Constructed by Tongues

 

Forever only exists

as a word

constructed by tongues, hammers

a-blazing

Water running through cupped hands

into sand,

castles brought down by the waves

we’re chasing

Speaking out loud but later

forgetting,

carving in stone but later

erasing

 

 


 

Written in response to Daily Prompt topic: Fleeting

Number 43

His footfalls echoed down dark marble corridors as the gilded elevator doors shut behind him. “Good luck…” the elevator man had said with a tinge of sarcasm as they arrived at the 41st floor. Now he was at the massive oak doors, and he paused before taking an apprehensive breath and stepping inside.

His father was seated behind a large black desk, staring out the window at the view across the icy river. “Sit,” he commanded.

“It’s time you lived up to your promise. All the best schooling, the family name, wealth and influence,” he said in a deadpan voice, “and still…here you are.”

“Hello, Father,” he began but his greeting was not returned.

His father spun around in his chair. “Yet another company run into the ground by your ineptitude,” he said with disgust. “Do you know how embarrassing this is? Do you think this is the legacy I intended to leave?”

“But I gave –“

“What do you know about giving? You know about getting. Yes, you certainly know that. You never knew what it is to give all you have to a commitment, to your family, to your country. Never knew the sacrifice I gave by going to war. You were given a ticket out of that quandary, or perhaps you have forgotten?”

“My brother –“

Your ineffectual brother is not the issue!!” he bellowed, slamming a clenched fist down on his desk, rattling the dagger-like letter opener, emblazoned with the insignia of the secret fraternal order known as the Skull and Bones.

“We have something greater planned for you. You will not fail like you have countless times before. Prominence is in our blood, it is our birthright. You will lead, you will do as you are told, and you will become part of history. Is this clear?”

“Yes,” he said, trying to sound as confident and stoic as he could muster.

“You may go now.”

He paused for a second as if considering saying something, but instead he rose obediently from the large, red, leather chair. Just as his hand grasped the knob on the door to make his exit he heard his father say:

“Oh, and George?”

“Yes?”

“Send Jeb in next. I have something in mind for him as well. That will be all.”


 

Written in response to the Daily Prompt on the topic of: Legacy

A Post Wherein I Stick It To Intellectual Property Thieves

nothieves

 

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Brainwave.”

Get outta here. I’m not showin’ you my best idea. Get your own. Look, I see what you’re trying to do here, Jedi mind tricking us into giving up our A material, but it’s not gonna work on me. That’s right, you gotta get up pretty early in the morning to trick ol’ Jay Sparrow into talking about his idea for the toothless trouser zipper….oh CRAP!

“Everybody saying this is a day only the Lord could make.”

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Can’t Drive 55.”

flood

ON THE MORNING the levee broke, Roy Gatineau braved the storm to take care of one last job. The name wasn’t important – though it didn’t bother him knowing their names or personal details. He preferred to focus on the financial aspect of the situation. Sure, some of them probably committed offenses no worse than he himself had done. Maybe they simply pissed off the wrong person. But that was the beauty of it, in his eyes. There’s nothing stopping somebody from coming to take him out either. Fate is equal opportunity. He felt his time would come.

But there was something about that last job that stuck with him. The man, an old preacher from the heart of the Crescent City, was completely at peace. Even though his city was being ripped apart by the gale force winds and torrential rains, even as he stood there knowing full well that this visitor meant his time on the planet was winding down to a few ticks, he had said with a calm, clear voice and a gentle smile: “Everybody saying this is a day only the Lord could make.”

It was this mantra that echoed in Roy’s head as he went down to the swollen river, stripped off his clothes, and jumped in. For in the water was his salvation, his forgiveness, his confession.

—-

The keyword line, per prompt instructions, was taken from “The Levee’s Gonna Break” by Bob Dylan.

Bed Time

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “The Young and the Rested.”

Couple in bed with iPads

A young couple laid side by side in their king sized bed, only half-visible to each other as the light blanket covered the lower halves of their bodies. Their upper-halves illuminated by the cold glow of their devices, upon which they silently tapped in out-of-sync rhythms.

Did you wash my work shirt?

…(seconds of silence pass)…

Hm?

I asked about the shirt, he said in a half-mumble.

Oh. No. Do you really need it?

Not really. I’ve got others, he concluded.

They both lowered their devices in unison. They were in their mid 30’s, and the room was sparsely decorated, the only thing on the wall was a color sample card from a paint store, with 6 progressively darker shades of the same color. It was only 8 months earlier that they moved into the house, a bank owned foreclosure in need of work.

I should really wash the bedding, she sighed.

Did I ever tell you my great, great grandfather invented the pillow case?

Shut up, she giggled.

No, really. Dirk Pillowson was his name.

She playfully hit him on the shoulder. So what did people put on their pillows before then, she asked, playing along.

Nothing, it was just straight pillow to head contact back in the day. Too bad he never copyrighted it, we’d be billionaires.

Picking up her device, she asked, should we put on the white-noise app?

They began sampling the different noises included in the app, which they preferred as the solution to deal with the traffic noise, his snoring, and any other bumps in the night which might rouse their slumber. They listened to the crickets setting (too quiet), monks chanting (spooky as hell), and foghorn (too sporadic) before settling on boring white noise.

I feel like changing my alarm for the morning, he said and began trying out different alarm sounds. They ranged from ridiculous ditties to annoying digital blurps and bleeps to a harsh old-school bell.

There’s really no good solution, she concluded. No alarm sounds good enough to offset the disappointment that you feel for having to get out of bed and go to work.

Agreed, he stated.

They both went back to their device usage, tap tap tapping away. Eventually he shut his off and rolled over and closed his eyes. She was up for another 20 minutes before putting hers away. They both lay awake for nearly an hour, dreading the bleary-eyed stupor they would endure during another work day. Finally they drifted to sleep, without so much as a kiss goodnight.

The Young and the Rested