The empty spot upon my rumpled bed

matches the aching place within my heart.

my pillow bears the imprint of your head;

I hate this dreadful time that we’re apart.

I’m sitting here alone and incomplete

while dreaming of your fingers in my hair;

the taste of your lips on mine remains sweet.

your scent still lingers on the morning air.

My fingers trace the outlines of your touch;

inside my core a fiery heat begins.

Pulse racing, I can feel my face go flush,

remembering your breath upon my skin.

This unquenched passion now will slowly burn,

until we reach the hour of your return.

I wait upon the hour of your return,

so while you’re gone, I let my mind run free.

the tender parts of me I’ll help you learn,

and secret things I’ll let you do to me.

Imagine us, entwined within these sheets;

a smile upon my lips begins to show.

Within my breast, my heart rapidly beats

and moisture, deep inside me, starts to grow.

I settle in this nest of satin thin,

and let my fingers travel where they will.

They quickly find a spot of hungry skin

and waves of intense pleasure start to spill

across my soul -- my passion now has fed

the empty spot upon my rumpled bed.

I was gonna say “It’s not you, it’s me,” but the more I think about it, it really is you.

You can keep the towels and sheets, but I will have someone come and pick up my dishes and silverware. I’m really sorry I ran over your cat.

Oh, and by the way, your sister and I are flying to Reno to get married. We’ll send you pics.

I’m still not sure what went wrong; in fact, I don’t remember much about last night at all. I’d like to blame God, or fate, or just bad damn luck; but I reckon the fault might lie somewheres closer to home.

The train from Guaymas to Nogales was supposedly carryin’ a shipment of gold—a tribute from the new Mexican Republic to the Governor of Arizona, or some such political nonsense. Me and the boys, hell we didn’t care about nothin’ but gettin' our hands on all that loot, and high-tailin' it south. We planned on sittin’ on some sunny beach where the gold could be spent, the margaritas was sweet, and the senoritas was plentiful.

Bart Jonas and his cousin Dillon got the schedule off'n a Southern Pacific station master over at Tombstone, before they shot him and left his body for the buzzards. The train was supposedly bein’ guarded by a dozen rurales and at least one Mexican Federale, travelin’ north with the gold. From what the boys heard, the third passenger car was actually converted to an armored transport for the safe.

The problems started when we derailed the damn train. Jim Bernard was our powder monkey, and he’d blown the tracks just north of Cibuta. The train derailed alright, but it was goin' faster than we thought, and it piled up end-over-end out there in the desert, among the sage and saguaros.

The Federale was killed outright, but the rurales turned out to be trained soldiers from the Mexican army, and they was a tough bunch of bastards. After a gunfight that seemed to last forever, me and Bart was the only two left standin’. Dillon and old Jim were layin’ dead in the dirt, and all the Mexicans was either shot or they run off.

We found the safe layin’ on its side, all banged up and dented. What with Jim bein’ dead and all, it took over an hour for Bart to finally blast the hinges off of it, and he almost lost his left hand in the process. Once it was opened, it turned out the safe was stuffed plumb near full of 50 peso gold coins. We loaded our bags and dragged 'em back to the horses we’d left tied-off out in the hills; we mounted up and rode as hard as we could for the coast.

That was day before yesterday.

We rode them horses damn near into the dirt, and finally finished up in a little seaside fishin’ town as the sun was comin’ up. We found us an empty barn, and racked out.

Bart woke me near sundown, and we found our way to a little cantina near the wharf.

Wasn’t hardly nobody there, 'cept a grizzled old barkeep, and an ugly painted-up senora who didn’t speak no English. I told Bart he should just pay with some of the copper pennies we had been savin’ but he had to go and be a big shot. He flipped one of them big gold coins on the bar, and the keep’s eyes damn near jumped outta his head. We each grabbed a bottle of tequila and made our way over to the table where the whore was keepin’ house. I do recall she got a little prettier with each drink, but that’s about all I remember.

All I'd wanted was to head south, get my feet up, and live like a king, or at least a landed gentleman. That was before I woke up in this damn cell. Now my head is poundin’ and I’m alone in this dirty cage. I looked out the barred window a while ago, and I saw someone hanging by the neck from a scaffold. I think it’s Bart, but I can’t tell for sure.

