of complete strangers and producing a coherent story with a beginning, middle and end? It’s a completely ‘nother thing.

My experiences to this point are very much in keeping with my novice rank. I’ve forgotten my place in a story. I’ve left out really good lines. I’ve rambled at times. I cut a story short simply because my nerves got the best of me. Hell, I’m hesitant to take the mic out of its stand for fear I’ll drop it. The feedback I have received has been nothing short of amazing, and I love it when someone comes up to me and hits me with a line I used, it’s great stuff. Still, I grade myself much more critically than these peeps, probably because I know my reach better than they do.

The transition from writing something down to talking something out has necessarily taken on a greater degree of emphasis for me, and in the process has given me a window into my writing. It’s an interesting, and wholly unique, vantage point.

Who knew? I discovered what makes me tick as a writer by involving myself in a creative outlet where I don’t write down a blessed thing. I haven’t written down a blessed thing in what has to be a month’s time now, and yet I’ve been writing every single day. As a person who doesn’t abide by convention, this turns me on.

Storytelling requires a great deal of practice. It also means that I spend a ton of time explaining to people why it is that I’m talking to myself more often than usual.

The idiom that “practice makes perfect” can easily be misunderstood as being emblematic of a pristine finished product when really, there’s no such thing. Practice is growth, and well, growth is scraped knees. It ascribes to the tenets of Zen: The action is your landscape, the steps taken your true goal. Basically, if you’re looking for the way? You’re there.

I had kinda taken it for granted that my ability to write was borne out of some mystical design to which I had no control. And while I do believe there is validity to the “God given” ability to plant words that grow into stories, this mindset left me wanting. A gift is a living, breathing thing. Which means to say, it requires maintenance. And so it was that I learned this rather obvious fact whilst talking out stories.

Storytelling is the ability to borrow the listener’s mind and furnish it with plush scenarios that sate their hunger. You don’t have to be crystalline in your descriptions, but you do have to be bold and decisive. It’s all right there, in that moment. Whereas writing requires an ambitious decree whose evidence takes on a patina-like quality, story telling is akin to prospecting for quicksilver.

My favorite storytellers live and die in the telling of their tale. The connection is so visceral because the potion they’re serving up is a fiery passion whose immediacy hits you upside the head and takes you to wherever it is they’re going. My favorite writers possess an innate ability to connect divinity to that which is tangible. They weave the temporal into a devoutly stitched piece of work whose union is majestic.

I love both sides of this equation.

I’m not there, on either count; not even close. I’m still stepping and plying and learning my way along. Brokering a peace with the ebbs of my writing chops and forging an alliance with the flow of my story telling. I’m in love with how perfectly imperfect the whole process truly is. Honestly, it makes me feel like a kid on the first day of school.

I can deal with that.

A Million Miles From Camelot

I figured out what it was. This inability to build a lucid narrative on Trump; an affliction I’ve been toting around since November of last year when reality TV met up with the real thing. It’s because to talk about the man would simply lead me down a rabbit hole whose confined space would force me to rant instead of reason. I would equivocate rather than elucidate. In other words, I would be screaming textually rather than arguing sensibly.

And then this past weekend happened. I was busy as all get out, but who can run away from that kind of news? I mean, really. There’s no place to run and hide when something like Charlottesville happens.  And when it happens inside of an already turbulent time, it kind of feels like Mephistopheles scored the deed to our backyard.

Horrible events such as this leave you with a dull ache- full of hopelessness and dread, for what might come next. Because the worst days always seem to have a sequel just waiting to be unleashed, especially nowadays. To be a true believer in this day and age is akin to being accused of witchcraft in Salem back in the day. You’re a freakish misfit to the villagers. And I guess that’s where I came to understand why it is that I have been silent for so long on Trump.

Out of disbelief? Partly. Out of dread for what comes next? Mostly. Out of fear that I wouldn’t be able to stitch the right nouns to the proper verbs and make it cohesive enough sounding without coming off as a fraternal member of the Young Turks? Definitely.

Until now. Until Charlottesville. And I really hate the fucking timing of this post, because it means that Saturday happened. It’s like a meteor crashed down on my clueless skull and opened me up to the truth of the matter, and how to express it.

I don’t believe in blaming others unless they are directly responsible, which is another reason why I couldn’t bring myself to write on Trump for the last ten months. Because I most certainly wasn’t blaming him for all those votes he got. And I wasn’t even blaming all the people who thought he was the best idea this country had left, even if they were woefully wrong on that point.

