ABC Gum In An Elevator

"I can’t believe I did this! I’ll never live it down."
"What are you belly aching about? We’re apt to be stuck to the backside of this handrail forever and you’re worried someone will find out?"
"And you’re not? Yeah, right! We’re apt to be stuck here past supper time."
"That’s what you’re worried about, isn’t it? Stop snickering!"
"Do you know how funny you look, stuck to a piece of gum? How utterly ridiculous you look? So what are you laughing at?"
"You! That fancy green cap is about to fall off. You have one ear covered and one pointy ear showing."
"Well, you don’t look so prim and proper now, yourself. So, how are we going to get loose, any ideas? Come on, smarty-pants, out with it!"
"Watch out! That frizzy-haired lady that just got on, has a dog. Oh I hate yipping dogs."
"He’s yipping at us, do-do brain."
"I know! I know! What are we going to do?"
"Now would be a good time for some magic— maybe?"
"Oh yeah, I forgot! Let me see . . . Zippidy zappidy do, change that dog into an old shoe."
"Oh, it worked! It worked! That is so funny! Can you see the look on that lady’s face?"
"Not from here, I can’t."
"You know, all of a sudden, this seems very comical. If you can change a dog into a shoe, you ought to be able to change an already-been-chewed piece of gum into a leaf— or something— before the shoe changes back?"

Desert Creature

The sun rose early in the east casting long shadows from the Lotus trees. I too, am a desert creature, thought Sarie as she watched an owl on a near-by limb. She stood very still, blinking her eyes wide and moving her head in small increments. The owl blinked and ruffled his feathers in the spring wind. Then there was a movement and instantly he focused on a small stack of rocks, but the rodent disappeared into the woodpile.
"Sarie, did you forget the water?"
"No, Mama." She drew the bucket to her as the owl flapped and flew away. The full bucket was heavy and splashed in rhythm to her steps. It left a mark on the side of her leg where it bumped too hard.
"Will you ever bring a full bucket when I ask?"
"It’s uphill from the well," said the girl.
"Well, go check for eggs now and be sure to fasten the lid securely after you feed the chickens."
Sarie bounded through the open door and ran rambunctiously toward the hen house. The uphill climb took her around an oasis-like area of plants, small brittle shrubs and a large cactus with brilliant blue and lavender blossoms were in sharp contrast to the stark rocky slope surrounding the hen house.
Opening the grain barrel, she noticed the rodent again. It had traveled through the woodpile, behind the smoke house, and heroically, across the clearing between the smoke house and Mama’s oasis. Sarie turned sharply to scan the near-by trees, looking for the owl, but decided he must have given up the hunt. She threw out the grain in wide patterns, pretending it was rice and she was the flower girl and the bride was an oriental princes—
"Sarie!"
"Yes Mama—"
"Where are the eggs?"
"Coming Mama."
The large round bowl on the kitchen counter was full of eggs. Sarie’s eyes danced as she counted them. "Do we have enough now Mama? Do we get hot cakes now?"
Mama smiled. "And after we eat, you can carry a dozen down to Millie."
A squeal escaped Sarie’s mouth and after breakfast, Mama packed Millie’s eggs securely in a basket. "Now you walk and don’t run, and give Millie a hug for me. Go on now and start back in time to beat the hot sun."
The dirt road led around the back side of the baron hill and down into the valley. Millie’s house was small . . . a little run down, but surrounded with fruit trees and the blossoms filled the air with their fragrance. The high Eucalyptus trees behind framed the north side of the property. The side next to the house was plowed and planted, little sprouts were already showing their inquisitive eyes.
Millie spied Sarie coming, through the kitchen window. She watched her dancing down the dirt lane along the fence. The flowering weeds encroached upon the two trailing ruts barely visible now and Sarie hop-scotched back and forth chanting her morning song. Now and then she would stop and carefully pick a bloom from the sweetclover or a mountain daisy. Then she saw her stop short of the front gate. Her singing stopped. Millie stood on tip toes leaning, straining to hear what was going on.
"Hello Sweet Pea."
Millie slipped to the kitchen door and leaned with her face close to the sheer curtain. She wasn’t even aware that she was holding her breath.
"I told you I’d come back." There was music in Sarie’s voice. "I’ve been all the way across the mountains, and over the sea and back. See what I brought for you?" She said, extending a handful of flowers.
Millie smiled as she watched the little girl and the fawn.

A Mind Journey

"Are you day dreaming again?"
"It’s called a mind journey."
"A what?"
"It’s when you’re someplace else."
"You mean when your mind is someplace else."
"Yeah, something like that."
"Could you travel back for a bit? I’m starved and we need to finish up here."
I wonder if I’ll ever get big enough to do what I want to do?

An idea reaching for rationale
A feeling caught—can’t swallow
Reach out—touch tomorrow
So illusive, so far away
A breath or a puff
The cloud changes shape

"I’m going to be going to the city tomorrow night—I thought perhaps you’d like to join me—"
She was thinking his voice sounded like silk and soft things and chocolate too, and she was remembering what he looked like in the drenching rain, his hair plastered— parted, with a current of water running down his face. He was standing outside her car window, drenched and all she could think of was— That’s exactly what he would look like, crawling out of a shower.
"What turns you on, more than anything—"
"I would imagine it would be the smell of soap on your body as you climb out of the shower, still steamy and drippy."
"That almost sounds like an invitation."
"It does, doesn’t it—"

She smiled as she set the pepper plant in the hole she had just dug. The feel of dirt between her fingers pulled her back. I’ve been playing in the dirt all my life, and yet, each time I get dirt under my fingernails, I get awed all over again. She set the last of the peppers in and turned to survey her handiwork as she stood. Rubbing the small of her back, she counted, "Six, eight, yes—and a whole row of tomatoes—honey—are you ready to shower?"

MasterPiece

When it comes to writing, I believe in the "Big Bang Theory." I keep throwing up ideas, tossing and flinging, flirting carelessly with each thought as I turn it loose, through the day and into the night. I'm waiting for the big bang. That's when everything that's been tossed up will come floating down in perfect harmony and land, --a masterpiece, every word in its proper place.
Somewhere up there, that special story lies hidden just out of view. It will tease and tantalize me until just the right moment and then begin bursting forth like a 4th of July sky, spreading color from horizon to horizon. Until then I will prepare for my long hours of travail. A pad and pencil lay beside my bed, another on the kitchen table. Reminders, as I pass by, "Aha, nothing yet, huh? You know everyone else has their's finished, don't you?"
"You shush your mouth," I tell myself. As time passes, my expectations begin to wilt. A masterpiece would be nice, a good story will do. With pinched brow I watch expectantly toward the sky above for a sign. Have you ever wondered how a thought flies with the wings of a bird? An interesting idea, huh? So why do I lay here into the wee hours, even my thoughts barricaded within, chained down and fastened securely, never to
see the light of day. I tell myself reassuringly, "Where there's a will there's a way." All crumpled in bed, I take pen in hand and begin writing anything, anything at all. No, this just doesn't get it. "Oh, baron sky, shower down on me!" That's it, it's time to shower.
Showering in the morning has its rewards. Tiny droplets of water fall like springtime rain. A steady stream, softly falling to the beat of the coffee pot, bubbling and burping until its aroma fills the house. The beat is established. Sounds of a far off drum are beckoning....Where's my pen?