Friday Fictioneers – Dirt

photo - Danny Bowman

photo – Danny Bowman

Word count:  99

Dirt

“Old school dirt?”  What the hell did that mean?  Liz reached for the receiver with pincer fingers and peered inside at the broken wires; it didn’t make sense to send her to a broken phone.  Was she supposed to understand something in the words?  She said them aloud again, confused, then wheeled around desperately searching for a sign from the kidnappers.  The New York street was a blur of strangers, any one of whom could hold an answer.  Disappearing from her left, Liz heard, “dirt racing,” and from the right, “Buffalo, bitch.”  Abruptly, she knew her ex was involved.

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Ocean Dream

Artwork by Charles Falk Jr.

Artwork by Charles Falk Jr.

Last night, in between fits of wakefulness due in part to my husband’s snoring (he has a cold so is forgiven), my over forty body that absolutely cannot wait until morning to pee and general worry about the living situation, I had some fairly vivid dreams.  The only one that I can recall is quite a common one but which had some strange accents.

It played out in two parts.  Both the same situation but told from different perspectives.  In the first one, bystanders and friends, whom I didn’t recognize, found my body washed up on a shore and I observed all this from outside my body.  It was a quick, straight to the point sort of dream.  In the second part, I swam out into a deep, dark ocean under cloudy skies and had a rope wrapped around my waist that tethered me somehow to shore.  I wasn’t looking where I was going or how far I was going, I just swam and swam, I guess knowing I was safe with the rope.  After a while, my elbow banged a buoy much like the one in the picture and when I took notice of my position, I was surprised to find how far I had come.  I don’t remember swimming back but after doing so, I still had the energy to join an exercise class and do some major ab work.  And I had a contented, happy feeling.

The ocean allegedly represents the great unconscious within us; our memories, emotions and experiences, like a vast well that holds everything about ourselves.  So I guess I took a good swim in me last night.  The water was dark and deep but not choppy.  And I felt confident in my ability to swim as far as I wanted, but was that only because of the rope tethered to me?  What if I had been out there without the safety line?  Would I have gone as far?  And what’s with the buoy?  In my dream, I knew it was the boundary marker.  What lies beyond that?

In general, it feels like a positive dream.  A higher power allowed me the freedom to go headlong without fear by keeping me anchored in a safe place.  But what was the first part all about?  Perhaps the shedding of an old facet of me?  A part that no longer serves me well?

It’s been a while since I had a good storytelling dream that I can remember and attempt to figure out.  I hope there are more to come and I hope they all have positive vibes.

Bird on a car

Well.  Here I am in a much better frame of mind.  The pendulum began to swing back up after a very low month or so and needed one extra push which led me to my crystal/reiki lady at Penns Place.  I visit every couple of months to lay on her massage table with the appropriate stones linked by string, placed on my main chakras.  We meditate for a few minutes and then she performs reiki on me.  It’s one of the things I love to do…it’s only the third time I’ve had it done but it’s essential; it restores my wellbeing and I feel energized and happy.  Sometimes extraordinary things happen too.  When she places her hands over my Third Eye, the internal vision blossoms a dark blue or indigo, it’s amazing.  At other times as she is working her way down my body, I can feel myself lying straight but also crooked and jutting out on either side at the same time.  It’s sort of like Jodie Foster’s character in Contact when she’s strapped to the chair in the machine.  At times, she is separated from her own self – it feels like that.  Last Saturday when I visited, I had vivid vignettes; fast, colorful and with no discernible meaning.  I wasn’t sleeping yet I couldn’t remember them when I sat up.

Our living situation hasn’t changed.  We are 12 days away from our final day at this house and still have no place to go.  Currently, we are waiting for an answer on a lovely house we found less than a mile from the one we are in.  It has a huge back garden with a treehouse sort of thing and when I drove by it a few days ago, I couldn’t help but take a sharp breath in and think “I want to live here”.  It’s in a cul-de-sac and would also mean no hassles with schooling for the kids.  We are hoping the agent will approve a co-sign.  We wait and we hope.  In the meantime, per our realtor’s instructions, we keep searching just in case and I’m taking the kids to see another house this evening.  Not close by.