No, I blamed the people such as myself. The ones who voted for Hilary and thought that was all it was going to take, and all the others who didn’t think she needed their vote to win by a slam dunk. I was one of those people who made fun of a Trump presidency, over and over and over again. Until November happened, and all the humor of such a thing became an Orwellian story line come to life.

And now, none of it is funny or irreverent. Now, it’s just a series of piss poor comedic skits with no punch lines. Now it’s just a sad and lonely and interminably long truth.

I wish I had some pretty words to dole out, on how we all have to come together and how peace and unity is the only way. But right now, it feels as if that “I Have A Dream” speech by Martin Luther King happened inside another world. Right now, it feels as if there is more of Charlotteville where Saturday came from. Because we have a President who never met a middle ground he didn’t blow to smithereens. And now, he has the guns to do just that, in more ways than the horrible one.

I can’t blame Trump for what James Alex Fields did in Charlottesville. Because to do so would be to buy in to the trade off of accountability that has allowed us to arrive at this mess in time. Fields made the decision to kill and injure when he plowed his car into a group of people. Just as those Nazi’s of another mother country and the white nationalists with their Tiki torches made the decision to be moral degenerates long before Trump came into office.

My problem with Trump has nothing to do with the actions of these disenfranchised losers. I don’t blame Trump for their seething hatred and bitter ignorance. Trump didn’t make these people who they are.

My problem with Trump is that he accepted it.

Slugfests, Southpaws and a Summer Wind

The historian Bruce Catton once referred to baseball as the greatest conversation piece America ever invented. While it was a critique of the game’s leisurely pace, he unwittingly pointed out one of its best qualities. Because the game is meant to be talked over, in stops and starts for its better and worse.

I recently took in an Atlantic League baseball game with my pal Gus. It was the hometown Lancaster Barnstormers against the Sugar Land Skeeters. The league is independent, which means none of its teams is affiliated with a big league squad. As far as household names go, the ‘Stormers have Lastings Milledge, an outfielder who played parts of seven seasons with the Mets, Nationals, Pirates and White Sox before opting for free agency after the 2011 season. He hasn’t seen a big league clubhouse since that day, which makes him the baseball equivalent of Tom Hanks in Castaway; holding onto a slim and distant hope. And aside from owning one of my favorite baseball names, he owns a dream that won’t let him quit the diamond just yet.

The dreams these men carry aren’t big ones. Most of them would be ecstatic to score a thirty day contract with some minor league club. Because a thirty day contract somewhere else, is somewhere closer than the last exit outposts they’re toiling away in.

I told Gus that I had a good feeling about things, because our starting pitcher was a lefty. In my humble baseball opinion, left-handed pitchers are a magical thing. Never mind that I didn’t know his name and had no blessed clue whether he could pitch worth a damn. By the time the top of the first inning had concluded, I had received my answer to the tune of a 5-o lead by the visitors.

We made our way to the concession stands and dug into some barbecue while the home team began chipping away at the lead. The game settled for a bit and we watched as our lefty pitcher battled despite the fact his curve ball wasn’t curving and his fast ball was playing around with other men. And then the Skeeters were jumping him again and so me and Gus, we changed the subject for a while.

When it comes to the company you want to keep at a baseball game, you’re not going to get much better than Gus. His conversation chases the ebb whilst paying all due respect to the flow. Sitting in the stands on a summer evening is like listening to a thousand radio songs- filled with white knuckle debate and the laughter of reminisce.

Gus is from Lafayette, Louisiana- born and raised. His vowels are clipped and his drawl goes long when he’s slow dancing with a story. I asked him about Vietnam and he talked about his brother Roger who served in the Army, Special Forces. He made it back, but a part of him never returned; like a jigsaw puzzle with a few really important pieces missing. There was Anthony, his other big brother who served in the Marines before being sent home after stepping on a land mine. While the rehab on his mangled leg was tedious and painful, Anthony was one of the lucky ones.

My pal tells stories in thickly painted vignettes whose mystic is dressed in the scenes of a long ago time. In this instance, he had delivered up suede and bell-bottoms, long hair and peace signs with a fresh vinyl feeling to that Buffalo Springfield war song.

And so a baseball evening’s worth of conversation began in Vietnam as the home team tried digging out of a 5-0 deficit. The talk moved into family as they tied it at 7 and it nestled into thoughts on religion as the teams made the scoreboard operator earn his paycheck on this night.

