ALL DEAD HORSES

ALL DEAD HORSES

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Copyright @ 2023 by Tyler Standen

All rights reserved

Including the right for reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

FIRST EDITION

Cover art & book design by TS

DEDICATED TO MY MOTHER.

DEAD HORSES

CLINT E. WOOD

The barren, stripped clean branches of cottonwoods signaled that autumn had passed and winter was here. The crisp smell of piñon smoke filled the air. The cold air. That kind that brought an ache to bones in your hands and made it hard to grip the door handle. There was unusual calm that day, especially for that time of year. Granted it was still early and the town of Santa Fe was a sleepy one. The artists and shop keeps were still tucked into their beds surrounded by blankets. Their fireplaces in subtle glow from the remaining embers underneath the piles of white ash.

Clint was surrounded by silence and this was something he hadn’t experienced in longer than he could remember. Between 3 daughters, that have now grown and married, and his wife of forty years that just past. The sting hung on his heart more than ever. It has only been a handful of months since she left him for a better place. He was happy with the silence but not the cold loneliness he has been forced to endure. That’s what brought him to the plaza this morning. He wanted to see signs of life and smiles. His boots made a loud tapping as he walked down the brick promenade. It echoed like a canyon under the portal. The sound of his steps brought him back to a time but twenty years ago.

The crowd was loud but muffled as he sat in his backstage room. He slipped on his favorite brown boots he wore for every show and just about everything come to mention it. Stomps of excited fans cannonaded through the corridors and signaled to Clint it was almost time. He pulled his jeans down over his boots and stood up, adjusting his belt and crotch. He reached into his pocket, retrieving his lucky gold lighter. On the table by the mirror was his pack of Speckle Reds. Looking at himself he stuck one of the sticks in his mouth and lit it. Almost time. He slips on his denim coat and flipped the collar up as he takes a deep cathartic inhale. He exhales in a series of large smoke rings. Now it’s time. Clint steps out into the corridors stacked with equipment cases, adorned with spray painted white stencil letters bearing his name. He walked down the hall. His boots echoed on the scratched and scuffed linoleum.

That was long ago, Clint thought to himself and smiled. He reached into his coat and pulled out a fresh box of smokes. He quit about ten years ago when his wife made the request. He started up only a few days after she passed. It brought him memories and his cough. Clint’s stride changed to the older days and his footfalls were strong and pronounced as if he was walking to the stage.

As he reaches the end of the promenade and steps out onto the street his gaze goes up to the crisp sky. For the quickest of seconds he envisions his wife looking down on him, the way he used to look down on her from the stage way back then. Oh her smile. I miss that smile he whispers inside as he squints his eyes shut. Memories of her, a bitter sweet and sting.

He stops in front of a gallery window and peers in at the paintings affixed to the walls. Why do they place art in such gaudy frames he said aloud? It distracts from the intelligent execution of strokes. This very same gallery used to house his wives beauti-

ful art, in fact she used to curate here. Every morning he would peer in and see her, tap on the glass, give her a wave and make a funny face. Those faces your parents would tell you would stick if you made them as a kid. She would make one in return. He still did this every day. It made him feel her.

Today as he left the plaza and set off back home was different, today he felt better than he ever did. He began to hum. The hum switched to a whistle. Then next thing he knew, he was singing. His lips haven’t felt a tune in a very long time. They eagerly pursed and parted as the words fluttered out. The piñon aromas, the cool air, the rising sun and his scratchy words filled the world around him. It wasn’t until a sharp indescribable pain hit him like a freight train that he realized why today was different. His singing stopped. He fell to the ground clutching his chest. He looked up at the clear morning sky and saw his wife. She was peering down at him, making that funny face, the kind your parents would tell you would stick.

Tall tawny stocks of grain dance in the afternoon wind. The sun beats down on them with a hot fury only known to summer. Days full of sun and little shadow. An undulating ocean of wheat as far as the eyes could see. The barn and silo stand tall in the middle of the fields providing little to no relief from the August rays. Paint curls and flakes from the faded surface exposing the warped wood. The very same wood that once stood as trees shading the stream long before the wheat was planted. Long before me.

WHO WE ALL KNOW AS PAUL SAUNDERS

Trickles of spring rain fall from the eves with a calming succession. Hard to pinpoint or distinguish what brought more stillness to his heart, the sound or the sky. The viscous clouds were dark and took over the sky leaving a slate hue to the April morning. He stood pushing out large plumes of cigarette smoke into the drizzle. Small puddles collect on the top of the banister, perfect little pools to extinguish the butt of his kools. Ash and embers swirl in a spiral motion. Horses tend to snarl and come verbose on days such as this. An unrest in the stables that usually is calmed by a succession of whistles and yips, but not for him today. This unrest was not caused by the rain, it was caused by a dead body in the mud.

