Secret

This news

Fidgets in my belly

Spinning and swirling

In a series of anticipatory

Elipses

Swimming to my vocal chords

Tempting my tongue to talk

But the time’s not right

So I smile, Mona Lisa style

And seal my lips

For now.

Smoke Dance

Marry copper tubing

With fire

And see flames of smoky blue

Rise and writhe

Dance in filtered light

Shadows cast

Across the grass

And sparks spin

To the sky.

Happy

Ray “Happy” Leonard was a fixture at the Daily Bugle office. No one could remember a time when he hadn’t been there, pencil propped in the corner of his smiling mouth. In fact, it had been 34 years, seven months and two days since the Happy had first walked in, confidently stating that they needed to hire him as a proof reader.

The editor had been, unknown to Happy, in dire need of a proof reader. The prior proofer, Harriet, had just quit over a thorny grammar dispute with a staff writer about a dangling modifier. Her chair was still warm when Happy sat down and slid it up to his new desk.

Happy was just 18 when he started working at the Bugle, and was predictably optimistic about his life, and his potential impact on grammar. In reality, what he faced was an uphill battle with grizzled reporters who regularly employed colloquialisms and held little respect for the rigors of the formal English language. Yet, Happy smiled and went about his work, his red pencil flashing across the pages set before him.

As Happy advanced in years, he grew accustomed to the relaxed grammatical attitude of the paper. His hair gradually abandoned him and the rhythm of his days lulled him. Where had his dreams of being a writer gone? So much time had passed, and the reporters he proofed for in his youth were long gone. He could remember proofing some of their obituaries.

Happy pushed back his chair and stood up. He twisted from left to right and heard his back snap and pop with the unaccustomed movement. He wrapped his scarf around his neck, shoved his arms into his warm coat, set his hat upon his head and nodded. He would spend no more than 34 years, seven months and two days at the Daily Bugle. They may have had his youth, but they didn’t have his soul. 

He had a novel to write. A novel about a fictional newspaper and the intrepid proofreader who kept the place running.

He strode out the door, holding it, politely, for a young woman carrying a red pencil and a look of determination. Happy’s smile grew as the door closed on the wood paneled office steeped in the click of computer keys and interviews in progress, and joined the flow of humanity filled with possibility on this cold, bright January day.

siren

She wavers beneath the water

a vixen vision, seductive, elusive.

One ripple rearranges her,

scatters her across the sand until

slyly, she materializes again

more beguiling than before.

She turns, hips sway hypnotically

as she heads for the deep

knowing you will follow.

Trust

“We are NOT asking that dragon for direction,” Pricilla growled.

“And why not?” queried Portia.

“Because you can never trust a dragon. Ever!”

“Fine!” Portia could feel her frustration boiling toward a head ache. She took a deep, calming breath. Better.

“How do you suggest we find our way if we don’t ask for direction? There’s no one else around to ask.”

Pricilla’s brow furrowed as she thought.

“Where’s that map we bought from Old John?”

Portia pulled the frail and tattered map from her back pack and began to unfold it. Pricilla reached for it and before Portia could release it, it tore along the worn middle seam, a sizeable stretch of plotted territory disintegrated and wafted away on the cooling breeze.

“Now look what you did,” Portia fumed. “You ruined it!”

Pricilla huffed. “Well, if you had just handed it to me like I asked…”

“But you didn’t ask me to hand it to you. You asked where it was and before I even had a chance to look at it, you grabbed it and now look. It’s getting dark and we’ll never find our way to Middle Brook in time.

“Keep your pantaloons on Portia,” Pricilla rejoined. “It’s not as bad as all that. It seems like the weather is warming at least. And the moon is making it as bright as day.”

Portia looked up from the map and saw the reason for the bright light and warming temperatures. The moon had indeed risen while they were arguing, but the illuminate and heat was coming from the dragon who had crept oh so stealthily closer to the young ladies.

“Ahem,” the dragon uttered, sparking slightly. “May I be of some assistance?”

Both girls were now eye to eye with the glowing behemoth.

“Umm. Err.” Pricilla was at a loss for coherent words.

“Yes,” said Portia. “We are trying to get to Middle Brook and we need to be there by 7:00 pm. It’s very important.”

“It’s urgent,” echoed Pricilla shakily.

“I see,” said the dragon with a sly smile. “And what will you give me if I help you?”

“Ahhhhh…,” stammered Pricilla who had still not regained her ability for original thought and speech.

“You can come with us,” volunteer Portia. “It will be an excellent adventure, and we would love to have your company.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” said the dragon. “My name is Diane by the way.”

“Hello Diane,” replied Portia. “I’m Portia and this is my cousin Pricilla. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Meet you,” mumbled Pricilla.

“Excellent! Middle Brook is just over that hill,” crackled Diane. “What are we going to do there?”

“Why shop of course,” said Pricilla, finally returning to her senses now that the conversation had turned to her favorite topic. “We’re going to a fire sale at the Middle Brook Mall.”

Diane smiled. “Fire sale? Perfect!”

And off they went.