tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57980632797689678762024-03-27T02:38:06.880-04:00PattiKen and the Muses"Be obscure clearly." ~E.B. WhitePattiKenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02894925987580502697noreply@blogger.comBlogger574125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5798063279768967876.post-56592586619052521512020-02-17T12:43:00.001-05:002021-03-06T12:28:06.747-05:00Invisible - Part 9<a href="https://pattiken-pattiken.blogspot.com/2020/02/invisible-part-8.html" target="_blank"><i>Continued from Part 8</i></a><br />
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<b>Part 9: Meetings</b></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">Margaret leads Mac up onto a
wraparound front porch, and unlocks the front door. Stepping aside, she
lets him enter before her.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">Mac sets down his bag and
looks around. "Wow, Maggie!" he exclaims as he takes in the huge
space, "This place is fantastic!"</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">The foyer is as big as the
living room was in his shared house in LA. On the floor, large black and white
tiles, some broken, form a checkerboard pattern. There's a hallway leading to
the back of the big house and a massive staircase curves up to the second
floor. The ceiling high above is cracked.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">To his right, he sees a large
room, the living room, he guesses, though somehow it doesn't look like it's
used much. The furniture is on the faded side. There are tall windows looking
out on an overgrown garden. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">Off the left of the foyer is
a smaller room, lined with bookshelves and furnished with two cracked leather
chairs facing a fireplace. This room is more inviting.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">"Thank you. But it's old and
getting a little tired, much like me," Margaret jokes. "But as you
can no doubt tell, it needs work. That's where you come in."</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">Mac laughs and turns to her.
"Old and tired are about the last words I'd use to describe you, Mags.” </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">“I’m having a good day. You
should see me on my not-so-good days.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">“Well, you sure look good to
me.” Shaking his head, he reaches out and pulls her to him. "I've wanted
to do this since you threw yourself at me in the bookstore," he murmurs,
and kisses her.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">She pushes him away and punches
his arm playfully. "Oh, I did <i>not</i> throw myself at you!" she
says with fake indignation. "Well, okay, maybe I did, sort of. But you
were to one who left me alone and broken-hearted when you climbed on that bus all those
years ago."</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">She turns toward the
staircase, and says, "Come on; let's get you settled. Then you can help me
put together a dinner for the folks. I'll explain everything tonight." </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">***</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">After everyone is seated at the kitchen
table, Margaret sets out platters of sliced deli meats and cheese, salads, and breads. Mac pours some wine from the bottle of Chianti he’d opened earlier. Helping themselves to the food, the group chats and gets to know each other better.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">“I’m sorry this isn’t fancier,”
Margaret apologizes, “but I don’t cook much anymore.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">“Not to worry,” Milo says, slipping
a slice of roast beef to Mooch who waits patiently at his side. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We seldom eat fancy, do we Moochie? When I
lost Em, I lost the will to eat much.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">Looking up from the ham and cheese
sandwich he is building, Mac comments, “Fancy gets old, let me tell you. During
my time in LA, I jumped at the chance to attend every dinner with the
glitterati that I could wangle an invite to. Sure, I made a meager living
working odd jobs, but living in LA is expensive, and money for food sometimes
scarce. But, man, did I get tired of the pretentious dinners.” </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">He spears a pickle,
and says, “This is more my style. But,” he adds, winking at Margaret, “I <i>can</i>
cook. I can cook pretty damn well, if I do say so myself.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">Margaret grins at him. “<i>Now</i>
you tell me!”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">“I’m surprised you don’t find
this kitchen inspirational," Miriam says, looking around. “I can cook pretty
well, too,” she adds. “I took some cooking classes when I was married, not that
that Brad ever noticed or appreciated my efforts. Now that he’s gone, I just can’t
drum up the enthusiasm to cook for myself.” Unconsciously lifting her hand to
her cheek, she says, “I don’t entertain, because… you know.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Well, this is probably a good time to tell you
what my big idea is, and why it’s so important to me,” Margaret says. “This is hard
for me, but I’ve got to say it. No, don’t stop eating. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You eat your dinner, and I’ll talk.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">Pausing, Margaret takes a sip
of wine, and continues. “Have you read any of the stuff they’re publishing
about communal living? Apparently, people who live alone tend to be depressed, but thrive
when they live among others. Well, I’ll be honest. I’m lonely rattling around
this big old ark of a house alone. When I was working, it wasn’t so bad, but
now that I can’t work anymore, I’m going crazy here.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">Encouraged by the nodding
heads she sees in front of her, she goes on. “I don’t want to move. I inherited
this old place from my grandparents. But it occurred to me, all this space is
wasted. So, I want to turn this house into a communal home.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">“Wow, that sounds ambitious,”
Max says. “But where do we come in?”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">“Like I said at the
bookstore, I need help,” Margaret replies. “I mean, I <i>really</i> need help.
Not only can I not handle the reno needed on the house…”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">“Hold on,” Mac interrupts. “Yes,
the house needs work. But, hey, so do I. I think it’s a great idea. I’d love to
help you get this place in shape…if I can be your first resident.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">Margaret smiles warmly at
him. “Thank you, Mac. I was hoping you would say that. Your return to Middleburg
couldn’t have been timed better.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">She looks at Miriam and Milo
and takes a deep breath. “I know how abrupt this must seem but believe me. I’ve
been thinking about it for a long time. You are both good friends, and we get
along well.” She nods at Mac, grinning. “And I think he’s harmless. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, what about it? You’re both living alone.
Would you have any interest in some new digs, in helping me create my new
little family?”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">“I’ve been living above the
bookstore since Emmaline died,” Milo says. ‘Let me think about it. I might be
interested, if the rent’s not too high.” He puts his hand on Mooch’s head,
which is resting in his lap. “And if Moochie here can be my roommate.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">“Of <i>course,</i> Mooch can
come.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">She looks at Miriam and
raises her eyebrows in question.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">“I don’t know. I mean…” She
starts to put her hand over the scar but pulls it down into her lap instead.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">Milo reaches over and puts
his hand on Miriam’s shoulder. “You are not your scar, Miriam. We don’t see the
scar. We see our friend.” He looks at the others, who nod in agreement.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">“But I don’t see what I have
to offer. I can’t help with the renovation. I wouldn’t know a hammer from a
haddock,” she says.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">“But you <i>can</i> cook,” Margaret
reminds her. “We’ll all take turns in the kitchen, but I’m sure the others
would appreciate something better than what the rest of us can prepare.” She waves
her hand across the remnants of the deli meal on the table.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">“<i>Ahem</i>. Did I not tell you
I can cook?” Mac says with a huff. Then he smiles at Miriam. “I promise I will
help. We can even cook together. It will be fun!”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">Miriam’s face lifts into her
lopsided smile. “Okay. I’m in. “</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">Margaret claps her hands
together. “Great! Now let’s have dessert. But there’s one thing more you should
know…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have Alzheimer’s.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">***</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">As he does every day, Milo
drives home for lunch, Mooch at his side in the passenger seat. His stomach growls in anticipation as he turns into Emerson Lane.
He wonders what Miriam has made today. Pulling into the driveway, he sees Miriam
sitting on a porch swing reading. On the swing across from her are Margaret, Mac beside her holding her hand. Above them, the porch fan Mac installed turns lazily. Summer
heat has come early this year. Miriam's garden is in full bloom.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">Milo climbs from the car and Mooch
darts past him. The dog runs to the porch, smiling, eager to greet his friends.
Milo follows, leans down to kiss Miriam, then joins his wife in the swing.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">“I brought the latest <i>Architectural
Digest</i>,” he says. He knows Margaret won’t read it, but she enjoys looking
at the pictures.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">Milo looks around at his new
family and marvels at how much his life has changed in the past year and a
half. He will be forever grateful to Margaret. Were it not for her insistence,
he would probably still be alone, invisible, locked in the prison of his mind and reliving
his memories. It’s ironic, he muses. Margaret freed him, and now she is the one
imprisoned. And still, always, she smiles. He smiles back at her.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">“What’s for lunch?”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , serif;">The
End</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="background-color: #eeeecc; color: #191919; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.2px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">Posted for River of Mnemosyne Challenge 11, Muse 9: "The Safest Place Is the Prison of Your Mind"</span></span></div>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><b></b><b></b><span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span><br />PattiKenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02894925987580502697noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5798063279768967876.post-30455791272824995792020-02-16T13:22:00.000-05:002020-02-17T15:22:18.290-05:00Invisible - Part 8<a href="https://pattiken-pattiken.blogspot.com/2020/02/invisible-part-7.html" target="_blank"><i>Continued from Part 7: Memories</i></a><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6sb6-L6_kDvRVO7ZP1zTXawYNNrCThJkdePdqA0ONuP_BuOsaZNfSzit3GrSnw4kEfkYOzirLfRAbZYedWfTfrQUwanD3ZwsougxxUJT0NeiIhF9U8U-LiYvDXLJ0RU_j7og-kuUeAI4o/s1600/Shades.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="652" data-original-width="444" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6sb6-L6_kDvRVO7ZP1zTXawYNNrCThJkdePdqA0ONuP_BuOsaZNfSzit3GrSnw4kEfkYOzirLfRAbZYedWfTfrQUwanD3ZwsougxxUJT0NeiIhF9U8U-LiYvDXLJ0RU_j7og-kuUeAI4o/s320/Shades.jpg" width="217" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div>
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(Public Domain)</span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>Part 8: Musings</b><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">Miriam
blinks in surprise. "<i>Me</i>? You want me to help you? How?"</span><span style="color: black;"> </span></span></div>
</div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span>
<br />
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">Margaret smiles and begins,
"Well..." Just then, her attention is caught by Mooch, who darts from
between a row of shelving. Margaret leans down to pet him, but then she gasps and jumps to her feet.</span><span style="color: black;"> </span></span></div>
</div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span>
<br />
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">"Well butter my buns and call
me a biscuit! Mac Mackay, is that you?"</span><span style="color: black;"> </span></span></div>
</div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span>
<br />
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">When Mac looks over toward the
seating area at the front of the shop, he sees a vision in technicolor rushing over to him. It takes a moment for him to recognize her; after all, it's
been ages since he's seen her. This woman is older, of course. He remembers his friends ragging on him about her. "Margaret Jackson is kinda dowdy, dude." The woman throwing her arms around him in a big hug now could never be called dowdy She is, well, magnificent.</span><span style="color: black;"> If anyone could be called dowdy, it's him, standing there in his bus-wrinkled khakis and rumpled chambray shirt, looking gobsmacked.</span></span></div>
</div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span>
<br />
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<span style="color: black;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">"Maggie Jackson! How the hell
are you, Girl? Wow, you look great!”</span><span style="color: black;"> </span></span></div>
</div>
<span style="color: black;">
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: black;">"Do you know, no one has
called me 'Girl' since you took your idiot self and went off in search of fame
and fortune, breaking my heart in the process. For that matter, no one's calls me Maggie Jackson. I'm Margaret
Shaw now.” </span><span style="color: black;"> </span></div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: black;">"Of course. You're married. Well,
no matter the last name, you’ll always be Maggie to me. But, I'm not Mac Mackay
anymore, either. Hollywood decided I'd be a bigger box office draw if I were Mackenzie
Chastain. Can you believe it? I got used to it, though, so..."</span><span style="color: black;"> </span></div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: black;">“I’m not
married anymore,” Margaret says, a dark cloud crossing her face. “Andy---that
was my husband; we met in college---he was killed in Iraq during W’s folly. IED. We never had the chance to have kids. I’ve been a single lady ever since, throwing myself into my work.” </span><span style="color: black;"> </span></div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: black;">“Oh, I’m
sorry about your husband. I didn't know” Mac says.</span><span style="color: black;"> </span></div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: black;">Margaret gives
her head a little shake, setting the unruly grey hair around her face into
motion. The cloud on her face passes and a sunny smile replaces it. “Anyway, I’m
a slave to my job no longer! I retired yesterday.”</span><span style="color: black;"> </span></div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: black;">“So, tell
all,” Margaret goes on. “I’m not much of a movie-goer. Did you find the pot at
the end of the rainbow?"</span><span style="color: black;"> </span></div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: black;">“Ha! I
guess the studio was wrong about that box office draw part. I had some bit
parts and even go a lead in a sorta successful film.” Mac lets out a bark of a
laugh, bringing the dog hustling over. “But even if you were a big movie fan, I
can pretty much guarantee you wouldn’t have recognized me. So, short answer to
your question: no.</span><span style="color: black;"> </span></div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: black;">“I spent
most of my time in LA working odd jobs. I ended up doing construction, and
liked it okay. I decided I could do it back home in Middleburg just as well as in
LA, so I gave up the Hollywood fantasy and here I am.”</span><span style="color: black;"> </span></div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: black;">“Geez, I’m
sorry to hear that.” Margaret chuckles. “I remember you sashaying though the
halls at school wearing your shades, saying someday we were going to see you in
one of those sunglasses ads featuring famous Hollywood stars.”</span><span style="color: black;"> </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: black;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Mac pulls sunglasses from his shirt pocket and slips them on his face. "Never found the fame, but I've got the Foster Grants."</div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: black;">Margaret
glances over at Miriam, watching them from her chair, one hand over the right
side of her face. She turns to Mac, her face alight.</span><span style="color: black;"> </span></div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: black;">“Wait! How long
are you going to be here? Where are you living? What are you doing tonight?”
The words tumble out of her mouth, falling all over each other.</span><span style="color: black;"> </span></div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: black;">“Whoa,
whoa! Same old Maggie. I just got here this morning. I came here right off the bus,
looking to have lunch at the old corner drugstore.” Mac shakes his head and laughs. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘Things change, I guess. I’m back for good. I’ve
got to find a job, and a place to stay. My folks passed years ago, but I guess
you knew that. So it’s just me.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: black;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: black;"> </span><span style="color: black;">“You’re
not married either? Great. I can help you on all counts.” Margaret reddens a little and laughs. “I
mean, not on the marriage part, but I can give you a job and a place to stay,
if you’re up for it.”</span><span style="color: black;"> </span></div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: black;">Mac stares
at her. “Um…”</span><span style="color: black;"> </span></div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: black;">“Hold on.”