It was 2 AM when Paul Saunders left Minny’s bar in a stumble with little to no idea what occurred just a few moments ago. He could barely move his feet in the correct way to walk. His old ford parked close but in his drunken state it took him almost 10 min before he reached it. His sloppy feet, particularly the tip of his left boot left deep crevices in the gravel parking lot. It should be stated that Mr Paul Saunders had a debilitating limp from a horse accident years back. Most days with great difficulty he tried to hide it. The quality of execution in this ruse was dictated by the level of drink in his system.

His rusted-out 1943 ford pick-up wouldn’t start unless you slammed your foot on the gas while you cranked the key hard. On average it would take around five attempts before the engine would turn. Tonight it took seven. It lit to life with a loud snort and a few pops from the tailpipe. There was a time when people knew Paul as someone else. Someone better than what he became. Time takes more than it gives. Time take a whole lot.

Flowers unburden themselves of modesty as the seasonal shift begins; sauntering vivid colours upon the monochrome.

PRAYERS OF THE UNLUCKY

Prayers of the unlucky are answered by a roll of the dice. The ol’ gospel of chance. Hard to grasp the slippery indulgent fervor of winning, especially when it comes to being a loser. A life long loser. This was Jimmy Barnes. A self proclaimed loser of the highest degree. He has the diploma. All said and done he was a legend around the town VFW halls and American legions. Tonight he sat with stacks of chips and dead soldier bottles of beer crowding him like his own personal audience. For once they were cheering for him, although it was coming from his mind it still boosted his confidence. “All in”

He proclaims as he slides everything he has into the sallow lit center of the table. Everyone follows his lead and go all in “Call”

DEAD MAN’S BUTTONS

For awhile when I was a kid I would steal the buttons from dead people. It started at my friend Freddy’s father’s funeral. I remember it well as I was able to miss school for it. It was hard to miss school even if I felt sick so to be able to miss school for the funeral for me was nothing short than fun. His fathers coat had these engraved gold buttons. Kinda like the ones Napoleon would have worn to war. I stole one. The third one down. It was thrilling for a young boy. I felt as if I just pulled off a heist at a racetrack. I walked standing straighter that day.

LOST HOPPER

There was an illustrious amber hue that shrouded him as the screaming morning sun snuck in through the frond covered window. It was like honey, warm, sticky; he couldn’t remove himself from the hive. The sweat was profuse and collected on his flesh. Eyes heavy with a reluctance to face the daylight. Jungle concertos reveled. Dust leaped and swirled in strands of light that poured across him and onto the stone temple walls.

POSITIVE CURES

A tiny bell affixed to the door clings eagerly as Sal pushes it open and steps into a store that hasn’t changed a thing since 1940s. The chime of patronage cues an elderly man from behind the counter to adjust his thick bottle lens glasses to get a better look. Everything appeared as fuzzy blobs at his age but he could still distinguish male or female. Of course, in this day of age that has also become increasingly harder for him. Luckily this is not Hell-A, Los Angelies for those whom geographically challenged. It’s Grayson- population 537.

What’ll it be, sir

You fill prescriptions here

We do

Inside was dank, odored with a combination of mildew and the sickly sucrose scent of medicine. Peg board walls and shelves were filled with expired products each adorned with curling price stickers. A loud wail came from the back corner where the soda-pop cooler sat suffering from disrepair.

Sir, sir …what’ll it be

Sal’s attention went from the hum back to the thick lenses of the pharmacist. Yeah…sorry.-it’s been one of those days i need this filled. Tossing down a waded up prescription.

As of late, Sals day to day life carried as much meaning as a discarded hypodermic needle. Sal was something close to porridge or oatmeal as you could come to as a person. An Unrememberable, flavorless paste slopped into cold bowls. Sal was no stranger to a cold bowl. He was raised in the Longgate Home for boys. A detestable prologue for a young mans life that hid itself deep down beneath the flesh in that dark place we all hide things. The past.

STAIN OF COLD

We were cold. The wind coiled around us as we stood mesmerized by its hissing through the barren trees. Autumnal scales of branches have been shed leaving frail anorexic trunks for the stain of cold.

Their wilted cheeks stained with regret over the events that transpired early yesterday morning.

