Happy Valentines Day

There isn’t much to write about on my end. So I decided to try an exercise where you take an opening sentence from a story and run with it.

So I grabbed an opening line from one of William Faulkner’s stories and wrote about a couple I saw on a recent retreat with my wife.

Through the [concrete noun], between the [adjective] [concrete noun], I could see them [verb ending in
“ing”].

Through the mirror, between the soft kisses, I could see them touching. She looked to be twenty years his junior. He enjoyed her company. He liked the way she made him feel. He was on vacation, even if only for a weekend. She was slightly more reserved than him, but not enough to see without studying her actions. His chair turned so that he faced her, and he could not keep his hands off her. Gently he would rub her arm or her thigh. He spoke low and often leaned in to whisper to her. She could not defend herself from being flattered.

Only one seat separated me from him. He asked the bartender for a menu. I said, “You can have mine. I’m through looking.” A thirty dollar salad was not appetizing. I slid it over toward him. He took it without as much as a glance to me. He said something to the effect as “very good” or “very nice.” Not a thank you, nor an acknowledgment. He swiveled his chair to face her again, and they both hovered over it, heads inches apart.

I saw them again the next morning at the pool. In the middle of the water, they bobbed together, head and shoulders sticking out of the water, like two solitary islands in an ocean. He held her close. He thought the pool hid his hands, but they were visible, magnified by the water as they both rested and moved over the curves of her buttocks. Again and again they would kiss. Again he would whisper to her. And yet again, like the evening before, he could not keep his hands off her. And yet again, like the evening before, she could not defend herself from being flattered.

I am sure he was married, only not to her.

The Battle on Billy Goat Hill

When I was a boy, I wanted a goat. I know from where this interest came. I will do my best to explain to you the story.

When I was little, I would sometimes go with my dad to work. My dad was self-employed and so worked at the homes of his customers. Since I was too young to work, and far too interested in the new surroundings to be of much use, I was free to roam.

At one particular home, I remember, the owner had several goats. I had never seen one in person. There were a half-dozen or so. The ladies, as most ladies are, were kind and welcoming. They allowed me to pet them and would dance around me. I examined their eyes, and their strange square-shaped pupils. I gave their beards a tug and this they didn’t mind. However, one drew the line when I tried to ride her.

Then I met him — the brown and white patriarch of the herd. He stood a distance away observing the activity. He was a magnificently arrogant fellow, with a long beard, and one could tell immediately he cherished his position as the head. I’m not sure if he was jealous or if curiosity got the better of him, but he strolled toward the fun and was serious about ending it.

Here he was — a Billy-goat, with a pair of foot-long horns. These he showed me. So I did what I was supposed to do. I grabbed them with both hands. In the absence of a well thought out idea, I reckoned this was a good one at the time. I pushed him back a few steps, and then I twisted his head side to side. I was having a blast. He barely offered a protest. I continued with the fun – pushing, twisting, and turning him. Then he stopped. His neck stiffened, and his legs locked.

He said, “Young man, I know not who you are nor from where you came, but this is my hill and none of my ladies take a liking to anyone, not even a boy, without my permission. And now you are daring me in front of my lovely concubines. This is a dare, I am afraid for you, I have to take.”

He reared up his front legs, and lunged with his spare ones. On my butt I tumbled, and over the top of me he stepped. Even as a boy, I could see that things were serious.

My pride was hurt. I was embarrassed, outdone, and on my butt in front of a group of nice ladies. The Billy-goat stood there proud, half turned, and eying me with the left one. I’m sure I heard him laugh. I spat, flashed my teeth, stood and gave him a shove in the ribs. He straightened and we stood face to face. He showed me his horns. I grabbed them. The tussle began again.

We were locked in combat. Both of us were keenly aware the ladies were watching. This time I leaned in hard and walked him back several feet and when he lunged, I let go, moved out of the way, gave him a passing shove, then grabbed his horns again, and twisted and turned his head some more. This we repeated for some time — neither side winning, neither side losing but tearing up all of God’s creation. The ladies cheered, gasped, one fainted.  Then he quit. I tried to entice him for more combat, feeling robbed of a proper victory, a chance to settle it for good. It was of no use, he’d met his match.

I did what any victor would do. I returned to the company of the nice ladies and danced with all of them. I should have been wiser. Though I won our contest, the Billy-goat was far from defeated. He did not appreciate me adding insult to injury by dancing with his women. I did not see the horned devil coming. I just felt an incredible thud on my right side. He sent my little body flying and tumbling end over end over the ground. (It is a record distance in that town to this day by any goat in a boy throwing contest).

The Billy-goat and I’m afraid to say, even the ladies, thought I cried. That is a lie. During my fall, I got dirt in my eyes, which made my eyes water profusely. I would like to state that clearly and end the matter. I did not cry.

I faced my foe.

“You do not fight fair, sir!” I protested.

“I am a Billy-goat.” He responded.

There is not room here for me to explain the reaction of my father. He was not pleased and I had to stay by his side the rest of the day. Before we left, I pleaded and begged for him to buy me that Billy-goat. He told me no that I would have it so mean in a week’s time  “it wouldn’t be worth shoot’n!”

