~ By Absolutely*Kate, considering this year's flowing fate:
BLUE ~ true blue ~ blue moon ~ you saw me stream of conciousing alone ~ without full text in my heart ~ without yet new decade tone. You knew just what I was there for . . . to write, and to care for, writers we share for, promotionally aware for ~ splash-flash of lit come and known.
And then there suddenly appeared before me, frogs flung and orients of noir. Hot torchy kisses lingering longer than pecan pies do; Halloween fright nights and NOT writes remoting higher than disparaged demons, Angel's or Android's sensual star. Hark that herald harbingers well, and Sugars sweet Johnny Zzzz's from Jinker on far. The wooden box is hidden, the kookaburra sings, Mongo's boy is hot and Jeanette's memory brings . . . in the morning catch. Soul Stars glisten Christmas ~ have we met our match? Loving dolphins flush and bathrooms speak a healing humble mumble of a monologue. We pause there, and gather in . . .(where it counts the most, where we did begin).
We rally ~ We Care. WE'RE WRITERS! It's inner flair . . . or do they call thatflare?
Grinches and green peppers, Alvin and the boys and believing in believers fill out a wild worth of joys. Man laments to LadyMoon. Spin commercials to cartoon, as cereal and serial killers and detective know-how of flat foot thrillers pen the bloody zen, and then again . . . Amen.
God lights up, auras too. Truth be told, that's Magi to you. ( Segway ~ next post . . . you'll find it's divine )
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You're AT THE BIJOU!
Do not adjust your screen-frame.
Luscious Ladies and Genteel Gents,
Hey, we're just warmin' up . . .
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WHEN IN THE COURSE OF NATURAL EVENTS
THEBLUE MOON SHINES ON THE FINAL DAY
OF WHAT A WHOLE DECADE CAME TO SAY,
Writers and Readers remember hence ~
our decisions are before us ~ to print, to publish,
It was coming clear to God that His booze-fueled midnight resolution to quit smoking, drinking, lose weight, and keep a more watchful eye on his cholesterol and sodium may have exceeded His actual resolve. He knew He wasn't getting any younger but it was only 10:30am and already he was chomping two packs of Trident and calculating angles that might justify His taking a wee hair of the dog. It'd been a hell of a party and He was slowly piecing together certain cloudy events that might just require his passing out apologies when He bit down hard and finally, truly understood that verse in "Ole Dan Tucker" about Dan dying "with a toothache in his heel." Howling oaths unblessed, the normally benevolent deity spat out a filling along with the glob of sugarless gum and when He was finally finished taking His own name in vain, He smote four out of five dentists with nary a thought and upon a moment's reflection, smote that contrary fifth one just for good measure. Later He would reconsider this reaction and think it perhaps a bit severe but for now it felt like old times and it was good. 'Happy New Year', He thought as He sparked a bluetip match to life with a thumbnail and set fire to his first cohiba of the new year.
(c) Harry B. Sanderford
Yes, that's the Harry we know and love and have told you about in earlier pieces he's brung round, AT THE BIJOU. I'm sure glad he's hung this mighty fine piece of peace here to catch the new winds of the new year just right . . . but catch the wave of this surfer-cowboy at a place many of us once met . . . seems almost a decade ago, doesn't it?
A writer-man for all seasons, Harry does"WINTER"@ Six Sentences.
~ Thanks so much Har . . . Divine Reality sure harbingers well.
Lucky for them no one at Angelo Vera’s funeral could read minds. For sure he’d say what danced in their heads were not sugar-plum memories of the deceased, but a replay of Vera’s deathbed confession. The mind reader would entertain the funeral attendees who filed past the old man’s coffin with perhaps a good or not so good impersonation of Vera’s heavily accented parting words. “I make-a sure nobody’s a find it,” Then for dramatic effect, he would pause long enough to detect that the funereal air was ponderously suspenseful, then continue. “Nobody!