The obscenity of barren and felled trees stretch out in every direction. No shadow exists in this vulgar diorama of solitude. Air palpable with freeze. Breath here is nothing more than sleet collecting in tenuous cycles from the corners of lips. We are frostbitten statues; sculptures of hardened flesh and ice. All around is white. A landscape of vast predation stalks the spirit with each and every falling flake. The company of many accrete banks and drifts as the snow staggers down drunk on cold. There is darkness in falling snow that rivals any night.

When I was a kid I had a fascination with finding items. The things we leave behind. Every time I went exploring, as we would call it, into the fields that lay before the woods. It was separated by a farming ditch for irrigation. Once crossed that, you were in another world. I would look for bottles, cans. The stuff that had fading labels. Rusted and half buried in dirt.

Fragility of a flower blossom

Finite petals with fading color

Each vessel given to wilt

Bring the beauty of life from dirt

A cenotaph of brilliant hues

For us to beholden with splendor

SMUDGES OF THE PAST

The mid-day dusty sunlight crept its way slowly west, passing barren plateaus, cemeteries of rock, broken cactus. A long forgotten, faded sun baked sign shields the light for a few moments, allowing only threads of sun to come through the bullet holes. Signs out here are nothing more than objects of target practice for bored children or drunken drifters. The amalgamation of bullet casings, broken bottles and crinkled cans gleam as the sun continues west.

A rusted out old truck embedded in the rocks and sand, embraced by tall yuccas and tumble weeds sat at the precipice of a cliff. Looking out over the vast empty vistas it called home for seventy some odd years. This very same truck was once known by local teenagers as a sordid spot for moonlit frolics and fondles. But that was long before the rust took hold and when the seats were more than oxidized springs. That was long before Sheppard Clark stumbled upon this place.

Overwhelming enormity of solitude had settled in to this place and it didn’t take long for it to settle on him. There was something comfortable about the stains of sand. It was ideal for someone like Sheppard; Someone forgotten. His heart, mind were on the blink akin to an old transistor radio. One that needs a smack now and again to get it back to clear reception. Sheppard needed a smack. Probably more than one.

The Mesa stretched far past the horizons in all directions and the rock cenotaphs stood tall to the south. There was a solace in the sign and the truck and the plateau. The soles of his boots were abraded to nothing more than thin strips and his right boot had a hole he could stick his thumb through. He tried on multiple occasions to facet reeds around them but it proved pointless as within a few hundred steps they were given back to the earth in shreds. All the walking changed his shape. He had become more gaunt and tenuous. His jeans didn’t fit as good as they used to and his white t shirt was pee like sallow from the sweat and sand. The left sleeve permanently droopy and crinkled from storing his pack of marbolos. He would kill for a smoke right about now.

He was worlds apart from the worlds he knew. Sheppard like that. An ancient scent tickled his nostrils. It was nothing like the rotten streets of the cities he once knew, tickles that garnished grimaces. Acerbic streams of dumpster waste that congealed along the street. He took a deep breath. It was freeing to inhale the desolate mesa around him. That ancient tickle made his mind think of the Anasazi. The beautiful scent of the past, dirt and sagebrush. A south wind carries dry weeds along, tumbling them over the rocks and rocks. It could be the most elegant thing Sheppard has seen since the face of his wife. Her face has long shifted to a smear that makes him ill. He wiped her out of his memory but no matter how hard he wiped there is still the smudge of her. The smudges of the past. The thought tumbled out of his mind and rolled away with the breeze and sand. He sighs with relief watching the tumbleweed fall off the escarpment.

He was still craving the taste of tobacco on his lips when the natural urge to urinate hit him. Water consumption had been very little since the abandonment of his

old and reliable truck. Well, it was reliable until he got into the desert sun. Mister Trusty Rusty gave out in a sputtering fit of steam and clanks after fifteen long years roaming the roads together. The funeral was nothing more than a kick to the radiator and thank you for all the years. Now it sits, a scarecrow for other cars, a warning to what lies ahead. Sand, dirt, weeds and sun.

In mid stream of relief Sheppard realized that he had gone all over a red ant hill. The ants were in chaos as they scurried about over clumped granules. It was a fascinating sight of life that brought a smile to his face. He adjusted his aim away from their little home and finished. Ants have it easy. To build, fornicate and feed with their queen. A very incestuous insect. He was thankful that he didn’t have it that easy.

Sheppard was one whom didn’t shy away from a challenge, he reveled in them. It was the same sentiment he shared with ladies rear ends; the bigger the better. There was a majesty to this place and his eyes adored every blinking moment.