Margaret goes into the stacks and emerges with Milo in tow, Mooch trailing
along behind. </span><span style="color: black;"> </span></div>
</div>
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<span style="color: black;">“Come with me and I’ll explain.” </span><span style="color: black;"> </span></div>
</div>
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Leading him to the seating area,<span style="color: black;"> she introduces Mac to Miriam. She responds with a blush, which
highlights the scar on her cheek. “Hello. Nce to meet you,” she says, blushing even more furiously. Her right hand lifts to
her face again, but Mac reaches out and gently takes it to shake. </span><span style="color: black;"> </span></div>
</div>
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<span style="color: black;">Smiling
he says, “Nice to meet you too, Miriam.”</span><span style="color: black;"> </span></div>
</div>
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<span style="color: black;">Taking
them all in with a sweeping glance, her eyes sparkling with excitement, Margaret
says, “Look, I think you all can help me with my big plan. Milo has already
agreed to come over tonight to talk about it. I was going to call you, Miriam,
to ask you to come. But I’d like you <i>all</i> to come. Bring Mooch too.”</span><span style="color: black;"> </span></div>
</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
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<span style="color: black;">“But…” Miriam
begins, but Margaret interrupts. “Nope. I need you, Miriam. You’re a nurse, and,
Milo, Emmaline was my oldest friend. That pretty much makes you my old friend too. I need to pick your brains. And Mac, you know carpentry. Besides, you were my first love. I need you most of all." She winks broadly.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: black;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: black;">"Come on over
around seven. You know where I live, 1420 Emerson Lane. I’ll make a light
dinner, and we can talk while we eat. I can't wait to tell you what I have in mind. Oh, and dress casually. The place is a wreck.”</span><span style="color: black;"> </span></div>
</div>
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<span style="color: black;">Without
giving them a chance to object, she turns to Mac. “Grab your suitcase, big guy. I’ve got tons of space. Come with
me. I’ll get you settled into one of the guest rooms.” She starts for the door, calling back over her shoulder.</span></div>
</div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: black;">“See you
guys at seven!”</span><span style="color: black;"> </span></div>
</div>
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<div style="margin: 0px;">
<div style="font-style: normal;">
<span style="color: black;">Mac picks up his suitcase from behind the desk. Shrugging
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>at Milo and Miriam, he follows Margaret
out the door. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="color: black;"><a href="https://pattiken-pattiken.blogspot.com/2020/02/invisible-part-9.html" target="_blank"><i>Continued in Part 9</i></a></span></div>
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<b><i><u><sub><sup><strike><br /></strike></sup></sub></u></i></b></span>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="background-color: #eeeecc; color: #191919; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.2px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">Posted for River of Mnemosyne Challenge 11, Muse 8: "Who's That Behind Those Foster Grants?"</span></span></div>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>PattiKenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02894925987580502697noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5798063279768967876.post-36272258685841521412020-02-13T16:04:00.000-05:002020-02-17T15:03:19.119-05:00Invisible - Part 7<a href="https://pattiken-pattiken.blogspot.com/2020/02/part-6-invisible.html" target="_blank"><i>Continued from Part 6</i></a><br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwPvl-diwgRcBAjj1fW7m_Dc-XGJL8eOv9WFWbcaCenC3ojcrKF5yu160DtH1NfkIBhK5Hddes01P8B9HuJ7tDRdGGpxuuqH1opYajHsxfm0rv2jExuyJGtjrUfy0DnYZg-ys01THtw2r6/s1600/Bridge+abutment.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="753" data-original-width="1011" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwPvl-diwgRcBAjj1fW7m_Dc-XGJL8eOv9WFWbcaCenC3ojcrKF5yu160DtH1NfkIBhK5Hddes01P8B9HuJ7tDRdGGpxuuqH1opYajHsxfm0rv2jExuyJGtjrUfy0DnYZg-ys01THtw2r6/s320/Bridge+abutment.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Source: <span style="background-color: #f6f8fc; display: inline; float: none; font-family: sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">Sascha Grosser <span style="font-family: "times new roman";">& Library of Congress</span></span></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #f6f8fc; color: black; font-size: xx-small;">via WikiMedia Commons</span></div>
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<b><br /></b>
<b>Part 7: </b><b>Memories</b><br />
<br />
Mac takes a final look at his undignified teenage self, laughs again, and hands the old photo back to Milo.<br />
<br />
“I’m going to wander around the shop a bit if you don’t mind.
Maybe I can find that carefree and foolish kid in the picture. I didn’t know it
then, but that was the greatest time of my life. I was at the top of the heap," he
chuckles, “and in more ways than one.”<br />
<br />
“Sure. Take your time,” Milo replies. “Moochie will show you
around.”<br />
<br />
Mac headed into the stacks, Mooch trailing along.<br />
<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<br />
<br />
Margaret taps lightly on the display window of the bookshop.
When the woman sitting inside turns at the sound, Margaret holds up one finger and pushes open the door.
As she enters, the tinkling bell catches Milo’s attention, but Margaret gives him a smile and a quick wave, then heads over to the reading nook.<br />
<br />
“Miriam! I’m so glad I ran into you. I was going to give you
a call later.”<br />
<br />
The seated woman turns to look at Margaret, her eyes
widening. “Oh, hi, Margaret. Um, wow, you look… different, … I mean, great, you
look great.” Miriam stumbles over her surprise. She wishes she had the courage
to dress like that. But that might draw attention to her, make people look. She
pretends she’s invisible, and for the most part, she is.<br />
<br />
Miriam doesn’t know the other woman well; she only knows her
from the bank. But every time Miriam has seen her, Margaret has been the very
image of the conservative banker, dressed in a dark suit, her hair pulled back
into a knot at the back of her head. But today, she’s dressed in jeans tucked into knee-high black leather boots and a wildly
colorful flowered shirt. Draped over her shoulders, she wears a deep purple cape. A cape,
of all things! Her hair is loose, floating in a curly grey cloud around her
head. And rather than the serious faced woman Miriam usually sees at the bank,
this one is smiling broadly.<br />
<br />
Margaret laughs, and says, “My friend, you are looking at
the face of a happy woman. She’s been invisible in a corporate cage for 35 years, but voila, she’s
been set free! I retired.”<br />
<br />
“Oh, congratulations! I guess I don’t need to ask how you
feel about that.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
*** </div>
<br />
Miriam doesn’t dare consider her own retirement. She fears
that if she didn’t have her job at Serenity Acres, the elder care home, she’d probably never leave her house.<br />
<br />
Miriam is a nurse. For fifteen years, she worked as the
nurse manager at a large medical center in the city. Until she didn’t. After
the accident, instead of being the nurse manager, she became a patient at her
own hospital. The admiration of her coworkers was replaced by pity.<br />
<br />
She doesn’t talk about the accident that completely changed
her life, but she’ll never forget it.<br />
<br />
She’d like to think that Brad had changed after they got
married, but she knows she’d be deluding herself. She was young, and dazzled by the idea of marriage and family. They’d been unable to have
children, but that wasn’t the problem. Or maybe it was. After testing, they
discovered that the inability to have children had been Brad’s. Miriam was eager to
have a family, and wanted to adopt, but Brad wouldn’t hear of it. Maybe that
was why he became such a jealous man.<br />
<br />
As the years passed, his possessiveness grew, and he began
accusing her of flirting with the doctors at the hospital. She’d given him no
reason, but he became obsessed with it. It was a catch-22 for her. Because Miriam
began to dread going home, she accepted additional shifts. This, of course,
meant she was at the hospital longer, which fed into Brad’s suspicions. It was
unbearable, and she considered divorce. But Brad had other ideas.<br />
<br />
One overcast Sunday afternoon, he said, “Come on, Miriam,
let’s go for a drive. There’s something I want to show you.”<br />
<br />
“Now? But it’s going to rain, Brad.”<br />
<br />
“Nah, we’ll get back before it does. It isn’t far.”<br />
<br />
Miriam didn’t want to start another argument, so she grabbed
her bag and followed him out to the car. Sure enough, the rain started to come
down, but it didn’t deter him. He headed out toward the country, talking as he
drove. He barely let her get a word in edgewise and she soon realized that Brad
was losing it. He was rambling, apologizing for his temper, claiming it was
only because he loved her so much and didn’t want to lose her to another man. After
a few miles of his rant, he stopped the car and turned to face her.<br />
<br />
“I hope you understand, Miriam. It’s because I love you so
much.”<br />
<br />
Before she had a chance to respond, he floored the gas pedal,
and the car took off with a screech of rubber on the wet pavement. The road was
long and straight, and there were no other cars around them.<br />
<br />
“<i>Brad</i>! Brad," she screamed, "slow down!”<br />
<br />
He never lifted his foot from the gas pedal. He intended to crash the car! He wanted to kill her. There was a bridge abutment
up ahead that had been the scene of several accidents. It was known as the site
of “suicide by bridge,” though she was sure that none of the kids who were
killed there while drag racing had wanted to die.<br />
<br />
The last thing she saw before everything went black was a
bit of graffiti on the abutment.<br />
<br />
Much to her surprise, when she came to, she was in the hospital,
swaddled in bandages, her leg in a sling suspended from the ceiling. A nurse was
leaning over her. Though speech was difficult, she mumbled, “Brad.”<br />
<br />
“Sorry, hon, Brad’s gone. Your car smashed into a bridge
abutment out on County Road. You know the one. The car skidded in the rain, spun
around, and hit on the driver’s side. Brad was killed instantly, and you… well,
you’re in bad shape, but you’ll live.”<br />
<br />
Weeks later, many weeks later, she left the hospital with a small
limp and a large ugly scar on the right side of her face. Oh, and the memory of
a big heart graffiti painted on the abutment.<br />
<br />
Though plastic surgery was
possible, the doctors she spoke to---and there were many---told her repair was
difficult and would involve many operations. They all said they couldn’t return
her face to its original condition, but it would be "better."<br />
<br />
Instead of investing more of her life in endless operations,
she quit her job, sold her house, and moved to Middleburg, where no one would remember that she'd been attractive. With her credentials and experience, she quickly
found a job at the elder care facility on the outskirts of town.<br />
<br />
<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
*** </div>
<br />
She pushed the memories from her mind. She smiled her lopsided
smile at Margaret, and asked, “Why were you going to call me?”<br />
<br />
“Now that I’m retired, I can finally do something I’ve been
thinking about for a long time," Margaret responded with enthusiasm. "And I think you can help me.”<br />
<br />
<br />
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<i><a href="https://pattiken-pattiken.blogspot.com/2020/02/invisible-part-8.html" target="_blank">Continued in Part 8: Mustering the Troops</a></i><i><br /></i><br />
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<span style="background-color: #eeeecc; color: #191919; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.2px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">Posted for River of Mnemosyne Challenge 11, Muse 7: "Because I Love You, I'm Going to Kill You"</span><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />PattiKenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02894925987580502697noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5798063279768967876.post-40625812084339571802020-02-12T15:49:00.001-05:002020-02-17T14:56:32.184-05:00Invisible - Part 6<a href="https://pattiken-pattiken.blogspot.com/2020/02/invisible-part-5.html" target="_blank"><i>Continued from Part 5</i></a><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">(Public Domain)</span></td></tr>
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<b>Part 6: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Em’s
Bookshop</b><br />
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Mac pushes through the door that says "Em’s Bookshop," tinkling
the little bell that hangs above it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
shop isn’t huge, not like those behemoth bookstores that proliferate in L.A. There’s
one in every mall, which are behemoths themselves. Not one whit of charm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But this shop oozes charm. He likes it.<br />
<br />
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He looks around. In the front, left of the door where he
remembers there being twirling wire racks holding paperbacks and comic books, there is an old
wooden counter, now unoccupied, with a cash register sitting on it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Signs on the wall behind it colorfully advertise
new releases. To the right of the door, in front of the display windows that
face the street outside, several comfortable chairs gather into an inviting
seating area. Nice, way better than the
wheelchairs and walkers wearing signs that said “For Rent” that used to gather
there. A woman sits in one of the easy chairs facing away from him, engrossed
in her book.<br />
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In the center of the store are books in rows
of shelving that display them according to category. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From between Fiction and Poetry, where the soda
fountain used to be, he sees a guy wearing brown cords and a rather misshapen forest
green sweater emerge, a dog at his heels. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The man smiles at him as he approaches, but
there’s something kind of sad about him. There’s nothing sad about the dog,
though. As some dogs do, this guy is smiling. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He has one ear up and the other down, a real
Disney dog. Spotting Mac, the pooch runs up and circles him, tail going a mile
a minute.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
“Moochie, cut that out! No begging from the customers!” The man
holds out his hand to Mac, and says, chuckling, “Sorry about that. He’s very friendly
and won’t bite, but he’s always hungry. If you’d had a donut or something, you
wouldn’t have it anymore.”<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
Mac shakes his hand, and says, “No worries. I like dogs.”<br />
<br />
Leaning
down to pet the pup, he immediately sends Moochie into paroxysms of pleasure. He
falls to the floor belly up, squirming as Mac scratches his chest. Laughing,
Mac says, “Cute guy.”<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
“Can I help you find something?” the man asks.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
With a final pat, Mac straightens up and looks around. “Not
unless you tell me that the soda fountain is hidden in the back somewhere.”<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
The man smiles and says, “No, sorry. That’s long gone, ever
since Em’s Bookshop opened years ago. When the drugstore fell on hard times, we
leased the space, and here we are.”<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
“Are you Em?” Mac asks.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
“No, that was Emmaline, my wife. She died a while back. It's just me now, and Mooch here, of course. I’m
Milo.”<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
“Oh. I’m so sorry. Nice to meet you, Milo and Mooch. I’m Mac. No soda
fountain, huh? I’m hungry, but I noticed a deli next door. I’ll give that a try.”
Mac sweeps his eyes around the room. “But first I think I’ll wander around a
bit. To be honest, this is a bit of a journey back in time for me. I grew up
here, and my buddies and I spent more time hanging out in the drugstore, reading
comics and drinking soda than we did doing our homework.”<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
“Ah. I see. Come with me.”<br />
<br />
Milo leads Mac over to the counter
and reaches beneath to pull out a battered shoe box. Rummaging through it, he says, “This
is a bit of memorabilia we saved from the drugstore.” He retrieves a picture and
hands it to Mac. "This was taken out front. The booth is long gone---aren't they all?-- but maybe you’ll remember it. It should be from around your
time.”<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
Mac takes the old photo, and bursts out laughing. “Oh. My. Gawd!
I think that’s my keister posing so fetchingly up there on top! Now that’s a
motley crew if ever I saw one. Thank goodness my face is invisible!”<br />
<br />
From the chair where she's been eavesdropping, Miriam thinks to herself, thank goodness mine is too.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<i><a href="https://pattiken-pattiken.blogspot.com/2020/02/invisible-part-7.html" target="_blank">Continued in Part 7: Memories</a></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";"></span><span style="background-color: #eeeecc; color: #191919; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.2px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">Posted for River of Mnemosyne Challenge 11, Muse 6: "A Motley Crew"</span><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike></div>
<b></b><b></b><b></b><b></b><b></b><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />PattiKenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02894925987580502697noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5798063279768967876.post-59124902974659824712020-02-10T15:56:00.000-05:002020-02-12T15:54:29.051-05:00Invisible - Part 5<i><a href="https://pattiken-pattiken.blogspot.com/2020/02/invisible-part-4.html" target="_blank">Continued from Part 4: Margaret</a></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1oj7KY9orRjN-gx3OOUyoeVmLrI4_JEXs-aNS7kpJ07vPPCW3BKkomf5CIHGO8ZlzDBK-oTEhMzGaEeY6-L-sZ_dnYnSQk9a4nX0GSlPvZ_TBWgE8DI-rdgnQ7D0j5f7O6eUzHcizNmp3/s1600/Bus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="826" data-original-width="1100" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1oj7KY9orRjN-gx3OOUyoeVmLrI4_JEXs-aNS7kpJ07vPPCW3BKkomf5CIHGO8ZlzDBK-oTEhMzGaEeY6-L-sZ_dnYnSQk9a4nX0GSlPvZ_TBWgE8DI-rdgnQ7D0j5f7O6eUzHcizNmp3/s320/Bus.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Ypsilanti_Depot_Town_sign.jpg" target="_blank">(<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Credit</span>: <span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Cmadler<span style="background-color: #f9f9f9; display: inline; float: none; font-family: sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: center; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"> at </span>English Wikipedia)</span></span></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<u><span style="color: #000120;"></span></u><br /></div>
<div>
<b>Part 5: Mackensie</b></div>
<div>
<b></b><br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
By the time the bus reaches the small station and he steps
down to the sidewalk, Mac had seen most of Main Street. His old home town; it
hasn’t changed much. Oh, sure, that Walmart he saw on the outskirts wasn’t
there back then, but for the most part, he recognizes a lot of it. He feels a
peacefulness settle over him. It’s such a relief from the feelings L.A. gave him.
Yes, it was exciting at first, full of promise, but that had faded pretty fast,
leaving stress and worry about food and his rent in its stead.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
The last time he saw this town, he was on a bus about to travel in
the opposite direction. He was on his way to Hollywood, the bright lights, and the fame that awaited him there.
He was sure of it. He eschewed the idea of going to college like so many of his
high school classmates. He was an actor, and he could hear Hollywood beckoning.
Hadn’t he been a hit in the senior play? Yeah, he knew he wasn’t matinee idol
material. Remember that guy on TV a while back who used to refer to himself as
ruggedly handsome? OK, so Mac wasn’t ruggedly handsome, but he <i>was</i>
ruggedly…rugged. And he could act, right? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
Once in Hollywood, Mac answered some roommate wanted ads and found himself a room in a house with a couple of other guys trying to break into the business. He started answering audition calls, and after
a few months, a small studio signed him. First thing they did was change his
name. He was now Mackensie Chastain, for Pete’s sake, a mostly unemployed
actor. It didn’t take long for Mac to realize that every other restaurant server
and valet guy was a wannabe actor, and they <i>were</i> movie-star handsome. He wasn’t a
total failure though. The studio put him to work. He got some parts. Sort of. He at least got onto the big
screen, albeit in bit parts, most with no lines. That was more that many of the
others could claim. He was great at looking busy while walking down the hall
behind the action. Hah. That was his life out there, looking busy while wandering
around behind the action. Totally invisible most of the time. Except for his
last film. Oh, yes, the audience noticed him then.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
At what must have been his three-thousand-seventy-second audition,
he got the lead in a psychological horror film called <i>Midnight</i> <i>Obsession</i>. Horror
was not quite what he aspired to, but, hey, it was a movie and he had the lead!