It’s a someplace-a safe. Where, justa me know.” And then the mind reader would raise his hand and wait for silence. Before him a rapt audience would wait for more of what came out of the mouth of Angelo Vera before his heart stopped and all that was heard was that single last exhalation, so loud in that quiet room of death. The mind reader would do his best to keep an impending smile from pulling his lips into a reclining half moon. He would strike a pose befitting the death of a wealthy man and then leave the funeral home. To find the hidden whatever.
But there was no mind reader. Angelo Vera was driven, as he usually was in life, by a chauffeur in a black limousine, but this time six pallbearers lifted his coffin, placed it securely on their shoulders, and marched it to his gravesite. After Father LoPresti said the prayer he had memorized when he was a seminarian decades before, after each survivor dropped a red rose down into the grave onto the dark wood, after all was said and sobbed, the living in their black suits and dresses all made their getaway in their waiting cars.
A week later the closely knit family of Angelo Vera proved themselves not to be so close after all. The scene: the reading of the will. Present: Angelo’s three sons and their wives, Angelo’s chauffeur and confidant Marco, the housekeeper Mary Flannigan, and the last surviving brother of the deceased, a cantankerous old fool named Sebastiano, and Donner the probate attorney.
Angelo Jr., Roberto, and Filippo Vera were the three sons of the old man whose will the attorney would now read. The three sons were still wearing their long, sad, mourning faces. All three held white handkerchiefs in their hands with which they patted their eyes or their noses and sometimes their foreheads.
Donner slit the seal on the manila envelope of the last will and testament he’d been paid good money to draw up and finally now read. Which he did. Quietly to himself. Then his eyebrows shot up as if to meet the shaggy bangs of hair at the bridge of his nose. His thick lips seemed in the process to deflate of its redness. They beat wordlessly the way moths do their wings when the hot light draws them to their demise.
“What’s wrong?” asked Angelo Jr’s third wife Tess. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“This…this…”
Roberto stepped forward. “Spit it out. This what?”
Donner stepped back and without looking managed to plop down in old Vera’s favorite chair. “This is quite…quite crazy!” he finally said. “Your father changed his will. This is not the one we drew up more than fifteen years ago. He nullified that one and drew up a new one without my knowledge. I can’t believe this.”
Number One Son Angelo Jr. stepped forward. “Read it, Donner.”
“Yeah,” chimed in Filippo, “we’re big boys. We can take it.”
Then Filippo’s wife said a bit too loudly to her husband, “Maybe you’ll get more now.” Filippo touched his closed lips with his finger and she quit talking.
The revised will in hand, Donner began reading. “To my friend Marco who came to America with me from our Italian village of Casteltermini, I leave you this house you helped me build with our four hands. And too the limousine you took good care of.
To Mary Flannigan, who resisted all of my younger days’ advances, and thus proved worthy to live in this Vera home, I leave you all the jewelry my late wife Marietta could not take with her to the grave.
To my brother Sebastiano, who in our years of childhood delighted in torturing me, insulting me, envying my good fortune, I bequeath to you my set of bocce balls. Handle them well.
And finally to my sons Angelo, Roberto and Filippo. My fortune beyond this property an old friend once told me could not be counted unless a man could live three hundred years! Over a billion dollars! Not bad for an Italian immigrant who came here from poverty and said no it won’t keep holding me down. There were no gold in the streets like they told us, so I went into construction work and made my own gold in the streets.”
“My God!” said Angelo. “More than a billion dollars!”
“And if he was fair about it,” said another of the old man’s daughters-in-law, “he divided it three ways.”
“To my three sons,” continued Donner’s reading, “I leave tit for tat. All your lives you played the prodigal son with one exception: you never left home and then returned sorry for how you mistreated your own father. Instead, you stayed home, refused to work, took advantage of my charity. You gave me nothing and nothing I return to the three of you.”
The three sons and their wives stood from their chairs, white as the hair on Donner’s head.
“He can’t do that!” Roberto said. “We’re his sons.”
Donner put his hand up. There was more in the will. “Now you will work, something you have deliberately refused to do because your rich father paid your way. You will work now. If you want your inheritance. I placed in a wooden box--a small wooden box--which I buried very deep the key to a safety deposit box somewhere in the world. If you find the box--which is also somewhere in the world--you will know which bank to find my fortune. Whom to see. Who will turn over my fortune.