GARY

Gary was a kid I knew that lived up the street from me back then. He never came out to play. Not with me or the other kids. No baseball. No kick ball. No hopscotch. All he would do was stand on his front stoop waving at everyone that passed and everything that didn’t. The real funny thing about it was how he waved. It must have been a tick he had because when he waved he did it in a way that made it look like he was squeezing invisible boobs. All summer long he’d be out there molesting phantoms.

THE CRUX

They called it The Crux. The Crux was an area that stretched between the northeastern line railroad tracks and the pacific tracks. A half mile stretch of gnarled ground, crooked trees, dense underbrush that over the years has become a bone-yard of retired cars and appliances. You know, those things you want to get rid of without paying a fee.

Every day my hand hurts. Like a dull aching. It started as soon as you left. I think you must be holding my hand still.

The roses rise from the dirt. I imagine you’re there with them. I kept the roses just as you would have wanted. Not too much water and a whole lot of sun. People say they grew for me but I know they grow for you.

HER LOVE FOR RAIN

The rain steeped sagebrush emits notes from out in the pasture that travel all the way to my open window. The sill is damp and the white paint curls and cracks leaving little floating flakes. I left the window open all night despite the downfall. It brought me more than it’s sound, it brought me comfort in the form of memories. Stories from my younger life. It reminded me of splashing in puddles and adorning myself in mud. It reminded me of my mother’s smile and her love for rain. Her love for me. I miss her love. I miss her smile.

I don’t close the window in the rain. There are many times when I’m driving down the highway with my window rolled down. On the horizon I see a sky and slate clouds, I know that this dry landscape will be slaked. The stories and memories come to me and I smile. And I press my foot hard on the gas pedal.

A mid day reverie under hot sunshine rays warm my face. Not as much as you warm my heart. I see us running through these fields holding hands. Your white summer dress floating and swirling with our steps. Smiles bigger than the sky. I can even hear our laughter. That silly kind like birds, love birds. My eyes open and between the glints of the sun I see two circling above. Grace is defined by wings and sky. We are those birds.

A COLD SHOULDER AND AN EMPTY PASSENGER SEAT

I dream of the Hollywood endings. Those ones where the camera pulls high in the sky and we watch the car drive down the road into the sunset. The hero and the girl, the girl and her hero. Each time I drive into the sunset I’m alone. No glorifying music to wrap out my story. A cold shoulder and an empty passenger seat. The credits roll.

MORNING COFFEE

Sun warmed his back through his thin coat and the coffee warmed his hands. They were thin and would turn a corpse like purple in the cold. Coffee made the temperature tolerable. With every sip it heated him like putting a fresh log on the fire. A longing for warmth provided by another, a human hug of love tickles in the back of his mind. Companionship is something he’s run from for a long time despite his desire for it, for her. The cold brought him company and he could always rely on its chill. He could rely on the hearth like properties of a cup of coffee. He could rely on the thoughts brought in the early morning hours that sent tears to his eyes and inevitably down his cheeks. He lifts the cup to his mouth and takes a soothing gulp of its liquid ember.

PETAL PRECIOUS

Golden flowers

Wilt untarnished

Flakes of riches

You are the gift

A petal precious

Wrinkles of worn leather deepen with each and every step. The same can be said for the flesh surrounding the eyes. Squints from staring too long at the unburdened glory of the sky.

Of the sun

Of the stars

Birds find solace on the power-lines that stretch and slag all over the town. Their crisscrossing brings an unwanted symmetry to the sky. But, wanted by the claws and weary wings of its feathered friends. Each morning a congregation of crows, pigeons and sparrows sing the gospel of their travels to one another and the world. Stories that chirp the townspeople below awake and signal the starting of a fresh day. A fresh day for a stale town. The lonesome stagnation of cars and buildings below them tell us one thing, this is a small town. Birds enjoy the lack of towering buildings of glass and steel and the open air provides boundless space to flutter.

theres a tiredness in your eyes that tell me you feel it too

I stood still, staring at the snow blistered hills. The chill hasn’t set into my bones but I feel the shiver crawling it’s way up my spine. My poor horse is another story. The weather has made him weak and it’s only a matter of days before I have to scratch the frozen ground preparing his grave. Most men would shoot their horse and leave him for the wolves. I never understood their lack of devotion. Given the unbridled devotion of horses. Mutuality of a rider and the ridden should be respected. In life and death. The redolence of burning timber presses through the aspens.

