A KISS TO BUILD A DREAM ON . . . By Franny's daughter, Absolutely*Kate

" T O G E T H E R   A G A I N "

A KISS TO BUILD A DREAM ON

By Franny's daughter . . . 

Coincidentally, by Paul's daughter too, 

~ Absolutely*Kate

It's inordinately quiet in the house I grew up in. Childhood bedroom doors our enthusiasms pushed open to  jump on each other's beds or share a secret or play another summer round of Monopoly are closed now. People and memories are sleeping, even the ones from the West coast contingent who flew in tonight from their other timezone. 

The youngest brother was here first when I pulled up the long driveway I'd learned to back a 1971 red Camaro out of using only side mirrors. Our first hug mirrored the sides of emotion that dug the depth to devotion of parents who gave life a full-fledged thriving. We acknowledge where words are superfulous that constant laughter churned achievements into places heavens hailed. The younger sister arrived next with the middle brother closest to the Cleveland airport. As he headed an hour's drive home, before his return the next day and the calling hours one after that, and the funeral one after that, and the final family farewells one to be after that, neighbors who were friends and ladies of the church who became extra sisters to our mother, trickled into a gush of how a sensitive stream splashes bounty. 

The care that comes in foil dinner platters tastes unsuspiciously like sausages, rigatoni, cabbage rolls, saucy meatballs and love that begets love. The baked delicacies of pineapple zucchini bread, homemade cinnamon rolls and orange cream pies mingle on the kitchen counter and table where I've arranged yellow tulips from Mom's gardens midst thoughtful breakfast items and even good hearted pizzas and beer. 

Condolence callers come in sad but leave with the kind of light that laughter's resilience rekindles to teary eyes. Both comfort and energy emanate the stuff that hugs are made of, and words no longer need sound to speak their better volumes.  Cheer responds to challenge when we open their share and tender our current trivia query ~ "What was Mom's favorite flower?" (No two same answers have collided - she loved them all. There'll be no clearcut winner, or they all will be, which makes more sense.)

The brother just two years younger than I, whose spirit once mailed me a real tumbleweed just because I marveled at its wonder, lands after midnight at the Pittsburgh airport. More family from the sister burst in a few hours ago, rejoined generational joy. More stories swapped. A toast to Franny, clinked 'round the kitchen table. My childrenfolk and love take to the road before and just after the crack of dawn's early light. The more we're together, the more we sense Mom's alright.

She wrote the input 
for her own obituary here.

Yes, on a typically sad page where the news is dying, our Mother, Frances Kozel Pilarcik inserted a photo of her with Dad under the heading "Together Again".

God Bless the Lady who held the hand

and kissed away the tears.

And God bless all of you,

whose worldwide webbing reach

is so touching . . . 

 You've bolstered me,

for the hurts and healing

of the next two 'morrows.

 Good Night. I sleep perchance to dream

of the beginnings this sleeping house shares.

Love, 

~ Absolutely*Kate

THE PERFECT RESPONSE ~ By Absolutely*Kate of Harbinger*33, in the Fitzgerald style

THE PERFECT RESPONSE

~ By Absolutely*Kate,

in the style of the Fitzgeralds

You see, when men rode tandems and coaches to show they knew the social implications of football games in splendid places like Harvard and Dartmouth and Princeton and Yale, and curvaceous young ladies with life in their eyes and divine sparkle to their beings conspired to meet them, I first met Sam Fitzsimmons. There was gin to begin with and a cut glass trophy to dazzle an ending to end all endings when that particular September regatta was in full regalia on a blue and blustery day in Newport Harbour. 

Sam had the smooth affectations of a tender man, but was strong at the riggings and swift at the tending of his lines. It was one line in particular which cleaved to be the cleat knot of my undoing, delivered with keen blue eyes intent upon a proper response, "Miss Fairchild, would you honour me with the correct placement of a kiss should our skiff rise victorious over all notorious competition this side of Jamestown Isle?" 

There was an inner fluster at first, until my soft steely southern upbringing refused to bring up the slightest hint of muster to fluster and a peachy blush sufficed with of course a cool eyelash bat of, "Why ah say, what precisely IS the correct placement of a kiss, Mr Fitzsimmons?" 

Ten years of lush anniversaries afterward, I still polish to dazzling light the cut glass regatta trophy, myself, with nary a housemaid of bric-a-bric tending in sight, for I, Amanda Fairchild Fitzsimmons responded at once that night, to the perfect response to the perfect challenge, when the poised and polished Sam quite perfectly answered, "Why, the kiss which lasts a lifetime."

(c) 2009 ~ Author Absolutely*Kate

Past the Hemingway and Faulkner of Max Perkins' Scribner publishing days, F. Scott Fitzgerald, the beautiful and damned literary hero of Absolutely*Kate's writing days, would have given a Jazz Age swerve, his way, AT THE BIJOU. Absolutely*Kate's style is similar, believing in believers and that the world shall e'er be better with more moxie. You can find plenty of both AT THE BIJOU, her tantalizing showcase for writers' raves becoming readers' faves.

~ Absolutely*Kate is presently raising the mains'l of Harbinger*33, heralding more greatness to be of 33 authors, 3 artists and 3 authenticators in their published-promotable destiny. The Captain creatively knows where both the rum and the pirates are and makes guest appearances aboard some of the crew's now prolific fleet of writers' sites. She's set her tiller hand to writing, writers and e'er new literary horizons ~ for discovery, for adventure. Four books are underway, but not til Harbinger*33 reaches the glory of readers' sees.