When I buried that wooden box, I told myself no one would find it. Now, as you so often did when I was alive, prove me wrong again. Go out and dig up that box. Work hard for your future! I made sure no one would find it. It’s in a safe place. No one knows where but me.”
The three brothers moved away from one another. Angelo Vera had pulled a nasty fast one on them. One need not be a mind reader to know that each brother would spend the rest of his life, if need be, to find that wooden box.
(C) 2008 Salvatore Buttaci
Sal is GodFather to me, aboard the smooth,strong sailing of HARBINGER*33. He's a gentle presence and a roaring JOY. He's a poem in the veritable making; he's heritage well defined and not an ounce of his ancestor's pirate's blood mixes with the warmth of his own. He gives ~ he teaches ~ he reaches ~ he's Open ~ and sometimes, sometimes if you listen very closely . . . he's a prayer.
~ AMEN. Fair Winds, Following Seas . . .
~ Absolutely*Kate, with a captain's grace and gratitude for all this majestic gent brings in his well-traveled wordsmithery of a worn leather valise along the starboard side of where writers' destinies harbinger so well . . . so well . . .
What would winter be without the promise of the summer we hold within? Ah, but with a mere spin of the globe before us . . . LOOK! . . . We're There, and the ease of the blue-winged kookaburra laughs along with our innate trickles of joy . . .
Summer in the Bush
~ by Malcome Allen
A dingo circles the homestead,
by the side of the cattle yard
as summer dusk rapidly approaches . . .
While my old overhead fan -
actively circulates tired air
and terrorises the mosquitoes . . .
Since it's so humid at night
and the kookaburras cry,
as the enthusiastic tourists,
energise their flashlights . . . .
The Mosquito's Song
~ by Malcome Allen
The Mosquito's song, fills the room with clapping hands,
but . . . still drinking, after the glass is drained -
The glass half full or the glass half empty?
It's much too hot, to wear a watch tonight -
While just you and me are awake all night - as
a bullfrog sings its lonely lullaby . . .
(c) 2009 by Malcome Allen
Mal? What do you say about the non-lonely charm, charm, charm of this beloved Aussie to OH so many? That when he claims, "Ah, you're a diamond in the rough", you sense you're looking right into the sheen of the glean of all which he really means . . . in open, stalwart kindness and that hand which reaches right in and pulls you up close and you know that laugh and that his eyes twinkle and that . . . whooooops, Mal has that effect on you, doesn't he, Ladies?
This lanky hunk o'humanity is gorgeous in spirit ~ a university professor who rises to the voice within, (and follows it) . . . writing poetry and short stories and reading, reading, reading all which the fellow scribes he treasures around him, turn and amply churn out. Quite simply though, I'm always touched that Mal's the kinda Melbourne man who sees a long distance walk before him and follows it ~ just because there could be a sunrise or sunset at its end. There, he'll sit for hours and he'll look and ponder and breathe it in (til later he writes it out), because, in Mal's simple-for-pleasure words, "They are so beautiful . . . "
Graced we are that you're such a part of AT THE BIJOUand writers' pennings, dear Mal. Thank you for these poetic musings from your prolific share.
~ Absolutely*Kate and the fine, fine staff of renown, AT THE BIJOU
"If, as Herod we fill our lives with things, if we consider ourselves so important that we must fill every moment of our lives with action, when will we have the time to make the long, slow journey across the desert as did the Magi? Or sit and watch the stars as did the shepherds? Or brood over the coming of the child as did Mary?
For each one of us . . . There is a desert to travel.
A Star to Discover.
And a being within ourselves, to bring to Life."
~ A Happy, sacred, loving, laughing, reflective
and most of all JOY*FULL Christmas and Holiday season is heartily wished to ~
... the finest family of friends ~ fellow writers,
... the jaunty talented crew of the Harbinger*33,
... promotional publishing colleagues.