Days stack up like magazines. Unread and dust covered. A visual aid of time passing. Stacks on chairs, under side tables serve as calendars.

TALKING TO STRANGERS

Teeth clenched with condescension behind their smiles as they finish up pretending to care about one another. A normal exchange made into a sensation of fingernails against a chalkboard. The lack of care is obvious and glaring in both their eyes and the hallway. Scuffs adorn the walls and floors. Plaster split, paint peeling and chipped. Ceiling stained with rusty circles from leaky pipes. The degenerative surfaces of oneself are made more glaring in failing structures around them, around us.

CIGARETTES AND CITY LIGHTS

Ext balcony - high end

Two figures appear dark against the dying sun light. One turns

Girl: may I have a cigarette

Guy: you may. Classy lady

She sticks the smoke in her mouth.

Girl: do you have a...

Before she could finish the lighter is out, lit and just hit the tip of her cigarette

Girl: you are quite the gentleman

The girl coughs as she inhales. Hard. It appears to be her first one. He smiles

Guy: allow me

From behind he reaches around gliding his arm down hers all the way to her hand and smoothly grabs the cigarette. Their leather jackets gleam in the city lights.

TV DINNER

His demeanor reminded her of a cold TV dinner. It made her angry. The funny thing was his name was Swanson. Never went by it. His name bothered him as much as he bothered her. She would clinch her teeth when he was around. Made for an aching pain in her jaw when he wasn’t. The joys of thirty years of marriage are painted in wrinkles on her face.

BROKEN LINES

Broken lines drip from the telephone poles. A desolate reminder of our loss of connection. Communication past

MOANING MORNING RADIO

The moaning morning radio is lost between the hum of the road and abstract of the asphalt. The center lines blend together at such a pace. Vistas alongside smear with the shadow and sun. Streaks.

Immersed in mirage a dark haired girl stands in sunstroke and strands of heat, waving at me. I see her again in my rearview-Smile falling off her face. Her sign blurring in the distance and speed.

Burgundy and brown

Denim and clouds

Nicotine stains on fingertips

Matte red lips

Stick to my cheek

Coffee on our breath

And you on my lap

Leaning back

Tickles of hair

In your aroma I baste

A thousand flowers bloom when I am lost in thoughts of you

Oh the smell of dirt in the morning. Especially on mornings when the sun stays tucked in under the blanket of clouds. It reminds her of childhood. It reminds her of early mornings tilling land on the farm under blue steel light she came accustomed. As she rolls down the window to her daddy’s old truck, she draws in the brisk air.

The front seat piled high with fast food bags and abandoned foam coffee cups. A map is crinkled up between the seats. Prismatic amalgam of pine tree air fresheners hang from her rear view. Semi truck engines fire and gurgle from across the lot signaling its time for her to hit the road.

Dark eyes bleary, tired and wrinkled. Mind craving coffee. Heart urning for more. And more is ahead of her. More is about five states and 3000 miles away.

GOLDEN SPIRITS

Wisdom spoke though his bones with an arthritic pang as he sat in front of the bay window looking out at darkening mountains. A storm envelopes the ridge as it slowly eats down the mountain. Within the next 10 min it will have swallowed the range. He relives the pack of golden spirits of a smoke and slips it between his lips. He doesn’t light it. There was something different. Some sort of smell to the air. That wise ache was telling him something; but what was it? For all the decades he spent working this land he never experienced a sensation like this... like what he felt in the trenches of France.

FINGERS MESH

Rain drops staining our coats. I follow behind you enamored while you still hold my hand. The light is obstructed by our fingers meshed together. Our steps become a dance as we move about the sunset.

ALL DEAD HORSES

I SEE US IN PUDDLES

The rain makes me think of you. The stars make me think of you. They remind me of how you smile. The way you glide your hair away from your face. I know each time we look up we can see the same stars. Those stars shine on us. The rain falls on us too. I know we feel the same drops. I see us in the puddles reflecting together.

ALL SUN. NO RAIN.

All sun. No rain.

In the mid-afternoon the wind would pick up offering a degree or two of relief from the omnipresent heat. If you looked close at the hoods of cars you could see the heat waves dance. This is a place of sunstroke. A place of dehydrated existence. Thirsty. Everything, thirsty. Sunburned faces sit poolside baking with glee.

