Thursday, December 2, 2010

THE WALLS COULD TALK ~ By Absolutely*Kate of Harbinger*33 ... (#Friday Flash Fiction)

MIRRORING TRUTH ~ Mensatic pic ala MorgueFile


~ By Absolutely*Kate

The walls could talk fluently because the mirrors reflected history. Oak framed on a carved wooden base with a white marble shelf in the front foyer, reflections of the unadulterated surprise in the bright blue eyes sighting Peggy Jean's murder by a back-stabbing exwife left an unwelcome impression. The gold-flecked foil paper the new owners insisted on almost seamlessly covered the blood smears which Mr Clean could not.

~ ~ ~

The main washroom at the top of the mahogany staircase held remembrance. Grandpa's pride and joy had traveled mountainous miles from militia days out West to find a welcome home. Hung high from where he pounded through crumbly pale blue-white plaster, a foldout shaving mirror opened and extended down to three oval surfaces. Grandpa liked to see all the sides of every situation he looked into. When folded back within itself to close, the back side revealed a burnished golden and red painting of the Southern Cheyenne chief, Wolf Robe. On the other side stared back a shy but mischievious rendering of the proud warrior's wife. 

Grandpa relished his daily gentleman ritual of clipping and trimming following the swift stir of Pear's soap to a foamy alchemy in his chipped pedastal shaving mug. I was just a little tyke at the time, but Gramps would kick the seat closed with one foot and plop me down if I promised to be real quiet. He muttered how dignity should last longer, sang bits he recalled from what he called his courting song, "In The Evening By The Moonlight", then settled into rueful reminisces of the sad massacre at Sand Creek in Colorado. "Now Johnny, Wolf Robe's tribe was peaceful, they meant no harm. The open plains stretched before them, around them and there was plenty land for every man. You didn't speak out against the U. S. military mission of the day but it just didn't set well with me shooing people from their homeland. The Southern Cheyenne had good hunting grounds at the upper flow of the Arkansas River. That's where I met Wolf Robe, hunting. He was skillful, wasted no motion. I halted my horse, signaled my admiration. He too raised open palm, approached me with no fear. Back in '76, he showed no fear also when he hitched up the Cheyenne tribe with the Sioux to defeat Colonel George Custer at the Battle of Little Bighorn."

"But Grandpa, we learned in school our government moved the Indians to Oklahoma, making one reservation of Indian Territory. Did your Chief Wolf Robe have to surrender?"

I ducked just in time when he flicked a full stipple of foamy Pear's cream from his wooden brush in the direction of my insensitive noggin. White blobs smacked residue blotches on the pale blue-white plaster and Grandpa left it there all week 'til Grandma came around with her Saturday scrub brush. He liked lasting impressions, Grandpa did.

~ ~ ~


"Oh Johnny, OH Johnny," languishing Lizzie moaned softly. My fingertips were playing tease and tender under soft lotioned Honeysuckle skin right where her creamy breast swooped. I lowered my sensitive noggin into a nibble of a nuzzle at the nape of her neck. I was skillful. I wasted no motion. That cuddly cat moaned more as I primed her primal purr. A slew of those girlie scented vanilla candles she was bringing around more lately flickered now, catching a hundred flame lights in the prismatic bevel mirroring Mom and Pop's hand-me-down maple dresser. Funny. Liz was my old flame, the one who got away, and now . . . the one who'd rambled back. I took her back and didn't look back. If I did, I would've seen what I gazed at each night before I slipped into a jumble of dreams. A red Revlon scrawl, "LIZZIE LOVES JOHNNY BEST OF ALL". How many nights, in how many ways my fingers traced air, just above each letter, not willing to mar the will of the wall's lingering sentiment. How many nights now will my fingers trace real sentiment into my lady? My sigh blends resonance into her moan. I tug her to my side, let fingers further glide, catch fire flickering, this time from white hot heat in her bright blue eyes. For not the first time in my life, I wish I could see all the sides of every situation I look into. The better to leave a more lasting impression.

If I had an Indian head nickel of old Chief Wolf Robe for every time I wondered at the return of the luck of my joy, I'd be an enriched man, learning me the words to croon "In The Evening By The Moonlight".

I'd do it with dignity too.

(c) 2010 ~ Author Absolutely*Kate


Paul D Brazill said...

Lovely work, Kate!

Kate Pilarcik ~ absolutely said...

Dziekuje Paul!

You do know how much this means oh Mentor of mine?

Matthew S. Magda said...

The Indians have a way of staying in our memories. They are powerful spirits which mirrors cannot hold.

History will never die, it is always there and found in many ways.

Nicely done Kate.

Sean Patrick Reardon said...

The thing I love about your writing is that I have to carefully read each and every word. And then I go back and re-read it and find I enjoy it even more the second time around. Kind of like looking at a great work of art and the more I analyse the canvas, the more detail I notice. You have a truly unique style and the pictures really add to the experience.

Kate Pilarcik ~ absolutely said...

Sean Patrick ~ You may have just touched a new place in my psyche's soul.

Matthew ~ Yes, *history* knows all, tells all - one has but to hear the whispers.

Good Gents, my great thanks,
~ Absolutely*Kate

Deanna said...

Kate, from first intriguing sentence to last, this is an absolute masterpiece. Like Sean, I had to read it twice, just to slow down and relish every sentence.

Thank you so much for sharing this wonderful story!

Harry said...

You know, I don't usually say, "What he said!" unless I'm trying to needle Roo. But really, Sean Patrick said it as well as can be said. What he said...and,

You just keep on impressing me Katie*Girl! This is one of your best yet! :)

Kate Pilarcik ~ absolutely said...

LADY DEANNA, if I forget to ever tell you (over and over), coming across your commento with fresh robust coffee first thing on a Sunday mornin' was what set my writer's soul to a real nice decibel of hummmmm. My gratitude for *how* you read this.

HAR OH HAR ~ you're the best echo to hear my voice since I've come across you in Writers'World. Most humbly I *gulp* and salute you, Cowboy yarner of tales.

~ Absolutely*Kate, learning to listen to how writing *zings* its stuff . . .