... and delighted discovering readers AT THE BIJOU
In oh so many ways, you Enlighten my life,
and stir how I wish to reach the sky the higher.
"When you look into the stars . . .
you see the souls of heroes."
~ Frontline on CPTV "From Jesus To Christ", 23 December, 2009 as I type-designed this ... {No such thing in life as a coincidence}
The faded neon sign announced ‘Welcome to the Star Hotel’, but a much brighter ‘No’ appeared in front of the ‘Rooms Vacant’ sign beneath it. Joey Cortez shook a Camel from the soft pack and tucked it back in the sleeve of his t-shirt. When he lit up, the smoke hung in the cold night air like it was waiting for a purpose. Joey knew the feeling. Just for the moment, he felt he was at the edge of something vast and unknown, as if fate had left him and Maria standing at the place where the future ran out. He pulled his jacket on, reassured by the familiar bulk of the Glock in the inner pocket.
From the corner of the car park, he looked back at his father’s old Buick. Steam was still wafting out through the grille. He heard the tick of cooling metal, smelled the overheated oil and cooked rubber and wondered how much longer it would hold out. Maria waved and threw him a tired smile from the passenger seat. He had to find a room; they couldn’t go any further tonight and it would soon be freezing. He walked past the windows of the bar, gauging the nature of the crowd inside by the noise they made. The place was crammed full with a Friday night bunch, wage slaves and salesmen all packing as many into their free hours before they went home to their families. He went straight in and shouldered his way to the register.
“I need a room,” Joey announced to the middle-aged woman at the bar.
“You need reading lessons.” She turned away to serve a biker.
“I’ll take anything you got. Anything. I can pay.”
She looked him in the eyes. “Just you?”
“Wife and baby…” he dropped his eyes slightly, figuring by her wedding band she might be a mother. “We’ve come a long way.”
“Baby, huh?” She went back into the office and talked briefly to a man in a singlet. The man came to the doorway, looked him up and down and nodded, without changing expression. It reminded him of how the border guard had looked at their papers, shown them to his Captain while pointing out the car. He’d watched the senior officer make a call on his mobile, listening and nodding, and then they were waved through. Joey couldn’t imagine who he’d called, but it had been enough to get them across with a smile and a nod from the Captain.
The woman came out and motioned Joey over to a staircase bedside the bar. He followed her upstairs.
She opened a door at the end of a short, dark hall. “It’s not much, only one bed. Thirty bucks. You use the hotel toilets, there’s a shower out back you can use in the morning. Cash up front.”
It was bigger than he’d expected. A single bed, a sofa, a side table, single bar radiator and a rusty clothes rack. The sheets looked clean and there was a pile of thick blankets.
“No problem,” he said. “I’ve seen a lot worse,” he added, winking.
“Yeah, well, it’s right over the bar. You won’t get much sleep until we close at midnight.”
“No problem, it’ll do. Thanks, appreciate it.”
He paid her at the bar and went back to the car. They parked around the back and the woman let them in through the back door. Maria carried the baby and Joey carried the bags with all their possessions.
There was a slight lull in the bar roar as he led Maria through to the staircase. He knew there’d be a string of Mexican jokes in their wake, but her beauty and shy smile disarmed them, as did the sleeping baby. There were some winks, nods and “Nice kid” comments.
Despite the noise from the bar, Maria and the baby went straight to sleep. Joey lay across the end of the bed, half wrapped around them, watching them in the glow from the neon sign outside. Its powdery, pure reds and blues, filtered through the dirty window, made them look like painted statues; a breathing, pastel-hued pieta.
***
He jolted awake. Three men were sitting on the battered sofa across the room, bathed in the soft orange glow of the radiator. It was quiet below and outside. Joey’s hand moved towards his gun, but he thought better of it.
“Don’t worry, Joey,” said the smallest guy. “We’re not from Diaz. We brought youse some things you might need.” He indicated a pile of plastic shopping bags on the floor. From them spilled cans of beans, baby food, diapers, bottles of juice and a six pack of beer.