Last week on the way to work, the radio was on but I wasn’t really listening, just sort of looking at things and vaguely wondering things.  One random thought was the question of birds and cars.  Specifically, do birds alight on cars when the cars are stopped?  And if so, why have I never seen it happen?  It went unanswered obviously and I thought nothing of it until yesterday when I pulled out of work to the traffic light.  Right in front of me, a bird with wings and legs outstretched attempted to land on the roof of the car in front.  The light changed and the car moved, thwarting his efforts but he appeared to follow it a few feet before veering off in front of me.  I chuckled, slightly amazed that my question had just been answered.

And that brought me to my thoughts about Angels.  I do believe in spirit guides but angels were a gray area until I started this biscuit journey of mine. I ran across an entry on WP about numerology a few months ago and since then, it’s been darting to and from the forefront of my consciousness.  So much so, that I have a page on my Google Chrome app permanently set to Doreen Virtue’s Angel numbers.  I’m not that au fait with it all but I do notice, mostly on license plates, the triple digits.  I saw 333 twice yesterday.  I saw 555 the day before which I never see.  I also see 444 a lot.  It’s a step too far for my husband so I don’t share with him as much.  In fact, this is the first time that I’ve admitted to dabbling a squidge in numerology.

Given the way my path has been lately, I’ll grab those numbers and run with them to help build up my faith because the empty, hollow, faithless feeling I’ve had recently, although is part and parcel of this journey, is not a place I want to be in again anytime soon.

Lisa…

Friday Fictioneers – What Lay Hidden

photo - Sarah Ann Hall

photo – Sarah Ann Hall

Word count:  100

What Lay Hidden

I lost my ball.  Well, I didn’t lose it; I know exactly where it is.  It’s over there at the far end of the garden, the end Daddy doesn’t mow.  He says Doctor Beasley prefers us not to go near his railing, says things are there that would scare the hoobles out of us kids.  Well, no-one is around and I want my ball so I run to just where the weeds get really tall then I creep, watching all around.  I can reach it but before I do, it’s popped by something from my nightmares and taken for good.

Miss the Bliss

I lay on our bed last night, listening to the water run in the shower while my daughter allegedly washed herself.  The evening sun grew stronger through the branches of the tree across the street and I desperately searched for a sign in it.  Such a wrenching in my heart for the loss of self.  Have I really gone so far backward that I can’t find my way forward?  How does a person lose faith in oneself?  What is there to cling to when you have given up the light?  Some people have Jesus, some people have God, some kind of figure to hang their hat on.  But what do you do if the figure is yourself and somehow, some way, you’ve misplaced it and trying to find it seems an impossible task?  You think, well, when this gets sorted out I’ll feel better and that will help.  I’ll feel happier and so rediscovering it will be much easier.  But you know that true happiness doesn’t lie in a signed lease or a full pantry.  It comes from within.  You have known that.  You have felt it.  You have felt the overwhelming gratitude; the joy which overflows from your heart that you shine on everyone you meet.  You have known bliss.

I miss my bliss.  I wept for my bliss watching the sun.  I took two pictures because the loudest voice in my head said I should use one for this entry today.  But I knew I wanted to capture the moment somehow, keep it locked so that perhaps one day soon, I could reopen it and find what I was looking for.

Friday Fictioneers – Too Much Stuff

Friday Fictioneers.

Word count: 100

photo - Ted Strutz

photo – Ted Strutz

Too Much Stuff

Brenda could barely stand it.  Sure, it was kitschy and people always gawped when they first walked in; there was so much to absorb.  Trinkets, bottles small and large, big mirrors, little mirrors, knick knacks, crap everywhere.  And the stupid painting that made no sense.  She was on the verge and one day soon, Brenda was gonna lose it with the bar, the people, her boss, the stuff.

She envisioned whaling all those bottles to the floor, satisfaction coursing through her at the decimation.  And that picture, she would lift high to break across her leg, grinning, frenzied, maniacally satisfied.

