Thursday, September 22, 2011

He loves me.

Today, he was able to sit and talk a while, conscious, engaged. The lights were on and someone was home behind those big brown eyes of his that have been vacant all too often. He says, "I've gotta hang on and you've gotta become a famous novelist."  Focusing beyond death, the precipice doesn't frighten him anymore. This is a tremendous victory.

I've always been the fearless one, well, except for heights. I challenged that with rock climbing.  When I thought about my spouse, Custard the Dragon came to mind.  He didn't realize his own true value or strength.  My Beloved studied anthropology to make himself talk to people. He was a natural with little children, but grownups fundamentally frightened him. But as an Anthropologist, he had an excuse to interview them and find out their candid stories. As a Professor, he was Important because he was articulate and wrote interesting books. He had a little gold-plated sign with his name on the door to his Office. He went to Meetings.

As he loses bits of memory and physical adroitness, the veneer of his self-image tears away from his flesh, no longer clothes him in the comfort of socially acceptable behaviors. The curtain draws back to reveal the actor sans make-up or costume. His thin frame casts no shadow as the rafter spotlight engulfs him from a 90-degree angle. He sees not the audience, but himself, vulnerable, a soul scantily clothed in flesh. It is from this place that he becomes dauntless. Here, he does not cringe. And it from this frail, beating heart whose brown eyes, serene like a child's, gaze into mine that I feel the most fearless love I have ever known from him.

Sunday, September 18, 2011

The One-Minute Writer: One-Minute Writing of the Week: Gingerlily

The One-Minute Writer: One-Minute Writing of the Week: Gingerlily

Pepper. A prompt for all seasons.

Friday, August 26, 2011

Friday Fiction: Pepper

Write a brief bit of fiction using the prompt "Pepper."

Eldridge put pepper, salt and butter on his grits, not sugar and milk.  “Damn Yankees” used sugar, sissifying grits into something akin to rice pudding.  Eldridge’s grits stood up proud like Bald Mountain with a buttery lava core and flecked like a coon hound in zesty black pepper.  On Saturdays, he would arise as usual at dawn, but added to the sunny-side up eggs sizzled in sausage grease, grits and Jimmy Dean’s a  toast, splashing vodka into his morning orange juice from his stash under the front seat of the silver blue, ’62 Chevy Impala.

I have enjoyed the One-Minute Writer and C. Beth's steady supply of prompts.  This weekly win prompted me to get my blog going.  Thank you, C. Beth!