Ha. It turned out that he played the creature. It was still considered the
lead, even if no one would ever recognize him. He had to wear a dreadful creature
suit made of some kind of smelly rubber or something. It was really heavy and hot as
hell inside.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
The film was actually a success. Although it was no big box
office smash, it had a decent cult following. And Mac hated it. Sweat, scales, secretions,
and sex. Hell of a plot, huh? When he finally washed off the gluey makeup,
he washed off the last of his ambition along with it. He decided to go home.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
And here he is. Home. After a moment standing on the street, inhaling the cold but <i>clean</i>---what a concept--- air, Mac thinks lunch. He heads toward the old corner drugstore. A tuna
sandwich and a lemonade, that’s the ticket.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
When he reaches he corner where he is sure the drugstore used
to be---after all, he and his buddies used to hang out there after school---he’s
surprised to see a sign telling him that it's now a bookstore,<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
Well, damn. Time passes. He turns his back for a few decades, and look what happens.<br />
<br />
But the place looks intriguing. He decides to go in and check it out.<br />
<br />
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</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<i><a href="https://pattiken-pattiken.blogspot.com/2020/02/part-6-invisible.html" target="_blank">To be continued in Part 6</a></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
Posted for River of Mnemosyne Challenge 11, Muse 5: "Tentacles of Ritual and Secretions of Madness"<br />
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike></div>
<i><b></b><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br /></i>PattiKenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02894925987580502697noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5798063279768967876.post-35824236768444259812020-02-09T16:14:00.000-05:002020-02-16T19:18:03.329-05:00Invisible - Part 4<a href="https://pattiken-pattiken.blogspot.com/2020/02/invisible-part-3.html" target="_blank"><i>Continued from Part 3: Mooch</i></a><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr8LKabc5A9S3Zco3A0TUY6CgcB2cjAcdpxJM58yYr5MI81RRAvZHScP844zV81lnoFLUSnFi53bSefpvcaL-1BVAV7WBh60AzbAenE7fG3QjyZgbBZtCZi8cjBQ6mxsAqzMUEfTXIhzM8/s1600/Emerson+Lane+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="722" data-original-width="752" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr8LKabc5A9S3Zco3A0TUY6CgcB2cjAcdpxJM58yYr5MI81RRAvZHScP844zV81lnoFLUSnFi53bSefpvcaL-1BVAV7WBh60AzbAenE7fG3QjyZgbBZtCZi8cjBQ6mxsAqzMUEfTXIhzM8/s320/Emerson+Lane+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<b>Part 4: Margaret</b><br />
<b></b><i></i><i></i><br />
After a solitary lunch at the deli, Margaret makes a quick
stop at the Old Corner Bookstore to look in on her friend Milo. Poor guy, he’s
wasting away. Her heart breaks for him. His
wife died last month, and he’s wearing his grief like a cloak against the winter
chill beginning to seep into the old shop. <br />
<br />
“Milo, please come visit me on Saturday evening. I have an
idea, and I’d like to ask your help.” <br />
<br />
Milo gives his best effort at a smile, and replies, “Um,
okay. What time?”<br />
<br />
“Great. Seven o’clock should do it. I’m sure you know where
I live. It’s that old pile at 1420 Emerson Lane. See you then!”<br />
<br />
Back in the bank, Margaret stops off in the ladies’ loo to
check for the inevitable piece of lettuce stuck in her teeth. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She smooths her unruly hair back into the bun
intended to tame it and straightens her suit skirt. Smiling at her image in the mirror,
she thinks, pretty soon, I can ditch the suit and let my hair run wild. I will
not be the invisible banker lady anymore.<br />
<br />
In her office, she turns her attention to the never-ending
paperwork on her desk until it’s time for the meeting. As vice president of the
bank, she’s convinced that it is she keeping the place afloat. But it's gotten more difficult.<br />
<br />
Under one of the stacks of paper, she finds a note that says, “Meeting in the conference room, today 4:00PM.’ It’s signed with her boss’ recognizable signature, an unintelligible scrawl of his initials. <i>What
now</i>, she thinks, quickly followed up by <i>whatever.</i> Tomorrow is her
last day. <br />
<br />
As Margaret walks down the hall, she notes that the double
doors to the conference room at the far end of the hall are closed. Odd. While
they are normally kept closed, she’d expect them to be opened in anticipation
of a meeting. She glances at her watch: 3:57PM. Perhaps she’s the first to
arrive. <br />
<br />
She opens the door, and the room bursts into applause and
cheers. She’s quickly surrounded by her coworkers, all clapping furiously.
Smiling, she looks around the room. <br />
<br />
The ceiling is festooned with balloons of every color, curly
ribbon spiraling down from each one. <br />
<br />
The conference table in the center of the room has been
transformed into a banquet table. At the left end sits a cake, iced with the
words “Congratulations, Margaret!” Down the center, she sees platters of finger
sandwiches, cookies, and brownies, the kind she loves best, deep chocolate with
nuts. And at the right end, there’s a wine bucket with the foil top of a bottle
of champagne poking out. Next to it is a tray of plastic champagne
flutes. I guess 30 years at the bank has its rewards, she thinks. I wonder if there's a gold watch...<br />
<br />
On the wall opposite the doors hangs a big colorful banner,
its fanciful letters spelling out cheery best wishes.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK_eLxsNZ92WmJGUqrXlyw1M_lGUvybtc-NN98IoFROjfAbrgdEqgpvczpl2j_SbFFdXN0ilKjMJ2_u8iVsxpesO_iLrAjJ6leDyo1kZ-omtsa0B1iOt9lYgJk_tcny34GBMYuyEkTEewZ/s1600/Banner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="848" data-original-width="1600" height="105" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK_eLxsNZ92WmJGUqrXlyw1M_lGUvybtc-NN98IoFROjfAbrgdEqgpvczpl2j_SbFFdXN0ilKjMJ2_u8iVsxpesO_iLrAjJ6leDyo1kZ-omtsa0B1iOt9lYgJk_tcny34GBMYuyEkTEewZ/s200/Banner.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<br />
<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"></span></div>
Grinning broadly, Margaret says, “You guys! Now <i>this</i>
is my kind of meeting!”<br />
<br />
There’s laughter and more applause, and then Josh Lane, the head teller, picks
up the champagne and wraps the dripping bottle in a dish towel obviously purloined
from the breakroom. “Here, you’re the star of the moment. You do the honors,”
he says as he hands the wrapped bottle to Margaret.<br />
<br />
She loosens and removes
the little metal cage over the cork, then peels off the foil. She wonders if
she should show off a little and open the bottle the way that dashing young
vintner taught her when she visited the wine caves in <i>le Périgord </i>in
France during her vacation a few years ago. Deciding against it, she positions
her thumbs on either side of the cork top, aims at the ceiling, and gives a
mighty shove. The cork flies off the top with a loud POP! and makes a direct
hit on one of the balloons, which gives an even louder POP!!! Waiting to
catch the gushing wine, Josh is at her side, holding the flutes beneath the
flow. then passes the glasses to the assembled. <br />
<br />
When everyone has a glass, old Henry Ogilvy, the bank's revered president, raises his and says, "To Margaret! I don't know what we'll do without her."<br />
<br />
You've got that right, Margaret thinks, but says, Thank you."<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<swhen a="" and="" at="" bank="" bubbling="" champagne="" do="" don="" everyone="" glass="" got="" graciously="" group="" hank="" has="" henry="" her.="" his="" i="" know="" ll="" margaret="" nbsp="" o="" of="" ogilvy="" president="" raises="" revered="" right="" s="" says="" smiles="" span="" t="" that="" the="" thinking="" ve="" we="" what="" without="" you.="" you=""><span style="color: black;"></span></swhen></div>
<br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
“What
are you going to do, Margaret?” Henry asks. "Are you planning on a trip?”</div>
<span style="color: black;"></span>
<br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
“No.
I've got a project in mind at home. Come see me,” she says, though she knows they
won’t. “You know where to find me. 1420 Emerson Lane.”</div>
<span style="color: black;"></span>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i><a href="https://pattiken-pattiken.blogspot.com/2020/02/invisible-part-5.html" target="_blank">To be continued in Part 5</a></i><br />
<br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
Posted for River of Mnemosyne Challenge No. 11, Muse 4: "1420 Emerson Lane."<br />
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<br />PattiKenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02894925987580502697noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5798063279768967876.post-76719687519522461332020-02-08T11:22:00.000-05:002020-02-18T19:38:57.216-05:00Invisible - Part 3<br />
<a href="https://pattiken-pattiken.blogspot.com/2020/02/invisible-part-2.html" target="_blank"><i>Continued from Invisible - Part 2</i></a><br />
<b><br /></b>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNzAHFBoF0sb8tNlYi6xaA7FqvoxbngrKb8iLODEpqkPJh2SA6J5mogOWgpw-p8WbQ9y7ma6mWX3-Uc2sz5_yYfYsPkkfIOcH3hwOLwd_4xha7e5DZEA8Qn4cxbbfJU2PRkLCLplQIvku8/s1600/Picture+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="559" data-original-width="922" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNzAHFBoF0sb8tNlYi6xaA7FqvoxbngrKb8iLODEpqkPJh2SA6J5mogOWgpw-p8WbQ9y7ma6mWX3-Uc2sz5_yYfYsPkkfIOcH3hwOLwd_4xha7e5DZEA8Qn4cxbbfJU2PRkLCLplQIvku8/s320/Picture+3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div>
(Credit via Creative Commons</div>
<div>
<div style="direction: ltr; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center; unicode-bidi: embed; word-break: normal;">
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/quinnanya/5015179007" target="_blank">Quinn Dombrowski</a>)</div>
</div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br /></b>
<b>P</b><b>art 3 – Mooch</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Mooch is a true denizen of the streets. He can barely
remember the time when he wasn’t homeless. Of course, he once had a home, back
when he was Mitch. But it was nothing like the home he’d hoped it would be when he was adopted. The old man was a drunk, and when he had been drinking, which was
pretty much always, he was a bully. He frequently slapped his “woman” (as he referred to her) around. And he also beat Mitch, calling him a good-for-nothing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As soon as he was old enough to really think
about it, old enough to believe he might have a chance to survive on his own, Mitch
was out of there. He slipped out one night and got as far away as he could
before he was weak with exhaustion. When he spotted a shed with the door ajar,
he went in and slept. At first light he took off again, hiding whenever he saw a
car coming. He didn’t think the old man would come looking for him, but as
scary as it was out there alone, he was determined never to go back.<br />
<br />
When he reached the busy part of town, he saw a bunch of kids
sitting just inside a park, having lunch among the fallen leaves. In between bites, they tossed leaves at each other. He went over, and they greeted him. They were friendly
enough, and one of the girls handed him part of a hamburger. He decided to hang
out with them. When they got up to leave, the girl with the hamburger said, “Come
on, kid. You might as well stick with us.”<br />
<br />
So he stayed with the kids, who seemed to be homeless too. At night, they
slept in a deserted old warehouse near the railroad tracks, and they went out
on the busy streets by day and begged. One day, Mitch went into the park to
pee, and when he came out, he saw the kids being rounded up. They were loaded into
a black van and taken away. Mitch was on his own again. <br />
<br />
At least he’s kind of gotten the hang of living on the
streets, and it isn’t quite so scary. He’s wary of being grabbed up like the
kids, though, so he spends most of his time in the alley behind the restaurants
on the main street. He can usually find decent pickings around the dumpsters
and garbage cans. Sometimes, someone opens one of the doors and chases him away.
“Get out of here, you mooch!” But mostly he's left alone.<br />
<br />
Every now and then, he ventures out of the alley and tries
to beg on the street. He doesn’t have much luck. People just rush by him as if
he were invisible. So it’s back to the alley and the garbage cans. Some of the
people inside are nice to him, and occasionally give him a bite to eat. They’ve all started
to call him Mooch, and he likes it. He puts Mitch far behind him<br />
<br />
He still sleeps in the old building at night. It’s lonely,
and still a little scary. He can hear the rats who also call the building home,
but they leave him alone. There’s a lot of pictures sprayed on the walls that
mean nothing to him. But there’s one he likes, though he doesn’t understand it.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s something restful about it. It’s
his favorite spot to sleep. <br />
<br />
Outside, it’s raining buckets. He counts himself lucky to have
a place to go that keeps him out of the rain. But tonight he has to brave it; he’s
hungry. In the alley, he goes to a garbage can where he is most always lucky. Throwing
his usual caution to the wind, he knocks the lid off and begins to pick though
the contents. The clatter of the lid hitting the ground is loud, and it brings
a guy to the door of the next place. Mooch freezes, and peers at the man through
the soaked hair hanging in front of his eyes. He hopes he’s invisible tonight.<br />
<br />
“Good heavens, man. It’s fit for neither man nor beast out
there. Come on in. I’ll share my sandwich with you.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i><a href="https://pattiken-pattiken.blogspot.com/2020/02/invisible-part-4.html" target="_blank">To be continued in Part 4: Margaret</a></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<span style="background-color: #eeeecc; color: #191919; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.2px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">Posted for River of Mnemosyne Challenge No. 11, Muse 3: "Mathematics of Man"</span><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>PattiKenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02894925987580502697noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5798063279768967876.post-68907475936715447552020-02-04T18:13:00.000-05:002020-02-17T14:47:51.929-05:00Invisible - Part 2<a href="http://pattiken-pattiken.blogspot.com/2020/02/invisible-part-1.html" target="_blank"><i>Continued from Invisible - Part 1</i></a><br />
<i></i><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgcA2kFsDpmoExf_Tjk9m7URdetrE0poJEkKY9xihnWpejrFZJzBFrn7BPFOND3dnzYR93k2bwfTmlmYoGqbLZmBeOnyVHidWJVOQ6knfLP12oo9onAWo0JHnMKtfGHfW4jb3tLZMxIcvd/s1600/Picture1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="222" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgcA2kFsDpmoExf_Tjk9m7URdetrE0poJEkKY9xihnWpejrFZJzBFrn7BPFOND3dnzYR93k2bwfTmlmYoGqbLZmBeOnyVHidWJVOQ6knfLP12oo9onAWo0JHnMKtfGHfW4jb3tLZMxIcvd/s320/Picture1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<i><b>Part 2: Milo</b></i><br />
<i></i><b></b><br />
Through the window, Milo can see the day darkening as the ominous
clouds of the predicted storm fill the sky. Dead leaves lay in the gutters, being
flattened by the first raindrops. He feels the sinking temperature in his bones, and
he’s very glad he grabbed his coat before leaving home this morning. There’s
nothing pretty about this late autumn day. Fitting,<br />
<br />
He turns to look at Emmaline, motionless in the hospital bed.