The biggest of the three, a black guy in a three-piece suit, tossed a roll of bills onto the table. “That should keep you going for a while. Old Luis’ car looks like it might not make it.”
“You know my father? Who sent you?” asked Joey. It seemed like a reasonable question. The little guy smiled.
“Let us just say, someone who has your best interests at heart, and wants to see youse safely out of harm’s way. All three of youse.”
“You followed us from the border?”
The third man, a pearly scar running from above his left ear, down around his face and across his mouth, put on his hat and snapped the brim down. “Diaz has guys everywhere, looking for you. He wants his baby back.”
Joey almost choked keeping his voice down. “He raped her! I wanted to kill him! We only ran because she begged me not too.”
“Smart girl. You did the right thing, but you better not stay in one place too long. We got your back, Joey. Just remember, you have friends. See you in Chicago.” They made their way to the door.
The trio stood quietly, watching the baby like favourite uncles. “See you, Joey,” said the little guy, closing the door behind him. “Merry Christmas.”
Joey sat back, shaking his head. He could imagine how the three had convinced the landlords to let them into the room and to wait quietly below without calling the cops. They would be more than glad to see their guests gone in the morning.
He stood, putting his blanket over Maria, opened the window and sitting on the sill, lit a cigarette. He couldn’t trust anyone. Ultimately the three visitors were enforcers and they wanted him in Chicago. If he tried to head west, they’d be right there, on his tail. Still, for the time being these guys were the closest thing to friends they could afford to have. And assassins certainly wouldn’t be bothered bringing bags of diapers. He flicked his cigarette into the street. For the moment, they were safe.
(c) Ian Rochford, 2009 ~ of Harbinger*33 . . . where, when fortunate, you shall read MORE!
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Ahhhh, there was room at the Star . . . and room for possibilities for any characters our Ian puts out there . . . they're gonna scramble sure -- but they'll always be some sense of deeper etched memorable action figures . . . as with these ones, so poignantly fitting in this Christmas week upon the world.
Ian had the story,and I had the desire for the good folks who come 'round AT THE BIJOU to take in, on the hark of their heralding holiday visit, a special sense of the rough, the real, the sacred, the divine. All of that is as screen gems as it gets, when Mr Rochford writes for stage, screen and script of mind.
A man of just the right amount of words, aboard the Harbinger*33, Ian is all awareness, where such is sought to be. He sees into and beyond what his characters and those which cross our decks are bringing to truth by their greater actions. I've watched him embrace his leading lady, Gene Tierney and felt his heroics rise to occasion. Tis a noble man, our Sir Ian of an underlying piratical nature . . . and OH, he knows his music well. Eric Clapton and I both share high regards for Ian's middle name ~ Repertoire. (not to be confused with Rumplestiltskin, though possibly a 3rd cousin?)
Topsail thanks to you Ian . . . Laughter is e'er the gustier . . . Perceptions on characterizations more the refined, when you're at the rail alongside us. Honoured we all are that your robust take on life billows in all the winds aboard Harbinger*33, sailing to its publishing journey of manifesting destinies. ~ Delights of all Holidays; FairWinds, Favourable Seas ~ Absolutely*Kateand readers desiring eons of Ian
Edward placed hay under the bed for the camels of Kings. His three boys went outside and fetched pails of water to quench the thirst of animals. They set them down on each of the porch steps. After wiping wet hands on the back of their jeans, they ran back inside their small, warm home. Edward met them in the narrow foyer.
“What’s their names again, Poppa?” His youngest son, Gilbert scratched his head.
“Melchor, Gaspar and Baltasar,” Edward said patiently. “Three Wise Men just like there are—” he paused to point in tandem with each spoken number,” one, two, three of you.”
“Oh, brother.” Aaron, his eldest, rolled his brown eyes. A week earlier, he had celebrated his twelfth birthday. This was all baby stuff to him now. “Tell ‘em, Pop.”
“Tell him what?”
“That they ain’t REALLY comin’.”
Gilbert gasped.
Edward raised his eyebrows.