It was at the end of the sixth inning when Gus took his leave. He had a lovely bride of forty eight years to get home to and so I walked with him to the outfield exit before I asked him for one more baseball night before the leaves turned.

I walked down to the benches behind the outfield wall and took a seat for one more inning. Baseball might lend itself to conversation, but there is plenty of come on to be had in the silence as well. The Skeeters were clinging to a 11-9 lead in the bottom of the seventh when Beau Amaral delivered up the kind of magic our starting pitcher wasn’t able to find. He smacked a 2-2 pitch into a gaping stretch of real estate in left field that Steve Bartman would’ve appreciated. He rounded second before the left fielder could turn to pivot and he was racing home as the throw hit the third baseman’s glove on the relay, and he was sliding across home plate with an inside the park home run as the ball went sailing over the catcher’s head.

Beau Amaral has a great baseball name, and he has something many of his teammates have run out of. Time. Twenty six and fresh off a stint with the Reds Triple A club, he’s tearing up the ball to the tune of a .359 batting average with the ‘Stormers. He’s killing it for another shot at the big time, in the hopes he can catch a scout’s eye and start that most time honored of baseball things.

A conversation.

I’m a Neat Freak!: Real Neat Blog Award

Didi Oviatt recently nominated me for The Real Neat Blog Award, and I am honored to accept. Because it means I’m real and I’m neat, which are two very fine qualities to be in possession of.

As for Didi Oviatt, she’s a blogger with plenty of boom. She writes, she reviews and she presses the virtual flesh with bloggers from all around the world and back again. She does all this with a charismatic flair that has her readers begging for more. To which she always provides.

Thank you so very kindly, Ms. Oviatt, for the award; for taking the time. Both.

Now, as per the rules of my award . . I got a few questions to answer:

1. If your voice could sound like any artist, who would you want it to sound like?- This was a really difficult one, but I would have to say Mariah Carey. Reason being, I love singing her tunes in the car but I know I ain’t doing her justice. I want justice for Mariah.

2. What is your favorite recipe?- This is another really difficult one but if I HAVE to choose I am going to go with a lamb roast. For one thing, it allows me to play with some of my favorite ingredients such as garlic, thyme, rosemary and dijon. And for another, it’s a simple dish that feels elegant and I like that. I refer to it as provincial simplicity.

3. Do you have a favorite genre to read?- No. I don’t. Historical fiction . . . Maybe. But no, I really don’t. An example? Why not. I just finished reading Eben Alexander’s Proof of Heaven: A Neurosurgeon’s Journey into the Afterlife. Before that it was Shutter Island . . Killing Pablo by Mark Bowden and The Prophet (For the thousandth time . . I think). And I am currently engrossed in The Alchemist. 

4. What is your favorite movie?- Of all time? The Godfather. There are so many life lessons to be culled from this masterpiece. I could have gone with Godfather 2 because it’s probably a better movie, but my favorite will always be the original. Interestingly, my least favorite movie is Godfather 3. 

5. What did you do today to improve your future self?- Today? I didn’t murder the asshole who cut me off on the way to breakfast with my kids. Hey, it means I don’t have to get used to wearing an orange jumpsuit and catching up on my smoking habit whilst guarding my ass as if it were the Mona Lisa. Yesterday was a bit more constructive, because I spent some time with pit bulls. As far as God’s creatures go, they are severely misunderstood. I was hand feeding a pit bull yesterday, who only a couple weeks earlier was unapproachable and had been designated as “Staff Only”. As a volunteer, I still can’t walk Maximus, but thanks to some wonderful people who’ve been working with him, I learned the color of his beautiful eyes- hazel with a touch of vermilion. And now he doesn’t bark at me, and now he doesn’t charge. Now, we just sit together. These people reached him with patience and love and understanding, and I became the lucky recipient of their dedication. It is in these small victories where I find God.

As to who I nominate for the Neat Blogger Award?

Every single blogger who visits this place. I know, it’s not exactly in keeping with the rules, but I won’t choose. Because I am thankful for each and every one of you. To take the time from your busy day to venture over here, it’s more appreciated than you know. You make this blog what it is- a neat place to come to. Without you . . . there’s no Cayman Thorn.

To peace and love, and to you.

 

 

 

When you come to the fork in the road? Eat.

As most of you who read this outpost of a blog are well aware, I do so enjoy being an envoy for the absurdities that define our doomed existence. I dabble in all manner of trouble. So you don’t have to.

And . . . you’re welcome.