She looks so peaceful, probably, he thinks, for the first time in months. She’s
been ill for so long, and dying for almost as long. Of course, he’s heart-broken
to lose the love of his life for the past 30 years, 30 years when it was just
the two of them. But if he’s honest with himself, he must admit he’s relieved, even though he feels desperately alone and empty.<br />
<br />
How clearly he remembers the day the doctor delivered Emmaline’s
death sentence. The two of them sat before his desk, truly expecting him to
tell her that she had something like irritable bowel syndrome. They’d even
joked about it. “You’ve always been a pain in the ass, Em,” he’d said to her. Instead, the doctor looked them both in the eye, and said, “Advanced pancreatic cancer.”<br />
<br />
Nothing was ever the same again. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite the doctor’s prediction that it wouldn’t
help, she’d insisted on going through chemo. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As if dying weren’t enough, she added to her suffering, thanks to that damned chemo. She was constantly nauseous, and barely left her
bed except to rush to the toilet. It tore him up to watch the weight melt off
her. He tried to concoct tempting but bland meals, oxymoronic as that is. She
did her best to get them down, but she could never <i>keep</i> them down. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After several months, the doctor took her off
the chemo, telling her that not only was it not helping, it was making it worse
for her. She had only about a month to live. Though Milo agreed with the doctor
that she should stay in the hospital, she refused, saying she wanted to die at
home. And so she came home. He did his best to honor her wishes, giving her
pain pills and sips of water, wiping her brow, reading to her all night when she couldn’t sleep.<br />
<br />
Last night, he couldn’t stand it anymore. She lay in
the grip of pain, moaning, and he’d called an ambulance. Once back in the hospital,
they’d hooked her up to a morphine drip, and slowly, the grimace of pain faded
from her face, and she slept. He sat by her side and held her hand, listening
to her breathe. Until she didn’t.<br />
<br />
It’s time. He kisses Emmaline’s forehead gently, whispers goodbye, pulls on his coat, and leaves. He needs to get back to work. He’s left the shop in the hands of Emmaline's best friend, Margaret, who has helped him out now and then during Emmaline’s illness.<br />
<br />
It’s raining full bore by the time he gets back to the shop. After telling her that Em has gone, he thanks her and sees her out against her objections, and locks up. He doesn’t want to go home to the house, the
house that will always be empty without Emmaline. Still carrying the meatloaf
sandwich he picked up at the deli next door, he wanders aimlessly to the back
room. He’s lost. Without Emmaline, he’s nothing. In the gloom of the storeroom,
he sinks down on a box of books waiting to be shelved, and sobs.<br />
<br />
He has no idea how long he’s being sitting in the dark crying
like a baby, but a loud crash outside in the alley brings him back. No
mistaking it. It's dinner time, so it’s Mooch, picking through the garbage can. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s not his real name; rumor around the neighborhood
has it that his name is Mitch. But everyone calls him Mooch, because he’s
always looking for a handout.<br />
<br />
Milo unlocks the back door and looks though the pouring rain
at Mooch, standing at the garbage can, his coat soaked and filthy from the
streets.<br />
<br />
“Good heavens, man. It's fit for neither man nor beast out
there. Come on in. I’ll share my sandwich with you.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i><a href="https://pattiken-pattiken.blogspot.com/2020/02/invisible-part-3.html" target="_blank">To be continued in Part 3: Mooch</a></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<span style="background-color: #eeeecc; color: #191919; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.2px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">Posted for River of Mnemosyne Challenge No. 11, Muse 2: "Lost and Found In the Old Corner Bookstore"</span><br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>PattiKenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02894925987580502697noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5798063279768967876.post-20787960781134320772020-02-02T21:52:00.000-05:002020-02-18T19:36:37.340-05:00Invisible - Part 1<b><i>Part 1: Miriam</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg421HunqKDyE2-7CfHtGafSzMuWwfzsnkrAbkxaWyFLQ0SA_y1x53TTHkassJ2lxjKu8McemUD_MBfwAm0hqo0qV4PCFffu-wpokU7ntDlVJrp3YtJ4HtBCps2Ea68vWTyUzSAqbPXaU3d/s1600/Hennessey.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="148" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg421HunqKDyE2-7CfHtGafSzMuWwfzsnkrAbkxaWyFLQ0SA_y1x53TTHkassJ2lxjKu8McemUD_MBfwAm0hqo0qV4PCFffu-wpokU7ntDlVJrp3YtJ4HtBCps2Ea68vWTyUzSAqbPXaU3d/s320/Hennessey.png" width="258" /></a></div>
<br />
Miriam sits on the little chair that her mother gave her
years ago, the one she has always thought silly. Who puts a skirt on a chair,
for heaven’s sake? Snugged up close to the scarred desk she now uses as a
dressing table, she dips three fingers into a jar of Pond’s cold cream. Scooping
out a healthy dollop, she smears it on her face, part of a nighttime ritual as
old as she is. The floral, powdery scent of the cream carries her back to her
old bedroom. “Always cream your face before bed, girl,” she hears her mother
say, “and don’t forget to brush your hair 100 strokes.” Mom’s been gone for
decades, and still she nags. Miriam shakes her head and pulls several tissues
from the box at her elbow. The next thing her mother will say is sure to be
“Stop dawdling, girl!”<br />
<br />
Tissues in hand, she leans toward the three-paneled mirror in
front of her, but her attention is drawn to the reflection of the room behind
her. The room is so dowdy, so old fashioned, so <i>old</i>. Heavy mahogany
furniture fills the room and the four-poster dominates it all. An ugly chintz-covered
over-stuffed chair sits in the corner, her favorite place to read. There’s an
open book spine up on its seat and a china teacup on the table to the side. She
grimaces. Surely this isn’t my life, she thinks. In her mind’s eye, she sees
the chair in another time and place. Instead of the teacup, a glass of Hennessey
sits on the table, a cigarette resting in the ashtray beside it. From the jukebox, Nat King Cole
softly croons <i>Autumn Leaves</i>. A handsome man smiles at her from across the dimly lit room.<br />
<br />
Miriam sighs, and pulls her attention back to the job at hand and, as
always, feels the familiar twinge of confusion and disbelief at the sight of the
face in front of her. That can’t be her. Like the room in the mirror, the face
is old, much older than she is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Inside,
she is still young, still energetic, still beautiful. That face in the mirror is certainly not beautiful, something that she struggles to grasp. <i>Before</i>, when she passed by, people noticed and smiled at her. Now, no one ever really sees her; people treat her as if she were invisible<span new="" quot="" roman="" times="">. </span>Miriam feels something like grief for
the young woman who still lives within, and begins to wipe the cream from her
wrinkled face, taking the tears that have fallen along with it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i><a href="https://pattiken-pattiken.blogspot.com/2020/02/invisible-part-2.html" target="_blank">To be continued in Part 2: Milo</a></i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Posted for River of Mnemosyne Challenge No. 11, Muse 1:
"The Cigarette in the Mirror Is Not Hers"<br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>PattiKenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02894925987580502697noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5798063279768967876.post-88238234017006115732017-02-15T15:39:00.001-05:002017-02-15T22:59:24.936-05:00Lafcadio - Part 9<b><i>Part 9: The Glurpy Slurpy Best-of-All</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
(<i>Continued from <a href="http://pattiken-pattiken.blogspot.com/2017/02/lafcadio-part-8.html" target="_blank">Part 8: End of the Line</a></i>)<b><i><br /></i></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbbEfHtOY3rgoo39xIbyDO58Q3jEmDP5nslcrKqeX09dAiepAf28-2-7EAL8_0P6QHSdQxdracL_98rbOVivDhbovHJJAha0MUz9Hwd5KLtvzwv3tnNNn14VpFl9a404-P4xfTm1NZssC7/s1600/Worst.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbbEfHtOY3rgoo39xIbyDO58Q3jEmDP5nslcrKqeX09dAiepAf28-2-7EAL8_0P6QHSdQxdracL_98rbOVivDhbovHJJAha0MUz9Hwd5KLtvzwv3tnNNn14VpFl9a404-P4xfTm1NZssC7/s320/Worst.jpg" width="308" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Author: Shel Silverstein</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">It was a restless night for all of us. Even though I was
exhausted, thanks to my middle-of-the-night wake-up call the night before and
all the stress leading up to this day, I barely slept. Of course, it didn’t
help that my bunk mate was a virtual symphony of snorts, gargles, and the
occasional nonsensical outburst (“Who the fuck killed Cock Robin?”). </span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I had forgotten that about Newton.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I grab a quick shower while there’s still hot water, and head
out to the living room. To my surprise, Maggie is already there, looking as
fresh as a daisy. Albeit it a somewhat colorless one: she’s dressed
completely in black. Her black pants, turtleneck, and blazer have the odd effect of making
her look both sexy as hell and formidable. Her red hair is once again pulled
back, but in a more severe style than yesterday. No fetching tendrils curl
around her face today. The lady looks like she means business.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“I made coffee.” She offers a small smile over the magazine
she’s holding. “Couldn’t find any food, though. We didn’t even leave a pizza
crust.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Coffee sounds good. Thanks.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">As I’m returning from the kitchen, Morales and Patterson
join us. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I’m going to run down to the deli across the street and get
some bagels,” Morales says. I’ll meet you guys downstairs in the office. You
can leave your gear here, just in case.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Patterson adds, “I don’t anticipate anything going wrong,
but…”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Nothing will go wrong,” Maggie interrupts in a firm voice.
There is a tone to her voice that I haven’t heard before. What happened to the
sweet girl who picked me up in Penn Station?</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“No, probably not. But just in case, we might need to hunker
down here for a while until we see how things play out.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Shortly after Morales leaves for the bagels, Paulie Newton stumbles
into the living room. “Sleep well, sunshine?” I say sarcastically. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">He at least has the good grace to acknowledge the racket he
made. “Sorry.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Come on, let’s go down to the office. It’s almost show time,”
Patterson says. "There's coffee down there."</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">On the elevator ride down to Carlos’ office, I check my
watch. It’s just shy of 7:30am.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">~</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Carlos lowers the large screen in front of the elevator. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“I’ll turn on The Morning Show. The interview is supposed to
begin at nine,” he says, “but we want to be ready in case there’s any change in
scheduling.” </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">He punches a few keys on one of the computers. Overhead, a
ceiling panel drops down with a slight hum, and I see the projector mounted on
it come to life. A few more keystrokes, and morning anchor Chuck Kingston’s smiling
face fills the screen. “Now, let’s go to Dick for today’s weather. Is it going
to be as good as it looks?”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">We nibble at the
bagels Morales put on the conference table, but none of us really has much
appetite. The atmosphere in the room is heavy, the tension palpable.
We’ve been making our way to this moment for nearly ten years, ever since we
saw Jimmy Flanagan die while singing a goofy kids’ song. Now that we’re here,
our nerves are buzzing like high tension power lines. All of us are bowed by t</span></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">he
unbearable weight of gravitas.</span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span><span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Trying, and failing, to keep the conversation light, we talk about
sports and the upcoming Super Bowl. But our focus isn’t on it, though. I’m sure
each of us is looking inward, running over our pieces of the plan, looking for
flaws. </span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“It’s half past
eight, time to break for your local news, folks,” Kingston announces from his
studio desk. “We’ll see you on the other side.”</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“And that’s my
cue.” Maggie jumps up, and reaching under her blazer, pulls out a lethal
looking Glock. She quickly checks it, then shoves it back into its concealed
shoulder holster. </span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“See you later,”
she says, and steps though the door that leads up to the stacks above.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Stunned into
silence, we all sit there, our mouths gaping. All except Ed Patterson, that is.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Yeah, about that…”
He gives us a moment, then continues. “I told you
she was our secret weapon.”</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">~</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“And now for our
feature interview of the day. We’re joining Michael Andros at the mid-town
office of Alcázar Sentinel Security.” As Chuck Kingston speaks, the image on
the screen switches to the outside of Alcázar’s headquarters on Madison Avenue.
“What can you tell us about the building, Michael”</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Standing on the
sidewalk in front, Michael Andros gives the camera a brief
overview of the six-story building that was home to the historic Villard town
houses. </span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">The tower behind this was built
as a hotel, once reigned over by the famed ‘Queen of Mean,” Andros says.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">The image
switches to Kingston in the studio, who says, “And right after the break, Adam
Knight, the CEO and founder of the company is going to give us a glimpse into
the inner workings of the leading security firm in the world.” </span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Oh, yeah, we’ll get a glimpse into the inner workings, all
right,” Morales growled. “And Lafcadio takes aim.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">~</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“I’m here in Adam Knight’s office, Michael Andros says. “Thank
you for allowing us this rare opportunity to visit this magnificent place.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Knight strides into camera view, his arm outstretched to shake
hands with Andros. He is dressed in what looks to be an expensive bespoke
tailored suit from Italy. He’s groomed to a fare-thee-well, from his styled
hair to his manicured fingernails. Everything about him screams wealth.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“And who says crime doesn’t pay?” Morales says with a look of
disgust on his face.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“My pleasure, Mike. Mi casa es su casa.” Grinning like the
pompous ass that he is, Knight waves his arm around, gesturing at the opulence he
works in daily. “Please come in.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“See, didn’t I tell ya?” Paulie smirks. “The Sultan of
Brunei would be at home in that fucking place.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Knight leads the reporter over to a seating area and, chuckling,
introduces several men seated nearby as the “the brains behind the brain.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Oh, give me a fucking break,” I mutter.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Patterson comments, “I told you they’d be there.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Knight and Andros take their seats in gilt-encrusted chairs
that resemble thrones more than anything.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Adam, tell us a little about </span><span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Alcázar Sentinel Security,” Andros begins. </span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">And
then all hell breaks loose.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">~</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">We stare at the
screen as the camera lens swings from the seating area to the office door, which
has just burst open, spilling in a large group people in black jackets emblazoned
in yellow with the letters FBI. Several of them are carrying weapons. In the
middle of the group, I see Maggie Murphy, a fierce look burning in her eyes, her
Glock aimed right at Adam Knight. There’s a lot of shouting and confusion
caught by the camera which is jerking around the scene, and then the feed cuts
back to a very shocked looking Chuck Kingston. </span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Ladies and
gentlemen, I’m sure you are wondering, as we in the studio are, what just happened in the
offices of Alcázar Sentinel Security. We’ll fill you in as soon as we know
anything. In the meantime, let’s get the latest on the Super Bowl planning from
our sports guy in New Orleans, Susanna Baker. Susanna?”</span></span></div>
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Patterson reaches
over to the computer and closes the program bringing us The Morning Show. The screen goes white.</span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">~</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Cheers have erupted in Carlos Morales’s office. There’s a
lot of back-slapping. “We got ‘em, Jimmy. We got ‘em!” Paulie shouts. “The show
is over!”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">When things calm down, I turn to Patterson. “OK, you want to
tell us about Maggie now? Is she really Jimmy’s cousin?” As I say this, I’m
thinking that if she isn’t, the lady is one hell of an actress.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Yeah,” Paulie exclaims. “I thought she was going to blow
his fucking face off.” He grins. “Come to think of it, wouldn’t that have been
appropriate? What goes around, comes around. Lafcadio, the Lion Who Shot Back.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Oh, she’s his cousin, alright, but that’s not why I
contacted her,” he responds. “She’s also FBI Bureau Chief of the New York
Regional office. </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">That’s</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> why I contacted
her.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“I decided long ago that we needed someone inside law enforcement
if we were going to take</span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span><span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Alcázar
down. Who better than a bureau chief who just happens to have a vested interest
in seeing Knight get his just desserts?</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Amid a barrage of questions, he fills us in. Once Maggie had
agreed—indeed, pleaded—to come on board with Lafcadio, she became our conduit
of information to the people who knew what to do with it. She fed the
powers-that-be just enough information, provided by us, of course, to get a
task force formed. A task force she headed up.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Thanks to Morales’ computer skills to access the electronic
data and Newton’s access to the physical information in the building--both
supplemented here and there as needed—we gave the task force everything they
needed to begin to build a damning case against Knight, his minions, and </span><span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Alcázar Sentinel Security. </span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">And what a case they built. <span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Alcázar </span></span>had broken a
lot of laws, both domestic and international, including murder and treason.