“They’ll be here, Gil,” Ricardo voiced, unconcerned. He was two years younger than Aaron. He flicked his head in his big brother’s direction. “Don’t listen to him.”
Gilbert sighed in relief.
“Whatever.” Aaron crossed his arms.
The evening before, they had gathered with friends in Casa de los Sueños Park. Street vendors with an endless stream of helium-filled balloons illuminated the dusky sky with a myriad of brilliant colors. Edward purchased three and handed them to his sons. His two littlest ones withdrew neatly folded slips of red paper. They fed the white balloon strings through holes punched in the corners of their letters and tied secure knots. Written on the carefully penned notes were the innocent wishes of delicate hearts. Edward counted to three and each boy released his magnificent herald. They watched them rise toward heaven until the night clouds swaddled them into the folds of darkness. Aaron’s balloon carried no message.
“Anyway,” Edward said dramatically, “we best be getting ready for bed, so go on and run that bath. Tonight the Magi return. And in the morning, the gifts they bear will be yours!”
An explosion of excitement and a flurry of undersized arms and legs blew past him. Only Aaron remained with his father and there was an old sadness seeping from his young eyes.
“Something on your mind, son?”
“I never told you this, Pop,” Aaron confessed after a brief hesitation. “But you wanna know what my wish was last year?”
“Sure.”
He unsuccessfully suppressed the tremor of his lips. “I wished the Kings would bring us back our Queen.”
Edward sighed heavily and grasped his son’s shoulder. His wife, Milagros had passed away almost two years ago. She was his angel, and when the breast cancer had at last brought them both to their knees, he alone had witnessed her winged ascent into eternity. Aaron had taken the death of his mother the hardest.
“Oh, son.” Edward smiled gently. “That’s something I wish for every day.”
They hugged and cried in the quiet light.
An hour later, prayers had been voiced and everyone was ready for bed. Edward kissed the little ones and tucked them in. He walked Aaron to his room.
“I don’t believe in them anymore,” Aaron said in the threshold. “Is that wrong, Pop?”
Unlike his brothers, no hay was strewn under his bed awaiting the placement of gifts.
“No, son. It was inevitable.”
Aaron nodded his head and closed the door.
At just after midnight, Edward began his annual transformation into Magi under the steadfast eye of his heavenly Queen. He knew the wrapped gifts in his hands may never equate with Frankincense or Myrrh, but that didn’t matter.
His children were pure gold.
(c) Angel Zapata, 2009 ~ of Harbinger*33 . . . where, when fortunate, you shall read MORE!
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He had me at "innocent wishes of delicate hearts" . . .
He had me when he graced my request as the perfect accompaniment to Ian's delectable Christmas piece. He had me when his writing first moved different senses within me ~ guess that's all the time I come across an Angel piece to softly read and breathe in.
Yes ~ That's Angel. Aboard the Harbinger*33 where his distinct openess knew something spectacular was taking place when a synergistic group of writers added not just words and signature voices to a book and ongoing promotional-publishing destiny . . . he was the very first to point out ~ (typical Angel'ing) ~ the out-of-the-ordinary results which could ensue in spirit. (How true, how true).
Angel's collision into a target of words merging meaning to remembrance, takes you to a time-paused place always. To me, this is a higher form of grace, even in humour or horror, but always in the depth we're left to fathom as readers . . . past the first sighting of mere finangled words. He puts a warmth where eyes seek pathways, and then come up for the shine.
Angel Zapata often disregards the three second rule and has been known to eat any holiday's candy from the floor regardless of how long it’s been there. Recent fiction and poetry has appeared online and in print on Flashes in the Dark, The New Flesh, The Legendary, Negative Suck, the Toe Tags Horror Anthology, House of Horror's Best of 2009 Anthology, Morpheus Tales, and Flashshot. Treat yourself to MORE ANGEL @ A Rage of Angel < right there where his blog tenders and tests thoughts for all they're worth.