I hope, if they’re comin’ for me next, they at least get a fresh rope.

I once wrote a poem, titled “Do You See Me?” and when I published it, there were some disagreements with my take on the issue of helping those who have fallen into the cracks in our society. Here is a link to that poem:

https://theprose.com/post/184992/do-you-see-me

Some of the criticism I received was about the portrayal of hatred on the part of the passers-by. To clarify, I don’t think that most people feel hatred for those who live on the streets or panhandle on freeway on-ramps; more often I think it is just that we can’t identify with them. This poem however, was written from the “invisible” person's point of view, and in it he is saying he would rather you hated him, than pity him—it hurts less.

The other comment that I seemed to hear the most was that helping these people out with money is in effect, helping enable their lifestyle. It is true that some people have to hit bottom before they can see they have nowhere to go except up, but I firmly believe—having been homeless myself at one point in my life—that MOST people who live on the streets (or in the woods, or in a tent, or behind the grocery store) aren't there by choice, but have found their way to these places through fear, resignation, and ignorance; and most of them simply have no idea about how to get out.

Monetary help for those who live at the lowest levels of our society is not the need that we should be most concerned with; rather, we should offer them the basic emotional human needs of empathy and compassion. A smile and a kind word just might be the tipping point that tells them someone still sees the person behind the problems, and they are still worth saving. That simple message, that they aren’t invisible at all, might be all they need to help them reignite the spark of hope, and maybe even rebuild the desire to look for a way back.

The one class of people who are the most accepting, and who live with the least amount of judgment, fear, or condescension, are those who have the most issues with fitting into society themselves. Sadly this often includes those who have turned to drugs to escape the problems. When you have nothing, it is easy to lose hope, and with that loss, the willpower to fight. When you don't have the basic foundation of knowledge, or even a way to eat later in the day, it can be almost impossible to do anything but drift along, and find a way to escape. Those easy escapes almost always involve making the wrong choices, and they end up making a bad situation even worse—widening the gulf that must be crossed to rejoin the rest of us in the “real” world.

If you have never faced the circumstances that put these fellow humans there, you can’t understand how it could happen—and it is all too easy to dismiss them all as habitual drug users who put themselves there. Addiction does play a role in the problem, you would have to be blind not to see that, but for every person you see who is begging on the street because of addiction, there are three you don't see who are simply trying to find a way to feel like they still matter, and have no clue how to connect to the help they need. When you haven't brushed your teeth for three weeks, it is embarrassing to talk to others, let alone ask them for help, or a job, or even something to eat.

A simple smile and saying hello, may make more difference than you realize. Choosing not to enable what you see as a continued voluntary lifestyle may be a great goal, but for most people this is not a voluntary choice, but one of circumstance. Refusing to "see" them—even if it is just in their minds that you don't—sends the message that you have judged them and found them unfit for human contact. Even though this may not be true, it is how many of them feel, when you avert your eyes and hurry past.

Everyone has a story, and most of them are sad and probably could have been avoided at one point or another, but could-have-beens aren't helpful . . . they are merely reminders of all that they have lost. I don’t think you can help anyone who isn’t ready to be helped, but if you are worried about the way even a small donation might be spent, keep in mind that a bagel and a cup of coffee can’t be traded for drugs, and can fill another void that all of us experience—hunger happens every day, even to the lost—without making a huge dent in your lifestyle.

If even that is more than you can do, then remember this: Smiling is free, and saying “Good Morning” just may be more important than the $1.40 in change you have in your pocket.

Remember

those woods!!!

Where we played,

when we were young.

In the woods we danced,

I will meet you someday, love.

When you find a way back home,

I will be waiting with nothing but time.

When you find a way back home,

I will meet you someday, love.

In the woods we danced,

when we were young.

Where we played,

those woods!!!

Remember

Related write:

https://theprose.com/post/217553/run-free

Related write:

https://theprose.com/post/218925/our-woods

Fading memories blow through my hollowed out soul,

wrapped in echoes of tormented silence and pain

riding hot desert winds, past the crumbling facade

of a dry empty ghost town where tumbleweeds reign.