They were going down. Oh, yeah, they were going down for a long, long time.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">~</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Maggie doesn’t
return until late afternoon. She lets herself in through the doorway we had
first entered the day before, looking a little worse for wear, but very proud
of herself. The guys all jump up and hug her, applauding her, throwing
a barrage of questions at her. I let them finish congratulating her, and then
walk over. I pull her close and gave her a big old glurpy slurpy kiss. </span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“This one’s for
you, Lafcadio!”</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><b><i>The End</i></b></span></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">(Credit, and thanks, to author Shel Silverstein<i>.</i>)<i> </i></span> <span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></span><br />
~<br />
<br />
Posted for <span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">River of Mnemosyne Challenge No. 8, Muse 2: "The Unbearable Weight of Gravitas."</span></span><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>PattiKenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02894925987580502697noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5798063279768967876.post-81228899086407004692017-02-13T18:34:00.001-05:002017-02-19T17:00:25.748-05:00Lafcadio - Part 8<i><b>Part 8: End of the Line</b></i><br />
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>(Continued from <a href="http://pattiken-pattiken.blogspot.com/2017/02/lafcadio-part-7.html" target="_blank">Part 7: The Dark Web</a>)</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2tdheZuyjUpgI3q9IWC_6hB9iECiif1raFDPBIt5iP0tXmGF1ck41uO4-92TrwgusC6cgvE3KmiBUA3sImeS-lk27uz9J9NuCsSzmydb76KwcMxW6oegvZvNFPwm3hXVjWCB7vFtEDMoE/s1600/WhereSidewalkEnds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2tdheZuyjUpgI3q9IWC_6hB9iECiif1raFDPBIt5iP0tXmGF1ck41uO4-92TrwgusC6cgvE3KmiBUA3sImeS-lk27uz9J9NuCsSzmydb76KwcMxW6oegvZvNFPwm3hXVjWCB7vFtEDMoE/s320/WhereSidewalkEnds.jpg" width="246" /></a></div>
<div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“It’s open.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I recognize Morales’ voice. Pushing the door open, I see
Patterson, Morales, and Newton sitting around the office beyond. It’s obviously
Morales’, as he is slumped in the only comfortable chair in the room. Patterson
is sitting on a hard side chair, and Newton has pulled up a cardboard box that
looks to be collapsing under his weight. Looks like our Paulie left his
fighting weight back in the Corps.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I let Maggie enter
ahead of me, and we both drop our bags in the pile of others near the door. She
then steps aside, as the rest of us exchange that weird bro-hug thing that guys
do. Then Patterson pulls Maggie over and gives her a peck on the cheek.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“I see you found her, Cameron.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I smirk. “It’s more like she found me, as you well know,
smartass.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I turn to the others, whose faces reflect their confusion at
the unknown beautiful woman in our midst. “Guys, this is Maggie Murphy. She is…was…
Jimmy Flanagan’s cousin.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">They all speak at once, surprise filling their voices, as
recognition dawns. The family resemblance is marked, especially once you know
it exists.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I introduce Carlos and Paulie, and then add, “And, of
course, you already know Ed.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Patterson chuckles. “indeed. Maggie is our—and Lafcadio’s--secret
weapon.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The smile on Maggie’s face is intriguing. And now we’re all
confused.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“We’ll talk about that later. Right now, let’s put the final
touches on it. Tomorrow is the big day.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Carlos Morales nods. “Come on into my little command center.”
He gives Patterson a smirk as he says it. We all know who’s in command here.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">He turns and walks over to a door on the opposite side of
the small office just as I’m wondering where we are all going to sit. On the
other side is a spacious room, looking more like the squad room on a TV cop
show than anything else. On one side is a large conference table surrounded by
half a dozen desk chairs. Scattered around the rest of the space are several
computer stations, too small to be called desks, but big enough to hold a large
monitor and some paperwork. Beneath each is a pull-out tray with a keyboard and
mouse, and on the floor, a CPU. On two of the walls hang large white boards
covered in notations, photographs, and diagrams. The fourth wall has a
projection screen hanging in front of it.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Wow.” Paulie Newton speaks for all of us. Carlos’ little
command center ain’t so little.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">~</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">For the next several hours, we sit around the conference
table, talking about what’s going to happen tomorrow and the work that’s led up
to it.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Our go time is just before 9am,” Ed begins. “I’m confident
that no one has caught wind of our plans. </span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I’ve got ears on every phone conversation in </span><span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Alcázar’s headquarters. And through those
phones, I know where all the key players are. So far, it’s business as usual,
such as it is.”</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“What do you
mean?” Maggie asks.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Well, you know
what Alcázar Sentinel Security is.” She nods. “They provide military-style security
and training to customers here and abroad. Of course, we know they were in
Afghanistan to ‘protect’ the NATO forces we were attached to.” Paulie makes a
rude noise at that. “But they’ve got lots of big multi-national corporate
clients too, companies worried about kidnappings, theft, technology espionage, etc.”</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Talk about
having the fox guard the hen house,” I comment.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Right. Because,
yes, Alcázar is just as billed. But they are so much more. Their client roster offers
a buffet of bounty laid out for the taking, just like the opium trade in
Afghanistan. Needless to say, business as usual is quite profitable for our
friend Adam Knight.”</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Maggie looks at
Patterson. “So, if Alcázar is all that, how are you able to bug their phones
undetected? I would think their security would be a huge obstacle.”</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Ed smiles. “I
haven’t bugged the phones, Maggie. ‘Bugged' isn’t quite the right word, but I
bugged their freaking towers. So to speak.”</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Morales laughs. “Adam
Knight is no match for Mr. Telecom Patterson here. </span></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Conquering stumbling
blocks is easier when the conqueror Is in tune with the infinite. Except Ed
here </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">wrote</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> the tune. M</span><span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">aybe we should call him Pa Bell.” </span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“And speaking of
key players,” Ed adds, “Knight is in town, happily ensconced in his
office. Right where we need him to be. Good work on that, Corcoran.” He’s
referring to the interview that I’ve arranged for Knight. It’s to be filmed in
his office tomorrow morning and aired on the evening news. The man never passes
up a change to get his face in front of the camera.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Paulie Newton pipes up. “Not that it matters, but speaking
of his office… You should see the fucking place.” He pauses to offer a gesture
of apology to Maggie.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“No problem, Paulie,” she says. “I’ve heard worse.” As she
speaks, she gets up to look at the white boards.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">He goes on. “The ceiling has a mural painted on it, with this
giant crystal chandelier thing hanging from the center. And there is gold all
over the place, on walls, the furniture, even the fixtures in the frigging bathroom.
It is fucking ugh-ly.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Just so long your personal touches to the décor are in
place,” Patterson says.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“No worries in that regard.” Newton winks. “All taken care
of.” </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Patterson turns to Morales. “How about your digital décor,
Carlos? Everything good?”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Yep. All set and ready to go. I’ve drawn a diagram on the
board over there, showing all the connections. It’s like a system of hidden
tunnels. Very commando of me, if I do say so myself.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“I was just looking at that. It’s fucking brilliant.” Maggie
winks at Paulie as she says it. “I’m impressed.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Newton gets to his feet, and gives his best Lord Plushbottom
bow to Maggie.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">~</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">After my long day, fueled by only a blueberry scone and the
hot dog Paulie had run out to buy from a Sabrett’s cart on Fifth, I’m starving,
and pretty damned tired. I can tell the others are feeling the same way, and
Patterson takes notice. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Before winding things up for the day, he suggests we check the boxes and make sure we are good to go. He and Morales take seats at a computer, and soon their fingers are flying over the keyboards.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">"I see no footprints in any of the systems I've used for my bit," Carlos Morales says. "Everything looks good. Hard to spot, easy to find," he chuckles. "At least with the map we're gonna give 'em."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">"Excellent." Ed Patterson scrolls though several screens of data on his monitor. "Call logs show nothing out of the ordinary. And Knight is in the residence. I won't bother checking on the others. The interview tomorrow will be a command performance. They'll be there."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">"I'm sure they will," I comment. "The man loves an audience."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">"I've got nothing much to add," Paulie says. "I checked everything I put in place last night after hours. It's all right where I left it."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">"Good. Maggie, are you ready?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">She winks, and reaching down to pat the purse at her feet, says, "Sure am. I can't wait."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
T<span style="font-family: "calibri";">he others and I look at each other, eyebrows raised. None of us know her role yet, but I'm sure we'll find out. Patterson must have his reasons. He always does.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">With a clap of his hands, he announces, "OK, I think that's it. Good work, everyone. </span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Carlos, I believe you’ve arranged for dinner and our
accommodations?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Yes, indeed. Grab your bags, and follow me.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">He walks over and raises the projection screen, revealing a
small elevator behind it. We all crowd in, no small feat, what with our bags and
coats. Morales pushes a button and up we go. When the door opens, we find
ourselves in an apartment on the top floor. I’d heard about these “secret” library
apartments, established by Carnegie for the custodians who had to tend the
library’s coal furnace back in the day. There was one in every branch, but most have either
been repurposed or fallen into disrepair. But here in the main library, the
apartment has not only been maintained, it has been expanded and refurbished.
Pretty damn sweet, far better than my walk-up in the Village.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Here you go. Welcome to one of New York’s best kept
secrets.” Morales leads us in with a sweep of his arm. “There are three bedrooms.
The guys will bunk up two to a room, and, Maggie, you’ll take the other. Both
rooms have a bath.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Not too shabby,” Paulie Newton says with a grin as he wanders around
the living room. "Not too shabby at all.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“I’ve ordered pizza to be delivered to the catering kitchen
downstairs. While I run down and get it, help yourselves to a beer. The
refrigerator’s stocked.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">~</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">After we’ve eaten every morsel of pizza, and possibly part
of the boxes, Patterson raises his bottle.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“This is it, guys, the end of a long path to justice. I
think we’ve done it. Tomorrow we can finally put the end to Adam Fucking
Knight and his merry band of criminals. Here’s to Jimmy, the Lion Who Shot Back, and
the end of the line.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“To Jimmy and the end of the line! Lafcadio!”</span><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">To be concluded in
<a href="http://pattiken-pattiken.blogspot.com/2017/02/lafcadio-part-9.html" target="_blank">Part 9: The Glurpy Slurpy Best-of-All</a></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></i>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">(Credit, and thanks, to author Shel Silverstein<i>.</i>)<i> </i></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"> ~</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Posted for River of Mnemosyne Challenge No. 8, Muse 8: “Conquering
the Stumbling Blocks Comes Easier When the Conqueror Is in Tune with the
Infinite.”</span></div>
</div>
<br />PattiKenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02894925987580502697noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5798063279768967876.post-85825981802165763242017-02-12T17:21:00.001-05:002017-02-15T16:22:42.342-05:00Lafcadio - Part 7<i><b>Part 7: The Dark Web</b></i><br />
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>(Continued from <a href="http://pattiken-pattiken.blogspot.com/2017/02/lafcadio-part-6.html" target="_blank">Part 6: Underface</a>)</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkIkVcYFE3pRbYQQ0j4dqSppaTTxC36wb8pIK6t9bIDX3XbCo5zQXU62wjdn4h9pFCipZZBRMzBkB662WPjMwBftv0aPLAtKE8tO1mTbvJ6z5W-WndU3zVsAFhBJRYurnHUjfBJa_EX_ma/s1600/Batty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkIkVcYFE3pRbYQQ0j4dqSppaTTxC36wb8pIK6t9bIDX3XbCo5zQXU62wjdn4h9pFCipZZBRMzBkB662WPjMwBftv0aPLAtKE8tO1mTbvJ6z5W-WndU3zVsAFhBJRYurnHUjfBJa_EX_ma/s320/Batty.jpg" width="244" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Maggie and I finish our coffee and hit the streets again.
It’s almost ten, but we are only a few blocks from the library.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">We pick our way around the small crowd lined up outside Macy’s
waiting for the doors to open at ten. As soon as we are clear—well, as clear as
you can be on the sidewalks of midtown Manhattan on a weekday morning—I resume
our conversation.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“So, let’s go back to why you’re here again? And </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">how</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";">?” I prompt. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Since we are close to the library, this seems an important
thing to know. She seems to be much more clued in than I am, including knowing
where to find me and that our destination is the library.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Well, when I met with Ed Patterson, he kind of filled me in
about the goings-on with your little band of mischief makers.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Goings-on? Mischief makers?</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“I know you guys are convinced that Adam Knight is
responsible for Jimmy’s death, and are spinning quite the web to trap him. When
I heard that, I asked if I could play too. I mean, how could I not?”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I’m taken aback by her words. Patterson didn’t tell her
everything, obviously, but he told her enough. Maybe too much. Let’s be real
here; we are a bit more than “mischief makers” and this is no game. If this
goes sideways—and given the capabilities of </span><span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Alcázar, very possible—we could all end up in the hoosegow. Though I’m sure
Maggie would look lovely in orange, I’d hate to see that happen. What is Ed
thinking?</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“But how’d you
find me this morning? Even I didn’t know I was going to Penn Station when I
left my apartment.”</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Oh, come on,
Matt. Have you </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">met</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> Ed Patterson?” Her
words are dripping with sarcasm. “You do know what he does for a living,
right?”</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">And then it hits
me. Okay, yeah, I’m a bit slow this morning, but hey, I’ve been up since ages
ago.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The fucking phone. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">A few years ago, my mail delivery included a package from
some toy company in the Midwest I’d never heard of. Inside the colorful inner
packaging was a cell phone. The screen image on the phone said, “Keep me
close.” I couldn’t wake the phone up from its slumber, and for a while I
thought it might be actually </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">be</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> a
toy. Until the day it rang. I pressed the call button, and found Ed Patterson on
the line. He explained during the conversation that the phone was an “off the
grid” model (uh-huh), one of only a few. It didn’t take much wondering on my
part to know where the others were. I don’t know what Patterson’s job at Galaxy
is, but apparently, it enabled him to come up with this nifty little Star-Trekkian
communicator.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The phone was for Lafcadio, he told me, and I was to use it
only to receive calls until further notice. I assume the others were told the
same thing. A few months later, a text on the phone told me where to
go for the next meeting, the one in Mississippi.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">At the last meeting, Ed told us we could use the phone to
call each other, but only in the event of an emergency. Fortunately, that has
not been necessary. We are approaching objective, and so far, everything has
gone according to plan, thank you very much.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I raise my eyebrows at her. “The phone.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“You got it.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I realize that Ed has been keeping tabs on me—on all of us,
probably—through the GPS on the phone. Even when I got that Big-Brother-ish
text this morning, it didn’t occur to me to question how he knew I hadn’t left
yet.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Of course. So, he sent you and the window dressing to Penn
Station to accidentally meet me.” She nods. “But why?”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Before answering, she reaches into the pocket of her coat
and pulls out a cell phone identical to mine. She holds it up so I can see the
text message displayed on the screen: “Lafcadio awaits.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">She grins. “Because I’m going with you. I’m in.” </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“But what about your family? Your job?” I ask as we approach
the front of the library on Fifth Avenue.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“The only family I have now is Aunt Kathleen, Matt. Somehow,
I think she’d want me to do this for Jimmy.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">She’s right. If Kathleen Flanagan knew that it wasn’t the Taliban
that killed Jimmy, but an American who’d been there purportedly to protect him,
she’d be all for this. Shit, with the Irish temper I’d seen flare up on
occasion, she’d probably want to be a part of operation Lafcadio too.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“And your job?”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“You let me take care of my job.” </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I catch a tiny glimpse of the same Irish temper in Maggie
Murphy as she squares her shoulders and heads up the steps between the lions
guarding the library’s entrance. </span><span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Patience
and Fortitude. Fitting, no? Lafcadio is no doubt right at home.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Inside, the
library reading room is dim, except for reading lamps on the tables that fill
the space between the stacks. As it always does, the room takes my breath away.