So it was that this afternoon, I was having a legit conversation as per my latest storytelling idea with a dude who used to do Summer Stock, all over the map. Richard is sixty-ish, semi-retired and he lives in a condo. He’s also fairly ambivalent when it comes to his live-in girlfriend. The dude is loose threads in the cosmic sense, but he’s why I love actors. Because they jump first and ask the more pertinent questions later on.

“I’m going with my undertow story.” I say.

It takes a few moments for words to catch up with what’s left of his cerebral cortex- which no doubt resembles a taco stand. But when he finally gets around to collating, it’s Climax Blues Band on methamphetamine sprinkled chalupas. Which means, it’s delicious sounding shit.

“Oh shit yeah that’s a funny story! The waving? Priceless. You have to go with that one. Shit yeah!”

If I had a dollar for every time Richard says “Shit, yeah.”, I would own the New York Yankees, have PSL’s to Golden State Warriors games and Oprah would be on speed dial. Richard may speak in clipped appraisals, but when he throws a Hallelujah at you, it’s as if you just watched Jesus in a fist fight.

From there, I go long form with him. I spill a few loose thought ideas so’s he can reduce the elements whilst identifying the cutting room floor material. Dude has a sixth sense about these things. He’s a modern day proverb dressed in stage lights. I love the systemic advancement he uses in order to shelter the wild nature of feral thoughts.

The moments are so very elegant and purposed, and then Sesame Street goes drive by on my ass.

“What are you talking about?”

It’s Danielle. She’s all of twenty one and her interests include Instagram, breaking up with boyfriends, Snap-chat, breaking up with boyfriends and Taco Bell. I’m sure there’s more where that came from, but really . . that’s enough.

“My story.”

“For what?”

“Story Slam.”

“Oh my Gawd! Your video was soooo funny. Is that like stand up?”

I explain to her what storytelling is all about as if I was a human GIF, because that’s the language she speaks. While I’m attempting to send her on her way, she asks if I heard the news about Linkin Park front man Chester Bennington.

“Yes, he committed suicide.”

Richard chimes in with, “Strange day, Chester Bennington hangs himself and O.J. Simpson gets cut loose.” The man has a chime to his rhyme, tell you what.

“Who’s O.J.?” Danielle asks.

Not that long ago, this was a two syllable trivial pursuit question with one hell of a racial slip-switch. (Not that long ago? Meet a million years ago. And even though the two of you have absolutely nothing in common, go have sex. And make babies that ask questions like this.)

“Simpson.” I replied. “O.J. Simpson.”

Her hesitation was a notarized reminder of how quickly time flies. And it signaled my removal from this Bermuda Triangle of crimes and misdemeanors. Hey man, I can run five miles on a ninety five degree afternoon, but I just don’t have the patience for this. It’s fucking exhausting.

“Go with that undertow story, Marc.” Richard winked.

The universe came calling, and it was dressed in a ponytail with yellow colored shades and a forever sounding reminisce of big mistakes dressed in fine solutions.

I winked back.

The aFrank Angle Challenge- Day Late/Dollar Short Edition!

Okay, so Frank over at aFrank Angle gave his readers a challenge.  Or in WordPress parlance (?) a ‘prompt’. He supplied an image, which I have included below and he asked his readers to create a fictional piece out of it. In 150 words or less.

Truthfully, I haven’t done a ‘prompt’ in ages. But hey, if our President can settle the country’s business in 150 characters or less, I think I can handle a fiction challenge.

I realize this entry will not be considered by the Academy due to the late nature of its submission. Ironic that I’m calling it a ‘prompt’, huh?

 

 

 

 

 

            Footprints in the Sand – by Cayman Thorn

Taylor’s feet scalloped the minute shards of ocean glass into small indentations whose evidence was being stolen with each musical sway of the tides. His roam transformed inside the short walk- from confusion to recognition, and finally to a seething rage.

He dropped to his knees at the sight of the oxidized wreckage whose spires fought the darkness but whose symbolism had long since been stolen away in the name of a manifest power whose intention had never been to serve better angels.

“Trump did it . . he finally, really did it. You maniac! You blew it up! God damn you!” He screamed, as if his lungs could reach the wicked depths and all those long lost souls.

Nova gripped the reins of their horse and stared silently into the face of a murdered ideal, whose body was being interred by the fates.

They had reached the end of the world.

(Muchisimas gracias to Frank for allowing me to stay after school and finish this assignment. The link to his challenge is below just in case you didn’t click on my hyper-link up top.)

https://afrankangle.wordpress.com/2017/07/10/on-footprints-in-the-sand/