Like emotional stretch marks carved into my heart,

inky shadows lie twisted, and deeply embossed

in striations and patterns that spell out your name,

filled with acid-rain tears, spilled for all that I’ve lost.

When I let myself ponder the cruelty of fate,

the unfairness twists inside my guts like a knife.

Since you left me behind without saying goodbye,

faded gray shades of loneliness color my life.

In my dreams you’re still here, warmly sharing my bed...

then I wake all alone, with your voice in my head.

©2018 - Dusty Grein

*** While not many sonnets are crafted in 12 syllable anapestic tetrameter, its melodic rhythm makes for a smooth flowing poem, which can still pack as much of a punch as the standard iambic pentameter offering.

As writers, we can use real magic to cure many of the issues we face.

If you don’t believe it, take my hand and follow me as I explain not only why I believe in this ultimate magic, but how it can help you—and anyone who reads the words you write—at some point in their lives.

The Problem

Since the dawn of time, mankind has had to deal with a somewhat unique problem. We possess not only a powerful analytical mind, but a very highly developed emotional sophistication as well. These attributes often end up at war inside us, with the stronger of the two deciding our actions.

The times when our emotional side is in charge can lead to some of the best, and worst, decisions of our lives. The problem is that most of us try very hard to make sure our analytical side leads the way, and quite often that means we must bottle up and shut down our emotional selves. We also sometimes need to suppress the strength of our emotions, in order to survive the heights and depths they can take us to.

When we lock our emotions away, we tend to hide them from ourselves as much as the rest of the world. This repression of emotions can lead to many different mental, and even physical conditions, so it becomes beneficial to find a way to release them.

A Solution

Fortunately, we humans also have a unique ability, that no other animal has. We can communicate abstract concepts to others, in ways that leave indelible imprints on the world around us.

When we express ourselves in a way that conveys not just thoughts but emotions as well, we call this art. The source of our inspiration to create art—whether it is through speaking, creative writing, sculpture, painting, music, or whatever other outlets we choose—is, if we look deeply, the wellspring of feelings inside us.

It has been my observation that the most powerful of these bottled up emotions can be released through artistic expression, and for many of us, that means the written word.

Some writers love to use one of the languages we share, in short clips and bursts of audible and/or visual imagery to express themselves. These communication artists may write in rhymes, metered forms, or free verse, but their poems and/or songs make connections and touch others; this writing often helps them not only heal themselves, but their audiences as well.

Others may find that writing poetry and/or songs just isn’t enough to satisfy their need to create images, characters, and worlds. Their written creations, in whatever length they work in—flash fiction, micro tales, short stories, novels—can transport others into worlds of their imagination. There, others get to share and experience a wide variety of emotional and mental images, sensations, and expressions. This is yet another way for a creative person to release the feelings in their hearts and souls, and help others do the same.

The Result

One of the best results of this process, is that writers can craft unique pieces of permanent communication, allowing them to transmit and share their thoughts, feelings, and ideas across generations. They can touch people who need to know they aren’t alone, who need to escape into a world of imagination, or who need to release their own pent-up emotions in one way or another.

This makes writing both the ultimate catharsis and the ulltimate form of telepathy; writers may, in their own way, become healers and magically transform the lives of others, by sending their thoughts, emotions and ideas out to other people beyond the limits of time and space.

We have all experienced a work of art at some point—written, drawn, sculpted, or played—that has touched our hearts, moved our souls and/or healed our troubled minds. This art may have been created today, or hundreds of years ago, and it may have been created by anyone at all. Someday, you yourself may share your thoughts and feelings with someone, somewhere, and help improve their lives.

You just can’t get much more magic than that.

© 2018 - Dusty Grein

#nonfiction #ponderings #amwriting

It had been nineteen years since Steven had been here. Now that he was, he wished he had never come.

The last day of that long ago summer was now vivid in his memory. As dusk had fallen, the breeze had carried the smell of popcorn, the air had been awash with brilliant colored lights, and above it all was the calliope music of the carousel. He had watched with wonder as those magical porcelain steeds paraded up and down, flashing past the elusive brass ring. He had only been seven that year, but he had been enchanted by this place. He could remember watching the teenage boys spend all their money trying to win teddy bears for their girlfriends, and he remembered how grown-up he had felt when his mom let him ride the Ferris Wheel alone. That had been a magical night.