Topsail thanks to you Angel . . . Your dedication to the craft of writing is surpassed only by the noble manner you hold up fellow writers with an innate humble but oh-so-classy fellow supportive nature. Honoured we all are that your particular view of the world is shared aboard Harbinger*33, sailing to its publishing journey of manifesting destinies. ~ Delights of all Holidays; FairWinds, Favourable Seas ~ Absolutely*Kateand readers desiring Angel's rages and pure gold
It was never what she said ~ it was how she said it. The lean into look, the swallow the eyes heart, the come and beckon some more whisper. And he wanted it . . . around his hard edges, softening into new designs. Back to the drawing board . . . it was always back to the drawing board. His mind sketched what his yearnings defined . . . and most of the time visualization went past where mere T-square refined.
To manifest his destiny, he knew he had to step up by stepping in ~ outline the virility of poignancy past bold frames frozen in how-it-had-always-been . . . Jasper's will to win had vibrance in its palette, display fonts in affrontage and CAPS shifting to divine his higher-self. Only from within . . . depths yet unmined . . . could and would Jasper G. enrich eternity's pull of fair Genevieve in kind. Would the way justify his means; no guilt for gilt? Ode and opus to joy unfettered, to the OtherWorld he would draw forth allegiance to his Elysian Fields. What his mind’s eye saw . . . hunkered down Jasper indefatigably did draw ~
Gods and goddesses heard and were stirred by his lead penciled plea. Scratch, scratch, itch, itch ~ speak well it did of yearning he. His sketch was seen, his glimmer gleaned. For before the morning, comes the Moirae . . .
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Daughters of Zeus and Themis, named as “parts” of how Fate weave-wonders whole, the goddesses Moirae took up discussion of Jasper for Genevieve to conjure where brave be bold. Klotho, the Spinner remanded, “There is an inescapable destiny to mere mortal man - - “, cut off succinctly by Lakesis, Apportioner of Lots. Measuring the thread of Life, Lakesis murmered her return, “But all may share in the scheme of things.”, and let loose a longer tangle. Atropos, known as ‘She who cannot be turned’, gauged wisely and cut the looser thread of life. Her scissor points raised high, sharp gleams of celestial light perforated her vision, “True sisters, true – in human affairs, we cannot abruptly interfere, yet when we deem the sincere we may avail of intermediate causes. Fate is not inflexible. Eternal laws take course, of course, but nay not absolutely, only conditionally comes obstruction. In his freedom, even mortal man himself may draw a certain influence upon them . . . this left up to the truths of his deduction.”
The prophetic deities had their day . . . Klotho carried forth her spindle roll – the book of fate, turning pages to chapter change. Lakhesis pointed her staff to a specific horoscope upon the globe, nodding once, decision told. Atropos glanced at her wax tablet and reconfigured derivations, consulted her sundial to diminish a shadow, and double’found justice in her pair of scales. The cut was made. The cyclic nature of human destiny went round, for there is no trifling with the goddess sisters – they deign design the divine:
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The soul of heroics varies you know, from author to artist, from plume to pen. Release percussions a powerful if not timpanic conundrum, by Zeus, as a tenacious ruler guided Jasper past fated men. Lightening strikes where man must have his fate ~ thus Jasper's parchment paper snap-crackled far into the late. Ticonderoga #2 met Eberhard in a rubber match with no taint to overshadow delight. SOULS ENTERTWINED was what sketched J. Gestalt in white space both clean and pure. Amour to be could not demur. Today's tomorrow revealed visions and prophecies in what came writ 'pon one man's script and scripture. To live, to love, to grasp, to grow, to tantalize past where incessant primordial courses flow.
In a studio down the hall, despite the hour, the fair Genevieve feels Jasper's deep devour. Portals work that way when itch be etch, when new realities open form from function’s derivative sketch. Sweet magic frees fire's re-embered desire . . . one to the other, time spiral-threads the higher.
No knocks for a door pushed open.
Doubt dispelled . . . his gaze she held.
BLISS . . . be immortality's finest friend.
The end? Nay, but beginning of this beguine . . . should you know what I mean.
(c) Absolutely*Kate, 2009 . . . with more to be in HARBINGER*33