I’ve been briefed on where to go once inside, and apparently Maggie has too, because
she heads with purpose for a staircase that leads down to the ground level
floor.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">At the bottom of
the stairs, we pause a moment to get our bearings, then spot the sign above a
room in the far-left corner. “Children’s Reading Room.”</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">When Paterson first
filled us in about this part of the plan, I’d thought it was perfect. What
better place to kick off Lafcadio than in the den where the Lion Who Shot Back
lives. </span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Surprisingly, the
room is empty, but when we get inside, I can see why. There is a large poster
just inside the doorway announcing the showing of a children’s film in the
meeting room behind the space. Laughter drifting toward us confirms my
deduction.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">We wander along
the stacks in the room, reading titles, until we come to the shelf holding a
collection of Shel Silverstein books. Jimmy would have been in heaven in this
room. He loved children’s books, and Silverstein was his favorite.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Maggie stoops,
and points to several books on the bottom shelf. Lafcadio. There are seven of them. I
count four from the left, and pull the book out. But we don’t take it. I put it
on one of the Lilliputian reading tables, and we leave the room. </span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“This way.” I take
the lead and, following Patterson's directions, take the corridor deeper into the bowels of the building to an door into the massive
stacks at the back. The room is very brightly lit, which makes
me nervous, but there's no one around. When we get to the row Patterson had
designated, nearly smack in the middle of the stacks, we see a door standing
ajar from the stack on our left. It’s one of those cool bookcase doors, shelves
of books on the outside that make it invisible when closed. The opening mechanism was triggered when I pulled the Lafcadio book from its place. </span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Ah, our portal,”
Maggie says.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">We step through
the opening, and I pull the door closed behind us. We’re instantly plunged into
darkness. Lest we take a header, I pull out my phone, my personal phone, and click on the flashlight app to light our way
down the stairs. Maggie takes my hand as we navigate our way to the bottom, where there is just one door. </span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I take a breath, and knock.</span></span></div>
<div>
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">
</span></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Continued in<a href="http://pattiken-pattiken.blogspot.com/2017/02/lafcadio-part-8.html" target="_blank"> Part 8:The End of the Line</a>.</i></span></span><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></i>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">(Credit, and thanks, to author Shel Silverstein<i>.</i>)<i> </i></span></span></div>
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">
</span></span>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></span></div>
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">
</span></span>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">~</span></span></div>
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">
</span></span>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></span></div>
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">
</span></span>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Posted for River of Mnemosyne Challenge No. 8, Muse7: “When
the Door is Ajar.”</span></span></div>
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">
</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<br /></div>
PattiKenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02894925987580502697noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5798063279768967876.post-57804050504247315342017-02-11T16:48:00.000-05:002017-02-15T16:15:02.603-05:00Lafcadio - Part 6<i><b>Part 6: Underface</b></i><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
(<i>Continued from <a href="http://pattiken-pattiken.blogspot.com/2017/02/lafcadio-part-5.html" target="_blank">Part 5: Masks</a></i>)<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkVEn1vyYJFYp8hrAggB89RCVOlcypAeOcd2KUNzPdnVL63Cl-8XA9Llk9doWsAXDYMiZJOKtNJasdk0IAuotBoQV7tAYQpiYX8QylU87J2L3FzLklrWoyU8_Kz1i3AiaHorHd9VCGLvNY/s1600/Underface.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkVEn1vyYJFYp8hrAggB89RCVOlcypAeOcd2KUNzPdnVL63Cl-8XA9Llk9doWsAXDYMiZJOKtNJasdk0IAuotBoQV7tAYQpiYX8QylU87J2L3FzLklrWoyU8_Kz1i3AiaHorHd9VCGLvNY/s200/Underface.jpg" width="189" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Some might say Operation Lafcadio was like a ballet, each
part danced with finesse. But we’re Marines; we don’t dance any fucking ballets.
Personally, I prefer to think of Lafcadio as a suspense thriller, but then, I’m
a writer, so of course I would. Actually, it’s more like a symphony, with each section of
the orchestra—that's the four of us—playing its own part of the score. As
the writer in the group, my job was as composer. I’d rather have a scriptwriter
credit, but that would be mixing my metaphor. </span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">My challenge was to move us toward our finale along
unexpected, and hopefully unconnected, routes. The ultimate measure of our
success would not be taking down Knight and his bastion of jackbooted
mercenaries, though that’s the objective, but to do so without landing ourselves
in prison. Thus, my score is a series of interlocking movements. If I‘m
successful for once in my writing career, they will all come together in a
crashing crescendo.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Ed Patterson, as I’ve mentioned, is our conductor, making sure we are on point and in tune with the others. In keeping with maintaining our
seemingly unconnected roles in this operation, we have had no direct contact with
each other. Not since we said goodbye at Logan nine years ago, other than a few
meetings in out-of-the-way places. Individually, we’ve each visited Kathleen
Flanagan from time to time (who is doing fine these days, I’m happy to report,
and is planning to marry in a few months), but never together after the first
time following Jimmy’s death. </span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">All our communication goes through Patterson, who is, after
all, a telecom expert. </span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Shortly after he
left the Marines, he joined Galaxy Communications, part of the giant family
tree descended from Ma Bell. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Early on, “invitations” to meetings came in bizarre costume.
The first was a letter offering me a free weekend at a resort in the Virgin
Islands if I would attend a sales presentation for a time share in St. Croix.
Since I knew the Lafcadio calls to meet would come in disguise, I accepted the
offer and went to the resort. Along with a change of clothes, bathing suit, dopp
kit, and camera, my carry-on held a small laptop and three thumb drives of
tourist information about the Virgin Islands. I’d also loaded my encrypted action
plan to date onto the drives. As I boarded the plane, I hoped I wasn’t spending
my hard-earned (though hardly-earned would be more accurate) cash to sit
through a boring sales pitch. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Two meetings followed during the next few years, one at a Habitat for Humanity house build in East Overshoe, Mississippi, and one at an electronics trade show in Chicago. Each time, I brought the next movement in the Lafcadio piece to the others. The last was close to home for me and Patterson, here in New York. There were just a few loose ends to tie up. The plan
was coming together.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Patterson continued to avail himself of some of the advantages
of working at Galaxy. Let’s just say, the NSA had nothing on him when it came
to access to inside information.</span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Adam
Knight couldn’t sneeze without Ed Patterson saying “Gesundheit.” It became
obvious that </span><span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Alcázar’s involvement
in criminal activity didn’t end with Afghanistan. That would help us immensely.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">While Patterson kept
his ear on things telephonically, so to speak, Carlos Morales was putting his not
insignificant computer skills to work picking the lock on the back door into Alcázar’s
network. Sitting at his desk in a quiet, all-but-hidden corner of the main
branch of the New York Public Library, he was wandering the digital hallways of
Knight’s fortress, poking his head into any room he chose. The first thing he
did once inside was build himself what he called a secret trapdoor so he’d
never have to use their back door again. He’s visited again and again, mapping the
comings and goings of the company’s bits and bytes.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Paulie Newton’s
access to Alcázar’s hallways is grounded in physical reality rather than the
virtual reality that is host to Morales’ visits. About eight years ago, Alcázar
turned some of its nefariously earned wealth into real estate. When the former Helmsley
Palace came on the market, they snatched it up. Fitting, if you ask me. The
hotel may have had the appearance of a palace, but the queen who once lived
inside was reportedly a witch. Alcázar left the façade, but tricked out the interior
with gilt and ivory, turning it into a true alcázar to house the company headquarters.
In both cases, the pretty face hid the face of evil lurking beneath. Our
Paulie is the building manager. How great is that?</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">And me? Well you
know what I do. I write.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">~</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">My new-found
companion and I leave Penn Station, her arm linked through mine, and head up 7</span><sup><span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup><span style="font-family: "calibri";">
Avenue. As we walk, I find myself feeling totally comfortable, as though we’ve
walked through the city arm-in-arm before. I feel like I know her, really odd
since I’d just met her for the first time 15 minutes earlier.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;">“</span>By the
way, my name is Margaret, Maggie for short, Murphy. And I know your name.” She
says. <span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;">“But, have you figured out who
I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">am</i> yet?"</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">
</span></span>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;">I turn to face
her, astonished. “No! How could I know who you are?”</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;">As I speak, my
feelings of familiarity are telling me that I should know who she is. But I’m
certain I’ve never even heard her name before. It just isn’t coming to me.</span></span></span><span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">
</span></span></div>
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Think about it.”
We continue walking as I do. Think about it, I mean.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">After we cover a
half block, she adopts a different voice and, not looking at me, recites:</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px 48px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Underneath my outside face<br />
There's a face that none can see.<br />
A little less smiley,<br />
A little less sure,<br />
But a whole lot more like me.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I stop dead in my tracks. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Swinging around to look at her again, more closely this
time, I see it. Jimmy Flanagan.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“But… Jimmy was an only child!”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Yes. We were cousins, but we may as well have been
siblings. We were inseparable as kids. We lived just down the block from each other. Aunt Kathleen is my mom’s twin sister and
our families did everything together--holidays, vacations, you name it. Jimmy and I were joined at the hip during the summers. Well, we were until my dad got transferred to Seattle. And then Uncle Mickey got killed in a car accident. I didn't see much of Jimmy after that.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I see tears forming in her eyes, and ask if she’d like to
sit down. “Could we? It’s still early, and I could really use a coffee.” She
nods toward the Starbucks on the corner.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The place is jammed, but as we walk in, a couple gets up and
leaves. While Maggie snags the table, I go up to the counter and buy us two coffees
and a couple of blueberry scones. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“OK” I say after I’ve settled into my chair, “tell me. What
are you doing here?” Given the pack of people all around us, I keep my voice
low.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Well, like I said, Ed sent me.” </span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">She takes a bite of the scone, followed by a
sip of coffee, and moans a little. “Sorry, but I didn’t have breakfast. This
tastes so good.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I can’t take my eyes off her. Now that I know who she was, I
see Jimmy in her face. Except she’s much prettier. No wonder I’ve been feeling
so comfortable with her.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Go on”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Ed contacted me a while back. He told me how you guys hung
out with Jimmy in Afghanistan, that you were with him when he died. When he
asked if we could get together, I jumped at the chance.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">As she speaks, I quickly look around, but it seems no one is
taking notice of us. The hum of conversation in the coffee shop masks our low voices.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">She pauses to take another sip of her coffee, and regain her
composure. When she looks up at me again, her face has softened and her smile
is even warmer, if that’s possible.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Just as she speaks, everyone seems to pause at the same time to take a drink or chew their muffin. In the ensuing silence, her words fill the void, and several of the
strangers around us smile. Except me. If I thought she couldn’t shock me again,
I was wrong. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“He was my first great love, you know. He gave me my first kiss.” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">She gives that a moment to sink in, then, eyes
twinkling, she continues, “Of course, we were only five.”</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><i>Continued in <a href="http://pattiken-pattiken.blogspot.com/2017/02/lafcadio-part-7.html" target="_blank">Part 7: The Dark Web</a>.</i></span><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></i>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">(Credit, and thanks, to author Shel Silverstein<i>.</i>)<i> </i></span></span></div>
<div>
<i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></i></div>
<div>
<i><span style="font-family: "calibri";">~</span></i></div>
<div>
<i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></i></div>
<div>
<i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></i></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Posted <span style="font-family: inherit;">for River of Mnemosyne Challenge No. 8, Muse 6: “</span><span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Telling a Roomful of Strangers about My Love Life.</span></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">”</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<br /></div>
PattiKenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02894925987580502697noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5798063279768967876.post-19137227001914769212017-02-10T16:06:00.002-05:002017-02-15T16:12:52.873-05:00Lafcadio - Part 5<b><i>Part 5: Masks</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
(<i>Continued from </i><a href="http://pattiken-pattiken.blogspot.com/2017/02/lafcadio-part-4.html" target="_blank"><i>Part 4: Barooom!</i></a>)<br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_PGLcCJmqI0f7I4c19uRSaaTI1uOlq87DLgqmi05krKwsj_4RtpvVTsYb7ImeGP0uChdxj9x4Ga3jFbAS2zxN6SNRhcpbuNuz_w3QNU6MV9VyPUEsqZYAQUR0d7CiKGJUM05vQnrDk1Jm/s1600/Masks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_PGLcCJmqI0f7I4c19uRSaaTI1uOlq87DLgqmi05krKwsj_4RtpvVTsYb7ImeGP0uChdxj9x4Ga3jFbAS2zxN6SNRhcpbuNuz_w3QNU6MV9VyPUEsqZYAQUR0d7CiKGJUM05vQnrDk1Jm/s320/Masks.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Author: Shel Silverstein</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We all landed back in the States at pretty much the same
time. When we got leave, our first order of business was to pay Jimmy’s mom a visit.
Jimmy had asked us to look after her, and we had every intention of doing that.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Kathleen Flanagan lived outside of Boston in Natick, the town where Jimmy grew up.
The four of us met up at Logan Airport and rented a car. As I drove us out the
Mass Pike, Carlos asked, “Do you think she knows about Jimmy’s secret life over
there in the desert?”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“No,” Ed said, “and we’re not going to tell her. Jimmy ‘was
killed by the Taliban,’ and that’s how it will stay. Let’s not make it worse on
her.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The visit was a painful one. Jimmy’s mom was so glad to see
us, and eager to talk about Jimmy. We sat around her gingham-covered kitchen table, on which
she’d spread tea and shortbread cookies, and shared stories about our friend.
Jimmy being the clown he was, it was easy to keep the stories light. It wasn’t
so easy to look past the pain in his mother’s eyes.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Paulie was in the middle of doing a lousy imitation of Jimmy
reciting one of his favorite kids’ poems, when Kathleen Flanagan suddenly
exclaimed, ”Oh! I almost forgot!” </span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She jumped up and rushed from the room, leaving us looking at each other and wondering what was up. She was back in a
minute, carrying a cardboard box.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“There are three more of these. Come on, boys, make
yourselves useful.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We followed her into what was obviously Jimmy’s room, still
looking as if he’d just left it yesterday. I suspected it would look like that
for a long time. Ed, Paulie, and I each picked up a box from the bed and
carried it out to the kitchen.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“These are for you. Jimmy tells me…" She stopped and swallowed hard. "Jimmy <i>told</i> me how much
you enjoy his stories. I can tell he was right. I know he would want you to
have these.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I pried open the flap on one of the boxes and, inside, found
a collection of children’s books.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Oh, no, we couldn’t…” Ed began, but she held up her hands
to stop him.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“I’ll have none of that. I insist. You boys were his best
friends. And you’re young; someday you’ll have kids of your own. Passing these
on to you is the best tribute to Jimmy I can imagine.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She paused to blink back the tears that filled her eyes.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Besides, I’ll never have
any grandchildren to read them, and it’s too hard for me to have them around.
So, take them. You’ll be doing me, and Jimmy, a favor.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">How could we say no? Promising to stay in touch, we loaded the boxes into the car, kissed
her goodbye, and headed back to the airport.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">On the drive, we talked about the plan we’d come up with in Afghanistan.
Operation Lafcadio.</span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">We’d each taken on
an assignment. Well, let me rephrase that. Ed had given us each an assignment--old habits die hard--which we enthusiastically accepted. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">He went over it again. “This stuff is just field prep, guys.
If we are going to get to Knight, we need to have our ducks in a row. Once we
get all the intelligence we need, then we can refine the plan. The primary
target is Knight. But if we do this right, we’ll bring </span><span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Alcázar down with him.</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">That sounded good to
the rest of us. We agreed to meet in a year or so to compare notes.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“I’ll be in touch,” Ed said, “and give you the where and when."</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">~</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The redhead sits down in the empty chair, puts her travel bag at her
feet, and carefully folds her coat over her lap. Then she turns to me. A
100-watt smile lights up her face. There’s… she seems familiar somehow.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">A jolt of something like recognition warms me. I know I’ve
never seen her before. No way would I have forgotten this woman. The red hair
that frames her face is pulled back into a loose knot at the nape of her neck.
Tendrils that have managed to escape curl softly against skin that brings all
manner of clichés to mind. I settle on peaches and cream.</span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">The blue of her dress brings out the color of
her eyes, which seem to dance with mischief as she leans over and kisses me. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Smiling at me, she says, “Hi, Matt. Sorry I'm late.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I nearly fall off my chair.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Wha…”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Still smiling, she whispers, “</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sssh</span></i><span style="font-family: inherit;">, relax. We want to look normal, right?” </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And then she winks. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Whoa. There is nothing fucking </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">normal</span></i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> about this. I try to smile back at her in some kind of
natural way, but I have a feeling I look like I’m grimacing around the pickle
in my mouth.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Who…?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m still reeling from the first blow when she winds up and delivers the second one.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Ed sent me.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Ed…Ed </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Patterson</span></i><span style="font-family: inherit;">?” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The lighthearted look she's worn on her face slips, revealing something serious beneath as she nods.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Ed fucking Patterson. Of course he
did. If I’ve learned nothing through all this, it’s that Patterson is always one-and-a-half
steps ahead of everybody.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">My shock is so complete, I struggle to keep my mask of
nonchalance in place.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I take a deep breath. “OK, I’m thinking there's
something going on here that I don’t know about. We should talk, yeah?” I gesture
to the crowd of commuters circling the station like fish in an aquarium.</span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">“But not here. Can you leave your
companions…?” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">A glance down the row to the now empty seats brings me to a halt.