DPchallenge: Through The Door

The door to your house/flat/apartment/abode has come unstuck in time. The next time you walk through it, you find yourself in the same place, but a different time entirely. Where are you, and what happens next?

(Technically not so much with the “time-travel” but certainly a reference to different times)

It’s just the hallway beyond the front door but at one time, it held more life than I could possibly hold in my heart. I allow the door to close behind me and soak up the gloom. If I breathe gently enough, I think I can still smell the familiar dog scent, or perhaps the twinge of bacon cooking on a Sunday morning. If I close my eyes and prick my ears, I think I can still hear the musical beeping of my daughter’s handheld computer game as she lounges on the couch in the living room. Perhaps I can even hear the crackle of that delicious bacon in the pan while my husband uses the tongs to flip the strips over.

I open my eyes and hear nothing, smell nothing. Nothing but the empty house. Five years have passed since I came here. Five years of coming to terms, of dealing with things, of…moving on. How handy to have those phrases, passed to me by well-meaning family and friends. They utter words of condolence still, with the air of the wounded, as if their sympathies could impart some solace. But they don’t. Instead I open up, let them in, then close like an anguished crevice and the words, the phrases, the affirmations disappear into the depths, offering no help whatsoever.

I’m not even sure why I’m here. I had felt compelled to return this morning after the usual breakfast of tea and toast. My mother had bought Marmite for me yesterday and it was everything I remembered it to be; tangy, salty, savory, however, by the last bite of toast I had begun to cry. I hadn’t eaten Marmite since the crime; it was something only Lindsay and I loved and therefore, a painful reminder. My husband never cared for the stuff, said it looked like tar, even Ramsay turned is nose up at it and that dog ate anything. With each bite, the mild excitement of a renewed love became harder to swallow and I knew I’d never eat it again. There have been many things I simply couldn’t do or see or eat since those early days, the hardest of which was to be here. Here, at the scene. Here, where life stopped so, where all our lives came to a terrible end, in one way or another.

I always imagined that if I returned, I wouldn’t be able to control the frantic pump of my heart, that my bowels would fall away in a dead faint. But here I am and I feel none of that. I am sad, of course. The sadness is with me every day; it sits like an unmoving pond across my chest. No counseling, no alone time, no time spent with cajoling friends or cloying family will ever vanquish that. But I am not brought to my knees by the crushing sorrow that seems to strike at any time and without warning. No. Here, I feel oddly calm. I remain in the hallway though; I know the layout of the house and I don’t see the point of rehashing too many memories. I could go upstairs and with a faithful sweep of fingers across our bedroom windowsill, recall the time that I laughed while desperately hanging on to my husband’s foot while he strived to hang Christmas lights. I could wander into Lindsay’s room, stand in the middle and see it all as it was.

But I can’t do that; all the memories are tainted. Right here in the hallway, by the front door is the safest place to be. Safer than my apartment, safer than my therapist’s office, safer even than my Mother’s house. Because here was untouched, here feels like a pleasant void, where there is no need to get to grips or overcome anything. This space was untouched by the intruder. Sure, he rounded this curve to climb the stairs toward my family while they slept, but he neither entered nor exited through this door and he did not disturb anything because there was nothing to disturb here, with the exception of my family’s shoes which were always in disarray. Yes, he hunted my family throughout the house, murdering them in separate rooms so that even in death, they couldn’t be together but somehow, remarkably, this portal remained spotless.

I am beginning to think that five years is a long time to suffer. It is a long time to struggle with the notion of not being here when I should’ve struggled alongside my family. Maybe it’s time to be at peace, to allow the silent scream a voice, perhaps then I will be able to carry my scars with the proper weight instead of feeling crushed by them. I breathe deeply and exhale and cry a little in the letting go, for these things have been attached to me like loving burdens for so long. I think now that I was meant to come here today, on the anniversary, to put it all down and give it all up to where it began. I turn slightly and open the front door, allowing daylight to flood in and fill up the unused corners, to pick out the dust rays. Stepping back across the threshold, I have the sense of lightness. It is new and slightly refreshing but I am also aware that with it, trailing at the back like a tired child, will always be a profound sense of loss.