Until he met the gypsy woman, that was.

She was the oldest woman Stevie had ever seen, and her wrinkled face scared him. He tried to sneak past the little fortune-telling booth, but she had whipped her hand out like a snake and grabbed his wrist. He had felt the iron strength of her grip, and she pulled him close, whispering a single sentence: "I will be here, when you come back." Her voice had been rough, like sandpaper on wet wood. One of her eyes had been a shimmering electric blue, the other was cloudy and gray. She stared into his face from beneath an overhanging hooded brow, and then grinned at him, exposing one very long canine tooth behind cracked white lips.

Stevie had felt his testicles try to crawl up inside his belly. He had pulled his hand from the old crone's grasp and run crying, all the way back to his mother's side. He wouldn't be consoled, and she had finally relented and taken him home.

Over the years he had actually forgotten about that day, at least on the top of his mind, where normal, sane Steven lived. Somewhere deep inside though, Stevie remembered. He had avoided carnivals, and even fairs, ever since.

He stared up at the window at the top of the old fun-house.

This place was supposed to be deserted, and from the looks of it, should be condemned. Weeds grew rampant through the cracked asphalt, and the rusting skeleton of the Ferris wheel stood like a museum dinosaur, watching over the crumbling remains of the roller-coaster. The carousel was gone, and this fun-house was the only building left standing; it's doorways showed only dark caves where doors used to hang. Above the faded, peeling words on the front was a single window, in which glowed a feeble light. As Steven watched, a shadow crossed that window, where none should be.

From somewhere within the old building, came that same gravelly sand-paper voice. "I knew you'd come back to me."

Steve tried to run, but his feet wouldn't obey. Instead, he found himself walking toward the open door in front of him. Horrified, he realized that he could just make out two eyes in the gloom, one cloudy gray and one electric blue.

© 2018 - dustygrein

Dateline, Washinton D.C.

In a historic moment, President Lennon and First Lady Yoko, along with Secretary of State M.L. King, met with former President Kennedy and his new wife Marilyn.

The meeting, which took place in Kennedy’s compound, was reportedly to lay the foundation for the President’s new “World Peace Initiative”. Unverified rumors of marijuana legalization reform are in the air, as is music on the compound’s loudspeakers. Reporters have not been allowed inside but the songs from the Beatle’s most recent album, “Abby Hoffman’s Wonderland”, can be heard almost a mile away, and Domino’s trucks have been seen making regular deliveries.

In other news:

* The senator from Cuba has launched legislation to add the state’s symbol to the US flag instead of another star. Opponents say that the Hammer and Sickle would clash with the rainbow stripes pattern adopted just two years ago.

* Upstart technology company Microsoft has folded, citing their inability to compete with Atari/Commodore for market share.

* Stock for the business giant Edsel has split yet again, as its new hybrid model becomes the most popular selling electric car in both the US and China.

* The Cleveland Browns football dynasty continues as they claim their 12th Superbowl.

* Pre-release orders of best-selling novelist Dusty Grein's newest blockbuster have hit 5 million, and his company Rhetaskew Publishing has just bought another new printing firm to help complete the runs of this, his 100th book.

---------

© 2018 - dustygrein

#fiction #amwriting #althistory #prosechallenge

When the Lady Arlene asked me to take a letter to the Crown Prince of Darland, I thought it would be a simple task.

Granted, she did keep her apartment in the tallest tower of the castle on the highest peak in the land, and his father’s palace was at the base of the distant hills. What I hadn’t counted on was his immediate reply, which required an answer from her post-haste.

That was three days ago.

I spurred my horse - the fourth I had exhausted since this debacle began - to even greater speed. I had to get this latest dispatch to the Lady with all haste; the Prince was waiting anxiously on her reply to his new communique, which was safely tucked in my saddlebag. It read:

“I don’t know. What do YOU want to do after we meet for dinner?”

© 2018 - dustygrein

#flash #flashfiction #makemesmile #amwriting