Eyebrows raised, I shoot a questioning look at her.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Stage props, Matt,” she replies. “Ed thought it would be a
good idea.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Yes, I’m sure he did.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Let’s make our way to the library,” she says, surprising me
again “I’ll explain everything on the way.”</span><br />
<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Continued in <a href="http://pattiken-pattiken.blogspot.com/2017/02/lafcadio-part-6.html" target="_blank">Part 6: Underface</a>.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">(Credit, and thanks, to author Shel Silverstein<i>.</i>)<i> </i></span><br />
<br />
<br />
~<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Posted for River of Mnemosyne Challenge No. 8, Muse 5:
“</span><span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Alcázar Down</span></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">”</span></div>
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<br /></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>PattiKenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02894925987580502697noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5798063279768967876.post-57874674928563443812017-02-09T15:30:00.000-05:002017-02-15T16:07:16.543-05:00Lafcadio - Part 4<i><b>Part 4: Barooom!</b></i><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<i><span style="font-family: "calibri";">(Continued from </span></i><a href="http://pattiken-pattiken.blogspot.com/2017/02/lafcadio-part-3.html" target="_blank"><i><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Part 3: Something Silly, Something Gone</span></i></a><i><span style="font-family: "calibri";">)</span></i><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigRmezEPukykRTVWWOWH80ae5Ie5dKkBDpU7fPqRrv1k0yO54N9e4Q_qt7278eYpDCsAMYZDFGvBYz1Av09mYjpR4jmEgpaJR_OsgvTJo3a6Eefu1G20EH6VdPUSwY7nRV1pnKsJwwl75R/s1600/Baroom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigRmezEPukykRTVWWOWH80ae5Ie5dKkBDpU7fPqRrv1k0yO54N9e4Q_qt7278eYpDCsAMYZDFGvBYz1Av09mYjpR4jmEgpaJR_OsgvTJo3a6Eefu1G20EH6VdPUSwY7nRV1pnKsJwwl75R/s320/Baroom.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div>
Credit Shel Silverstein</div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">We finally got down to it about three weeks after Jimmy was
killed. It was a clear moonless night, with the kind of sky you rarely see
anywhere but the desert. It looked like black velvet with a bucketful of
diamonds strewn across it.</span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Below, the
blackness was even more complete. As we sat in our usual spot under the
outcropping, we could just make out the shapes of the guys sitting right next
to us. It seemed like a good time to talk about the
note.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">In a voice barely above a whisper, Paulie began the conversation. “Anybody got any idea what
Jimbo was up to? I mean, if there were anyone I would less suspect of being
involved in any kind of black ops, it would be Jimmy Flanagan. I’m surprised he
even knew what it was.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">He was met with a silence as deep as the darkness. None of
us had a clue. Jimmy was like a big happy puppy. Saying his name and </span><span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Alcázar in the same sentence was unimaginable.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"></span><span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Well, whatever
it was, it sounds like he stumbled onto something he shouldn’t have. Must have
been pretty damning to make them kill him,” Carlos said.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"></span><span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Ed raised a hand.
“Hold on,” he said in a voice dripping with sarcasm. “They’re blaming the
Taliban for it. They said the bullet was a .303, shot from a Lee Enfield. If
they’re right, that’s Taliban all the way.”</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"></span><span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Uh-huh,” I
replied. “And if your aunt had wheels, she’d be a trolley car.”</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"></span><span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Had Jimmy not had
the foresight to leave us the note now in my boot, we might--in fact, probably
would--have bought that story. </span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> But w</span></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">e
sure as hell didn’t now. </span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">So, what to do about
it?</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"></span><span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Over the next
several weeks, we hatched a rough plan. We were all in agreement. We didn’t
want justice. No. We wanted revenge. Revenge for Jimmy </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">was</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> justice in our book. No point in trying to convince anyone of what
Jimmy had told us. To begin with, we damn well didn’t want to paint targets on
our backs. Besides, we had no evidence of anything. Not that Alcázar had anything
to do with Jimmy’s death, or even that they were somehow profiting from the
opium trade. </span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"></span><span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">But <i>we</i> knew, and
that was enough.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The plan was pretty sketchy, but we were in no hurry. As
they say, revenge is a dish best served cold. We had plenty of time to work
things out. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Our target was Adam Knight. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Knight was, and still is, the guy who reigns over </span><span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Alcázar Sentinel Security. And we were
going to hunt him down and take him out, the way he’d taken Jimmy Flanagan out.
This lion was going to shoot back.</span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Operation Lafcadio was officially launched.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">~</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"></span><span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Time to get
moving again. It’s after eight, and it’s only a fifteen-minute walk or so to
the library, but my ass is going to sleep. I’ve been in Penn Station long enough.
I’ve been getting up, wandering around, and sitting somewhere else. I’ve read
the newspaper three times, done the crossword puzzle, and drunk entirely too
much coffee. For the past half hour, I’ve put on a very credible show of impatience,
if I do say so myself, as if waiting for a date who didn’t show. My version of
method acting. It’s something I have some experience with. But I think I should
move on. I know there are plainclothes cops schooling around Penn Station. I decide to wander the streets a bit as I mosey up toward 42nd Street.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"></span><span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">As I’m about to
get up, three thirty-something women walk into my row of seats. They are dressed
in identical blue suits, and carrying coats and small travel bags. I take them to
be flight attendants. Two of them sit across the aisle and down the row a bit.
The only other seat available is next to me, and the third, an attractive
redhead, makes a beeline for it. </span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"></span><span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Excuse me, is
this seat taken?” </span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"></span><span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">OK, maybe I don’t
need to leave just yet.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I look at my watch again, this time to see how much time I
can spare to spend in the company of this woman. Probably more than she has
to spend with me. </span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I’ve had too many
women--some of them probably keepers—take off on me, so I’ve gotten used to it.
When the girls are gone, I just move on.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it while it lasts.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Nope, it’s all yours.” I gesture to the spot beside
me, smiling. "Have a seat."</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></i>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Continued in <a href="http://pattiken-pattiken.blogspot.com/2017/02/lafcadio-part-5.html" target="_blank">Part 5: Masks</a>.</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">(Credit, and thanks, to author Shel Silverstein<i>.</i>)<i> </i></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">~</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Posted for River of Mnemosyne Challenge No. 8, Muse 4: “Whatcha
Gonna Do When All the Girls Are Gone”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>PattiKenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02894925987580502697noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5798063279768967876.post-87372522220659241782017-02-07T15:35:00.001-05:002017-02-19T16:54:23.069-05:00Lafcadio - Part 3<i><b>Part 3: Something Silly, Something Gone</b></i><br />
<i><b><br /></b></i>
<i>(Continued from <span style="font-family: "calibri";"><a href="http://pattiken-pattiken.blogspot.com/2017/02/lafcadio-part-2.html" target="_blank">Part 2: A Light in the Attic</a>.)</span></i><br />
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<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I feel a tear forming. Even after all these years, the
memory still hurts. I pull out the faded bandana I keep in my back pocket to
use as a handkerchief. Making a show of blowing my nose, I surreptitiously wipe
my eyes at the same time. It wouldn't do to cry in the waiting room at Penn
Station. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">A glance at my watch tells me it's almost 6:30, and the concourse is
starting to come to life. I leave my seat and pace around a bit, reading the
Arrivals board and checking out the offerings at the newsstand.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Then I head back
to the waiting area and sit on the other side of the room. I allow my thoughts to
take me back to Afghanistan again.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">~</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I should tell you a bit about our group. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Ed Patterson, the oldest, was a master sergeant with 15 years in. The guy was a natural-born leader, so <i>naturally</i> he led us. He was a sat-com specialist back then. I think he'd intended to be career, but he ended getting his 20, and getting out. When he left the Corps, he went to work for one of the big telecommunications companies.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Carlos Morales, a sergeant, was an interpreter. His native language is English, but the Miami-born son of Cuban immigrants grew up speaking Spanish too. It turned out he had a gift for languages, and the Corps put him through a Pashto course at the language school in California. Not much call for that in back here in the world, I guess, so Carlos is in real estate now.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Paulie Newton, also a sergeant, was in explosive ordnance disposal. When he got out, he ended up working at the New York Public Library running their computer system. He says he'd had enough of noisy work environments, and besides, his hearing was pretty much jacked.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The kid, Jimmy Flanagan, a corporal, was a mechanic. Who knows what he would have been when he grew up. A teacher, maybe. Or an actor.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">And then there's me. I'm Matt Cameron. I was an MP. There was no way I was going to stay in, either in the military or in police work. So I wrote.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">~</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">After Jimmy died, something was gone out of it for the
four of us left. With all his silliness, he was the light that kept us keeping on. Ed, Paulie,
Carlos, and I continued to sit under the outcropping overlooking the poppy
fields, but there was no more yukking. There were no more stories and silly poems. There was only silence.
</span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> That, and </span></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">the note that Jimmy Flanagan left
behind for us, tucked securely under the innersole of my left boot. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The next day, we went through Jimmy’s stuff, getting it ready to send
back to his mom. We’d met Kathleen Flanagan while we were home, and we all
loved her. She was a warm and funny woman with the map of Ireland drawn in freckles on her face.
It was easy to see where Jimmy had gotten his personality. She welcomed us into
her home as if we were family. And, lord, how she loved her boy. She was a
single mom. Jimmy's dad had died in a car crash when Jimmy was only ten, and Jimmy was all she had. We knew she was going to be destroyed
when she got the news.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Hey, look at this,” Paulie, said as we were putting Jimmy’s
books into the box. “This is the book about that lion.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Read it,” I said, and he did. Blinking away the tears that threatened to spill from our eyes, we
listened to Paulie read the story of the lion Grrmmff who came to be known as
Lafcadio the Great.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">When he got to the end, Paulie turned the final page and a small
pink envelop fell out. I bent down and picked it up. Turning it over, I was
surprised to see our names on the front.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I held it up, eyebrows raised. “Well, open it, fer crissake, Cameron!”
Carlos said.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I lifted the flap and pulled out a piece of folded note paper.
It was also pink, decorated with delicate little silver cruets of flowers and
teacups with tiny spoons. I wasn’t sure, but I thought it might be giving off a
sweet gardenia scent. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">And?</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> What’s it
say?” Ed demanded.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">It wasn’t long. I quickly skimmed, horrified. This was our wet-behind-the-ears
buddy Jimmy? No fucking way.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Taking a shaky breath, I read:</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Yeah, yeah, I know, guys” it began. “But it’s all I had. It’s
my mom’s paper. She packed a bunch of it with my stuff so I’d be sure to write
to her. I’m not writing you a love note or anything. Ha-ha. But in case anything
happens to me, there’s something you gotta know.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The note went on to tell us why he was worried that something
might happen to him. Sure, we were all afraid we might get wounded or even
killed in Afghanistan. But it turned out that Jimmy’s fears were far more
alarming. Seems our Jimmy was secretly liaised to a quasi-military black ops
organization called </span><span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Alcázar</span></span><span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Sentinel Security.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“These are bad people,” Jimmy had written. “They’re supposed
to be helping protect the NATO forces in Afghanistan, but I found out they’re
really in it for the opium. I’m not sure, but I think they know I know. And I’m
pretty sure they’ve killed others to protect their interests. There’s a
shitload of money at stake.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“There’s no one over here I can tell. If anything happens to
me, you guys gotta do something when you get home. And if you can, take care of
my mom.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I folded the pink paper again, thinking how the frivolous
silver cruets and tiny spoons on the cover were so incongruous with the dark
message inside.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">We read Jimmy's words again many times, but by tacit agreement, we
didn't discuss it right away. We were still too raw. But we knew we would. We had to; it wasn't
something we could ignore. We had to <i>do</i> something.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The question was, what?</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">To be continued in
<a href="http://pattiken-pattiken.blogspot.com/2017/02/lafcadio-part-4.html" target="_blank">Part 4: Barooom!</a></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></i>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">(Credit, and thanks, to author Shel Silverstein<i>.</i>)<i> </i></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">~</span></i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Posted for River of Mnemosyne Challenge No. 8, Muse 3:
"Silver Cruets and Tiny Spoons"</span></div>
PattiKenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02894925987580502697noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5798063279768967876.post-67009404269263644972017-02-07T08:57:00.000-05:002017-02-15T16:01:28.806-05:00Lafcadio - Part 2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i>Part 2: A Light in the Attic</i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>(Continued from <a href="http://pattiken-pattiken.blogspot.com/2017/02/lafcadio-part-1.html" target="_blank">Part 1: The Call</a>)</i></span><br />
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<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Properly chastised by the text displayed against a green
background on my phone--"What part of 'go' don't you understand, Cameron?
Go <i>NOW</i>!"-- I delay no longer. I'm outta here. At least I won't have to concoct some kind of bullshit story to explain my absence to the lady-of-the-moment. She took care of that quite effectively yesterday.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I hustle down the stairs from my fifth-floor walkup, shrugging my jacket on as I go,
and sling the backpack over my shoulders. But when I step out onto the
cold street, I realize it's still dark. Shit, I'd forgotten the call came in
the middle of the fucking night. This presents a bit of a problem. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">My destination, the library at 42nd and Fifth, is
closed. I take a quick look at my watch. 4:45. What do I do with the
next six or seven hours? The library opens at ten, I think, but I
don't want to be the first one through the door. The idea is to remain as
inconspicuous as possible, easier said than done at the crack of
early on a wintery morning, even in New York.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Near Washington Square, a few blocks away, there's a 24-hour
diner. I head that way. I've never been there at this ungodly hour, but figure
there must be a night owl or two, and maybe some city workers getting breakfast before they hit the streets.</span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Hopefully I can pass a hour or so there.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">No such luck. Through the steamy glass, I see a lone guy at the
counter, a tired-looking beat cop hunched over a plate of eggs. So I get myself a coffee to
go, grab a newspaper from the machine at the door, and head for Penn Station. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Reassured by the number of people waiting for an early morning commuter train, I slump down on one of the hard plastic seats in the cavernous concourse. I
know I shouldn’t be worried. I mean, only yesterday, I was just a guy trying to
make a living as a writer, failing rather spectacularly, I might add. But given what we
are about to do, I can’t help myself. I feel like I am wearing a neon sign
announcing my intentions.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I close my eyes, and against the backdrop of the headache-induced
kaleidoscope of whirling colors and flashes projected inside my eyelids, I let
my mind drift back to that day in the desert nearly ten years ago. The day Lafcadio
was conceived.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">~</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Jimmy Flanagan was too young to drink. Well, legally, anyway. In fact, Jimbo was almost too young to vote. He definitely </span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">was too young to die. </span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">But the bullet that took him out couldn’t
give a shit.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">We were in the Helmand province in southern Afghanistan, sitting under a rocky
outcropping overlooking the poppy fields below. </span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">It was just past dusk, and we were taking a break and
yukking it up. It had been pretty quiet all day. Even the guys patrolling the
fields didn’t seem to be on edge, a rare occurrence. Nothing got the Taliban
forces riled up quite like a bunch of jarheads wandering around in their opium supply.
</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">We had all been there before, and in fact, it was there that the five of us became good friends. When we finally went home after our tour, we thanked our
lucky stars to be alive, and relaxed. We should have known better. A NATO
mission was organized to train and advise local forces (ha, where had we
heard that one before?), and our experience in-country sucked us right back into it. We
hadn’t expected to find ourselves back in that god-forsaken land, but there we were.