I’ve never owned a goat but neither have I forgotten that day, and neither have I stopped wanting to own one since.

Writer’s Block

If there were one among us who could have written the greatest poem or the most significant novel, it was him. He promised he would accomplish a great work many times. With ease, he rolled out ideas for lines, plots, and descriptions of emotionally deep characters. His satchel never far from his body was full of crumpled, blank pieces of paper. For the inspiration, he reached down to pull up a handful. Laid out in front of him delicately on the desk, he spent time smoothing out the wrinkles, and pressing down the creased edges. He placed the blank shreds in order. With his long fingers rested on his chin, he leaned back to consider. “No, that cannot go there. The thought is wrong.” Then set about to rearrange the blank shreds into another order he preferred. A time would pass.

Always by the window – for he liked its view — he sat in deep concentration. His face contorted in agony; the sign of a deep thinker, no doubt. Mumbling to himself things about rhymes and meter, he became uncontrollably excited. He would sit, stand, pace and sit again. The manic actions promised a flurry of creative activity. Then the words came like wind. He bolted to his chair with purpose, grasped tightly in his pale boney hand, the pen stayed still, afraid to touch the paper. A time would pass.

Finally, he exclaimed, “I’ve got it!” and slump over his paper, poor in posture, pen grasped. The paper prepared for the dictates of its master. The paper lay innocently and undisturbed. A time would pass.

“No, it is not right! It cannot end like that.” We heard him say. He grasped the pen again and pulled the paper under his chin. We watched intently with breathless anticipation as he traced the air the words running through his mind, the pen only a few precious inches from the paper, finally the pen stilled, ready to write, slowly closer it descended in his hand until there was but the slightest hint of light between paper and pen! — but gave up to exclaim, “It is no use. I cannot write in such a dreary place!”

He stood and placed his greatcoat over his scrawny and sunken frame. Never did someone resemble a turtle as he did standing there, but we were prepared to claim it a capable turtle. He marched out of the room hurriedly. Saying aloud, his finger raised, “A genius must be free! A genius needs his space!”

A wave of blank shreds of paper circled behind in his wake, and fell to a rest on the floor.

A Sidewalk Encounter: A Very Short Story

Once there was a young man who felt blessed to be living in the time that he was. Every day he was thankful that he was a part of what truly was the early beginning of a new era. His instructions at the university taught him many new things that heretofore had been unknown. With new knowledge and understanding, his perception and awareness of the world went through profound changes. He made it a point to teach and share this new knowledge and understanding.

One day, the young man was walking through town and noticed an old man sitting beside the sidewalk. This wasn’t the first or the second time he noticed the old man. This particular time he pitied him more than at any one before.

The young man approached the old man curious as to why he chose to sit instead of stand, keep silent instead of speak, and observe instead of engage with the humanity that passed him. The young man started by quizzing the old man on the latest works of art, philosophy and literature.

“They are classics already! The things these men can do with their hands, wit and intellect is unprecedented. We live in great times!”

The old man barely seemed to acknowledge what the young man was saying.

Undeterred the young man continued. “Haven’t you heard about the foreign king? There has never been any like him. A dreadful man who will stop at nothing to expand his kingdom’s borders! No people have ever encountered such a foul despot. These are dreadful times!”

Again, the old man failed to give a satisfactory response.

“Don’t you know we have a new king? This one is great. He speaks wonderfully and promises a better world. Haven’t you heard of this man? He is quite famous already. Many say he is the best king we have ever had. Surely no man like him has existed. How fortunate we are that he lives during our time!”

The only reaction from the old man was a nod and a slight shrug of his shoulders.

It finally dawned on the young man that the old man was certainly a whine-head.

The young man offered some of his wine, but the old man did not accept.

The young man sang the newest melody but the old man did not dance.

Exasperated, the young man finally asked, “Old man, why do you just sit there? Don’t you know life is passing you? What has happened that has made you give up? Do you not know anything?

“I’ve tried to enlighten you about the world around you but you sit still and dumb as a stone!

“I offered my wine but you refused.

“I sang a song for you but you refused to dance.

“I’ve tried to engage you in conversation, move you out of your tragic state but you refused to budge.

“Don’t you want to learn more about life?”

The old man raised his head and finally acknowledged the youngster’s presence.

“I did not drink your wine because it is bad for my blood pressure.

“I did not dance to your song because it was terrible, and you aren’t a very good singer.

“I’ve heard of your artists, philosophers and writers but their works and ideas are not new. They are only a reintroduction; a reproduction of the ones forgotten.

“I’ve heard of this foreign king. He seems perfectly reasonable and not at all outstanding as far as foreign kings are known to behave.

“I’ve heard of our new king but at my age, I’ve seen many kings and this one does not sound any different than all the ones who came before him.

“I sit here by this sidewalk because this is how I learn. I meet fools everyday who think they have so much to teach. Always in a hurry for converts to this or that new idea, though the ideas are only new for the reason they just learned them.”

Insulted the young man asked, “You did not learn anything from our encounter?”

“No, I did not. At my age there is only affirmation.” The old man said it more with his eyes than his words.

“And what has been affirmed for you today, old man?” the young man asked.

“There have always been more fools than teachers in this world.”