* SINGLE SPOTLIGHT * ~ By Absolutely*Kate of Harbinger*33

*
SINGLE SPOTLIGHT
*

  ALA ~ 
ABSOLUTELY*KATE

"You're On!"

"But I'm nervous -- I'm frightened -- I'm unsure ~ what if they hate me -- what if they don't get me -- what if I stumble or falter or trip or get caught up in --- ", was never fully stage-whispered out . . . since the swift sensation of HIS lips crushed her imagined calamity backstage, slamming a cymbalic crescendo of silence . . . damning all doubt. 

Crescendos center-staged while time stopped, the orchestra started out in the key of C, stagehands cleared imperative scratchy throats and memories played strong and long, mezzo forte ~ memories of last night, of last year, of decades hence, of sheets that twisted feelings no longer resisted, of eyes which blazed and sighs that enchanted where tantalizing touches languished on honeysuckled skin, and of secrets that tasted how Forever must taste (kinda butterscotchy), all surged further in, in, IN to the notable light which ignites the darkness of two morphing as one, so that all which is seen is the inner soul of its other, and who even knows where one began the beguine and the other refrained? 

When a kiss is not just a kiss but the peace, promise and persistence of being where you've been and going where you're going and knowing without showing that a far greater presence permeates mere day-to-day to all possibilities having their potential sway . . . that's when you hear, loud and clear, past the rising roar of any audienced cheer, "I believe in you." 

BUT THE SHOW MUST GO ON . . . and with a hustled rush and rustle to her shimmering silks, she was push-glided through the imperceptible slit where velvet curtains give way to wonders of a wide waiting world . . . where her step did not falter, her smile did not waver (though her lipstick was clearly smeared), where her tone did not tip or tumult as she and the glisten of trademark sequins found their mark, confident out of shadowed darkness to the circle glow of an ongoing single spot and there ~ octogenarian Genevieve Grace accepted her lifetime achievement award,  simultaneously marveling how synergy and symbolism attunes . . . as she belted out her tune, to the proud packed house in hometown Peoria: 
 

"Oh my man . . . 

I love him so . . .

he'll never know . . ."

Oh, but he  . . . did. 

(c) 2010 ~ Author Absolutely*Kate

Absolutely*Kate believes in believers and all the powers which love projects . . . and protects. She's proud to call AT THE BIJOU a hearty well-lit home to welcome in wit, grand talent and spirit. Kate's currently navigating reader'ship seas with HARBINGER*33, heralding 33 authors' greatness . . . in furthering destinies. Four more books are in the harbour and the horizon holds no limits. Naturally, she wishes you "Fair Winds, Favourable Seas . . . and Happy Lovin' Valentines' Day!"

The sentiments of

this 'peace'

  are dedi*kated

to the one I love,

to Prof/Matt ...

~ from 

Kate/Katrina,

absolutely 

The Goodbye Kiss . . . by Paul D. Brazill of Harbinger*33

A TORCH SONG? Oh yes, how could a thriller to me from He ~ the inimitably charming (and to some disarming) (but never harming), Paul David Brazill, be otherwise?

Splendid Ladies

and Dashing Gents

*** NOW PLAYING ***
*** AT THE BIJOU ***

The Goodbye Kiss
~ by the scintillating mind of Paul D. Brazill

The Salutation Bar was stiflingly hot and cluttered with the usual hodge-podge of misfits, waifs and strays. Walter sat at a table by the window watching the streamers of steam rise from his muddy coffee. Beside him, a gangling scarecrow of a man slurped his beer with all the enthusiasm of an ex-con in a bordello. Each sip was like a leaky tap drip, drip, dripping throughout a sleepless night.

Outside, the cloak of darkness had draped itself over the city, and the moon bit into the sky like a fang. The night was suddenly filled with the crackle of exploding fireworks as Lena oozed into the bar like mercury. She stood before Walter and a chill of recognition sliced through him. She nodded and he stood.

The next day a church bell echoed through the granite autumn morning as Walter lay slumped against a gravestone. On his forehead, a smear of lipstick and a perfect bloody circle were all that remained of Lena’s goodbye kiss.

The End
(c) Paul D. Brazill . . . 2009

Paul Brazill was born in Hartlepool, England and lives in Bydgoszcz, Poland. He has absolutely nothing to do with the shooting of Liberty Valance, nor the monkey purported to be hung in the renown of his town. He can be found stalking though (of course), @ http://pdbrazill.blogspot.com

To me, aboard the Harbinger*33, Paul is a cool character marked by sharp intellect, quick satirical wit and the sparkle of a rather knowing eye over two glasses in mid*clink*, on the starboard side or at any tempting tavern. The first time I wrote noir, back in ol'6*City, he came jauntily forward from the shadows, a mentor of sorts. Mon Dieu, my life, from that point in time and tiempo has decidedly and delightfullly ne'er been quite the same. Some of his talented writing chums have become Thrillers & Chillers of my own, and many more I Mythica'lly anticipate to meet.

Billowing thanks to you Paul . . . with always a kiss of *hello*. Honoured we all are that your talents are aboard Harbinger*33, sailing to its publishing journey of manifesting destinies.

~ Na zdrowie, with FairWinds, Favourable Seas
~ Absolutely*Kate and readers about to delight in you the more