Not that we found ourselves doing much training.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Jimmy often entertained us with stories and silly poetry, his freckled Irish face alight with enthusiasm. He
was a real fan of children’s books, that kid. You might think it sounds weird,
a bunch of Marines listening raptly to kiddie stories, but it really helped
break the tension out there in that harsh and dangerous desert. <span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">That
particular night, he was in the middle of a story about a lion named </span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Grmmff. It had actually been published in <i>Playboy</i>,
he was quick to tell us, and it was his favorite. </span></span><span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">As he
often did when he was really getting into it, Jimmy used a goofy voice, this one
his interpretation of a marshmallow-loving lion. I'm paraphrasing here, but it went something like this.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 48px 11px 30px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“…goes to the
barbershop, gets his paws shined, his claws manicured and a free haircut. He
has dinner, and eats lots of marshmallow dishes, then finally eats his napkin
for dessert. He wears a marshmallow suit, but it gets ironed and it melts all
over him. He goes back to the hotel and stays up very late singing the
"marshmallow song:</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 48px 11px 30px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Marshmallows
Marshmallows<br />
Marching Marshing Mellow<br />
Malling Mallows Marshing Fellows<br />
Marshy-Murshy-…” </span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">The laughter was torn
from our throats as Jimmy’s face exploded mid-song.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">A lot of guys
would tell you that seeing a buddy die in combat, or maybe anywhere else, made them
find religion. Not us. That was the night we lost our souls. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><i>To be continued in <a href="http://pattiken-pattiken.blogspot.com/2017/02/lafcadio-part-3.html" target="_blank">Part 3: Something Silly, Something Gone</a>.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">(Credit, and thanks, to author Shel Silverstein<i>.</i>)<i> </i></span>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">~</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Posted for River of Mnemosyne Challenge No. 8, Muse 2: "A Little Death is Good for the Soul"</span></span></div>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>PattiKenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02894925987580502697noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5798063279768967876.post-9954699467986611282017-02-04T11:20:00.000-05:002017-02-15T15:55:54.940-05:00Lafcadio - Part 1<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><b><i>Part 1: The Call</i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><b><i><br /></i></b></span>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The first call comes at 4:07am. That’s the way of
things, isn’t it? It couldn’t come at a civilized hour. No, of course not. And
it couldn’t come when I was still expecting it. Nope. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">At the start of things, I was ready. I was so ready. I jumped
every time the phone rang, heart pounding with this weird mix of terror and
anticipation. But I decided somewhere along the way that my heart couldn’t take
the extreme adrenalin rush every time a robo call came in. As the years
passed, my reactions slowed from almost shitting myself to damn near
ho-hum. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The incessant buzzing takes a while to get through to
me. I'd spent the better part of the previous night at MacKenzie’s Pub,
drowning my sorrows after being dumped by the latest in a succession of women
fed up with my apparent inability to commit. By last call, I was soused. Since
MacKenzie’s is just down the street and Mac is my buddy, I was frequently
over-served. If I was unable to navigate the half block to my place, Mac
figured someone could prop me up on a keg dolly and wheel me home.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I'm deep into a dream about drinking tequila on a
Cancun beach with a muy linda señorita, when suddenly the dream turns nasty.
Finally realizing that I’m not being attacked by a swarm of angry Mexican bees,
I drag myself into semi-consciousness. I manage to extricate myself
from the serape, uh, blanket, knocking my cell phone to the floor in the
process. When I bend to retrieve the phone, I notice that, with every buzz, the
screen flashes green. What the fuck?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">"Who the hell is this? It’s oh-dark-fucking-hundred!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I hear a voice I don’t recognize.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"> “</span><i><span style="font-family: "calibri";">GO!”</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Shit. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The day has come. Bad timing on all counts. I’m walking a perilous
tightrope between drunk and hungover. Shaking off the cobwebs filling my head,
I try to formulate a plan. Early on, I’d had my actions after the call all
mapped out. By this point, though, I’ve doubted the call would come at all. I've
gotten complacent. Bad move, because here it is. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">When I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit up, I fall
off the tightrope and land with a thud on the side of hungover. My head is
pounding as I make my way to the kitchen.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Coffee, I need coffee, strong and black. As I wait for the
Keurig to do its thing, it’s normally subtle bubbling noise sounding like a
percussion band, I remember that I’m not alone. I know my call is part of a
larger broadcast to others like me, the intention being to set the operation
dubbed "Lafcadio" into motion. Hopefully, they are in better shape
than I am.</span><i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> My</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> intention is to find a way to put one foot safely in front
of the other. I throw a couple of aspirins in my mouth and gulp down half the
coffee too quickly, burning my mouth. Then I head back to the bedroom to dress.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">How does one dress for insurrection? I pull on my jeans and
REM t-shirt, topped by my favorite and slightly worse-for-wear flannel shirt.
Boots tied, I finish the coffee. I drop the cup in the sink and reach for the
sponge. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Words from the past float through my head. “Remember to
leave everything as you would normally.” No dishes washed, no bed-making. Not
that I would anyway. That’s the point, right?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">OK, ready to go. Well, ready, except for my go-bag. I
haven’t looked at that bag in ages, but I know it’s waiting at the back of my
closet.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I rummage past the clutter of years, and there’s the bag,
stuffed in the corner behind a box of old kids’ books, right where I put it
nine years ago. I grab the battered leather backpack and hook it over my shoulder.
Snagging my jacket off the rack by the front door, I’m about to step out of my
apartment when my cell buzzes again, with a text this time.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“What part of ‘go’ don’t you understand, Cameron? Go </span><i><span style="font-family: "calibri";">NOW</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";">!”</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "calibri";">To be continued in <a href="http://pattiken-pattiken.blogspot.com/2017/02/lafcadio-part-2.html" target="_blank">Part 2: A Light in the Attic.</a></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></i>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">(Credit, and thanks, to author Shel Silverstein<i>.</i>)<i> </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">
Posted for River of Mnemosyne Challenge No. 8, Muse 1: "Covering the
Ground with Big Intentions"</span></div>
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PattiKenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02894925987580502697noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5798063279768967876.post-26552881095798404762016-10-08T09:44:00.002-04:002016-10-08T09:48:08.439-04:00Wreaking Havoc<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjr_zRuIeFtyzdYqDUQLpnYU6OlNIFaBMYLkw7lV2bqd6djJN5WQ-34hH1-9ROXFzZi9zAtAufMSW0KMzcrb7_G3RFryX4PQnt3_gMW0JPr6_EvTGEpJdO6T0K6jHJ7Lc5YsGNxGw3mC37/s1600/Screenshot_20161008-092920.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjr_zRuIeFtyzdYqDUQLpnYU6OlNIFaBMYLkw7lV2bqd6djJN5WQ-34hH1-9ROXFzZi9zAtAufMSW0KMzcrb7_G3RFryX4PQnt3_gMW0JPr6_EvTGEpJdO6T0K6jHJ7Lc5YsGNxGw3mC37/s320/Screenshot_20161008-092920.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">like Trump, he surges,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> a wide wake of destruction</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">everywhere he goes</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZONwjtO-FnEcuHWAnquM4_ZZDGemR7HSbhKM1dugG2gwfOhqPZny_i_OHI1rlZDmmpCiLtH-eyB_SbheQ9gj1_QRWtWoKB9Hw5u7ptXrarF-9fO75HzdiCPIcfW7a7AHO0arJ1oDsj_PE/s1600/Haiku+Friday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZONwjtO-FnEcuHWAnquM4_ZZDGemR7HSbhKM1dugG2gwfOhqPZny_i_OHI1rlZDmmpCiLtH-eyB_SbheQ9gj1_QRWtWoKB9Hw5u7ptXrarF-9fO75HzdiCPIcfW7a7AHO0arJ1oDsj_PE/s1600/Haiku+Friday.jpg" /></a></div>
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Written for<a href="http://louceel.blogspot.com/2016/10/haiku-friday.html" target="_blank"> Haiku Friday</a> (a bit late), hosted by LouCeeL.</div>
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PattiKenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02894925987580502697noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5798063279768967876.post-82419579550215846142016-09-09T21:44:00.000-04:002016-09-09T21:44:08.089-04:00Hotter Than...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">Fall, you'll have to wait</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">summer isn't letting go</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">ninety-five degrees</span></div>
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***</div>
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Written for <a href="http://louceel.blogspot.com/2016/09/haiku-friday_9.html" target="_blank">Haiku Friday</a>, hosted by LouCeeL</div>
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<br />PattiKenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02894925987580502697noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5798063279768967876.post-34903813079355545712016-06-13T18:42:00.001-04:002016-06-13T18:42:56.279-04:00Crescendo<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirdRV6U50_RZ6Gz7IZRR8EDomQzNFGqG95yG0XW43fuMGi85nBHUofzbY9MwegrPGWaQb1GMv643nVM_hM28iOAYCbaUPYH58mO25OrycUlQA0qz6vnkE5QTagQdh91zqMDLs9tS-szqNa/s1600/Screenshot_2016-06-13-18-19-49-1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="128" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirdRV6U50_RZ6Gz7IZRR8EDomQzNFGqG95yG0XW43fuMGi85nBHUofzbY9MwegrPGWaQb1GMv643nVM_hM28iOAYCbaUPYH58mO25OrycUlQA0qz6vnkE5QTagQdh91zqMDLs9tS-szqNa/s320/Screenshot_2016-06-13-18-19-49-1.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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The cold silence quivers, swollen with memories,<br />
Until, with a flash of cymbals and the thunder of drums,<br />
It shatters, spilling angry notes from the past to<br />
Rain over me. They cut like ice shards as they hit<br />
And flood my heart with pain.
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***</div>
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Written for <a href="https://dversepoets.com/2016/06/13/quadrille-11/" target="_blank">dVerse Poets Pub</a> where the word of inspiration for a quadrille (a poem of 44 words) is <b><i>spill</i></b>.<br />
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PattiKenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02894925987580502697noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5798063279768967876.post-89738270366880387052016-06-06T18:49:00.000-04:002016-06-06T18:57:46.788-04:00ImplicationFrom the moment he took his seat in the classroom, the geeky guy in the third row gazed at me with rapt attention. Moon eyes. That's what my mother would have labeled the look he was giving me. To be honest, it made me a little nervous. In my years as a trainer, my poetic words about financial software had never inspired that kind of reaction from a seminar participant. Normally, the challenge was keeping them awake. At the break, he made his way up to the front of the room. Taking my hand, he introduced himself, and my first thought was, "Oh-oh." Grinning mischievously, he said, “You remind me of my wife. She’s a teacher too.” Relieved, I smiled in acknowledgment. And then he went on. “It must be the implied whip.”<br />
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intoxicating.</div>
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irresisible power,</div>
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a whip flick away</div>
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Submitted to <a href="https://dversepoets.com/2016/06/06/haibun-monday-15-all-things-quotidian/" target="_blank">dVerse Poet's Pub Haibun Monday</a>.</div>
PattiKenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02894925987580502697noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5798063279768967876.post-28631289710374191022016-05-05T23:21:00.001-04:002016-05-05T23:21:41.012-04:00Lost<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">"Touch me / Remind me who I am. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: x-small;">~ Stanley Kunitz, </span><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/past/unbound/poetry/antholog/kunitz/touchme.htm">Touch Me</a>, </span></i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">1995</span><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi_Oqh0DfgxXc-NaphvWOIEjzzcFG_OG7t_atrJhBcSihjiM3c_o6ghvzGIV6lu6zuwCsV-sXtnaHNajL_GHEvSjtArS2Hg34UMdxVT_SCIa2qN4JVvh0yZwBrXIlsXd4gYqSno9-T3FF_/s1600/Screenshot_2016-05-05-16-04-34-1-1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi_Oqh0DfgxXc-NaphvWOIEjzzcFG_OG7t_atrJhBcSihjiM3c_o6ghvzGIV6lu6zuwCsV-sXtnaHNajL_GHEvSjtArS2Hg34UMdxVT_SCIa2qN4JVvh0yZwBrXIlsXd4gYqSno9-T3FF_/s400/Screenshot_2016-05-05-16-04-34-1-1.png" width="237" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> I'm lost in the mist, seeking your touch.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> Are you there? Take my hand and lead me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> I can’t find my way with nothing to remind</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> me that you’re close, walking beside me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> I hear voices in the fog, but don’t know who</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> they are. Is one of them you, my love? I</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> need to know so I’ll know where I am.</span>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Written for <a href="https://dversepoets.com/2016/05/05/dverse-meeting-the-bar-the-golden-shovel-form/" target="_blank">dVerse Poet's Pub</a>. Today's prompt calls for a poem in a form called "The Golden Shovel."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">According to </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>Writer's Digest, </i>these<i> </i></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">are the rules for the Golden Shovel:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">- Take a line (or lines) from a poem you admire.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">- Use each word in the line (or lines) as an end word in your poem.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">- Keep the end words in order.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">- Give credit to the poet who originally wrote the line (or lines).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">- The new poem does not have to be about the same subject as the poem that offers the end words.</span><br />
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PattiKenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02894925987580502697noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5798063279768967876.post-18881254093830191052016-05-04T17:28:00.000-04:002016-05-04T17:28:08.357-04:00Arroyo Serenade<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTnxgN_4Lwya_ubABiKaTXUaicbM4nUkRaYoN7euVI79YGrriiz50d8721TN9csZfg_0GkYdBYtj9E5nTXNtCH6dG4vwCMWH-ECw2vSgdYtePAfzW6vTKxOdQKlkn45yVhrOK7XLfcxpB5/s1600/Screenshot_2016-05-04-14-55-27-1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTnxgN_4Lwya_ubABiKaTXUaicbM4nUkRaYoN7euVI79YGrriiz50d8721TN9csZfg_0GkYdBYtj9E5nTXNtCH6dG4vwCMWH-ECw2vSgdYtePAfzW6vTKxOdQKlkn45yVhrOK7XLfcxpB5/s320/Screenshot_2016-05-04-14-55-27-1.png" width="226" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Our hostess’ little ranch house is surrounded by cactus and
the occasional Palo Verde tree. It sits in a fold of parched earth at the edge
of an arroyo several miles north of Phoenix. During the monsoon season each June, the arroyo churns with racing waters. But this time of year, it’s
dry, serving as a convenient highway for the critters who call the desert home.
As we sit around the table on the lantern-lit covered patio at the rear of the house,
the desert beyond crashes the party like a noisy dinner guest. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The first tentative note comes from a distance down the
arroyo, but is soon answered by another, much closer. Our hostess has just told
us that we might be visited by the local javelinas, a wild pig-like animal
that frequents the area. Though nearly blind, she says with a laugh, javelinas can smell a
grilling sirloin a mile away. But this is no javelina. With each passing
minute, another voice is added to the chorus, surrounding us with song. Like a
traveling minstrel show, the troop passes through, their music echoing over the
desert. I am enchanted.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> coyote crooners</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> their howls a song of longing</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> filling the darkness</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">***</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Written for <a href="https://dversepoets.com/2016/05/03/poetics-sentiments-of-the-southwest/" target="_blank">dVerse Poet's Pub</a>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">.</span></div>
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<br />PattiKenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02894925987580502697noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5798063279768967876.post-28593983450884601972016-05-03T22:56:00.000-04:002016-05-03T22:56:21.617-04:00Pedernal<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsmpftCvDtTUHVLOnnx45lO53_1VTHrAyyaN15uiSW_00SjUuSZvuFrNuUhC-2-bL9OquYFeC2xMdiiP6Ub7AVOb3Qb3GvzkjGI6YQYQGmfbMiVI2e9NJlNjgzwNb23OPYKHxw5rxJSKAQ/s1600/Screenshot_2016-05-03-22-08-58-1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsmpftCvDtTUHVLOnnx45lO53_1VTHrAyyaN15uiSW_00SjUuSZvuFrNuUhC-2-bL9OquYFeC2xMdiiP6Ub7AVOb3Qb3GvzkjGI6YQYQGmfbMiVI2e9NJlNjgzwNb23OPYKHxw5rxJSKAQ/s320/Screenshot_2016-05-03-22-08-58-1.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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(Source: <a href="http://nmartmuseum.org/site/exhibitions/past/past-exhibitions-2008-to-2008/how-the-west-is-one/modernist-perspectives/red-hills-with-the-pedernal3.html" target="_blank">New Mexico Museum of Art</a></div>
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He waits, wooing,<br />
Whispering words of<br />
Love and longing.<br />
Paint me, paint me<br />
Purple with passion.<br />
Caress me
with<br />
Strokes of seduction.<br />
Make love to me<br />
Again and again, and<br />
I will be yours.<br />
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“It’s my private mountain. It belongs to me. God told me if I painted it enough, I could have it.” ~ Georgia O’Keefe
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Written for <a href="https://dversepoets.com/2016/05/03/poetics-sentiments-of-the-southwest/" target="_blank">dVerse Poet's Pub</a>. The prompt today is "Sentiments of the Southwest." One of my favorite places in the southwest is Ghost Ranch in Abiquiu, New Mexico. I am in good company. Georgia O'Keefe fell in love with it too, and settled in Abiquiu after her husband Alfred Stieglitz died. While there, she painted Pedernal over and over until she made it hers. Her ashes are scattered at its base.<br />
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.PattiKenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02894925987580502697noreply@blogger.com19