The sun was awake. A rising brilliance elongating the shadows of Las Vegas New Mexico. The town would not be up an at em’ until around 10 o clock. 10 o clock in the morning coffee drinkers, 10 o clock in the morning paper readers. The Las Vegas Herald front page typically brandished a bold headline like “ Horse Gets Loose On Main Street” but this morning was much more big city as the townspeople would say. “Five Dead Found At Local Ranch” the true details would be kept secret for a few more hours until Mr. George Wilson came to the diner.

The booths were packed which was typical for Sunday mornings. Redolent of burnt coffee and bacon. Crackles from grease drown out the patrons morning mundane chatter. The door opens triggering a little bell attached to the top of the door. Ding. Some look up from their cups and plates and newspapers to see George Wilson a tall, thin man with intriguingly long fingers. He reeked of stale cigarette smoke. It overpowered the coffee and sour grease.

A SMILE

And at that exact moment the smile arrived across her face. It was sacred. A wish granted from ancient prayers. She took my hand in hers as she led me to a place where the sky met the earth. A place with stars atop rocks. She placed my hand on the warm stone. She placed her hand atop mine and moved our touch along the stars. You could feel their jagged rills etched on the sandstone. We painted the universe. A universe that was painted long before us. She recited the ancestral story this place spoke with her movements. I listened under her hand. I saw the blood that built this world. I saw the smile.

A distant primordial thunder claps through the rafters of his mind as if to signify it’s time run.

ROADSIDE

[This is a conversation at a roadside diner between lovers.]

I just wanted to say how much I adore you

I adore you too- you make me blush

That color looks great on you

What do you feel like eating? Are you hungry?

Oatmeal

Oatmeal?

Seems rather bland for a day like this

I honestly just want something plain Something simple for once

Let’s be simple

I like that for us today

Things have been unnecessarily complicated lately. Ever since we left Arizona

Arizona was dreadful. How do people live in such swelter. That place burned my feet.

The ground is unforgiving out there

-That sun

That sun

There is something magical about this place. Being here feels right

It does feel right. -You feel right

Is that why you’re always hugging me?

Exactly.

I think one of those is in order right now..

Try this on for size.

In his hand a photograph, well worn from taking it in and out of his chest pocket time after time. Touching it brought him comfort. There’s a strength in memories. His thumb caresses the scratched surface of the fading past. On several occasions over the years, he had almost lost the photo to wind, flood, stampede and just plain old neglect. There was in a sense of the photo was holding on to him.

Curls of dirt crawl across the ground with the mid afternoon wind. It was that time of year when the wind came in a little after lunch and by dinner rain would be pouring down the eaves. The sky sat blue behind them. It was considered a very special privilege to have your photo taken. The photographer sat on a cracked slat crate swirling a sickly fluid around a piece of glass. His large wooden partner stood directly in front them, it’s eyes piercing stare caused them to stiffen straight up. The three gaunt legs splay out atop the ground one taller than the others to offset the uneven tilled soil.

MAGNETISM IS AN INTRIGUING THING

There is something about the hours of long shadows that bring her peace. The morning, the evening they both bring comfort. Unlike her friends. The short haired, resting bitch-faced ladies whose idea of fun was inane enforcement of their opinions. They were always angry at something. The entitlement of a wealthy pale face. Their weight was too much for her quiet sensibility. Most of the time she sat by herself in the east corner of the park. The east corner is where small flowers grew in colorful abundance. She was there every morning. That’s what caused him to notice her. It was the best place in the entire park. No matter how early he got up she would be there. He found it hard not to stare at her. He felt creepy about it. She sat cross-legged in the morning glow watching the shadows stretch across the grass. With a book in her hand, her hair gently drapes down the side of her face. The sunlight paints her a beautiful golden aura that was hard to shy away from. Everything about her was hard to turn away from- She was magnetic. Magnetism is an intriguing thing.

I learned sign language so I could talk to the stars. I would tell them stories of dirt and cities. I would tell them about grass and how it itched my skin if I laid on it. I would tell them how beautiful they looked all the way down here. I never whispered wishes at them selfishly like the entire world beneath them. They would blink back to me rays of appreciation.

A DISCOURSE OF RAIN

Streetlights blur in the collecting fog through the rain smeared windshield. The wipers were on the blink and provided no relief from the late night drizzle. A layer of condensation builds in the corner and starts to overtake the glass with each breath.

Int bedroom- early morning

They lay next to each other. She is resting her head on his arm. We can see they are naked. The rain is coming down hard outside. We can barely see it in the blue morning glow but we can hear it.

She reaches over to the nightstand and retrieves a joint. She lights it. Takes a few large drags and passes it to him.

Being cute we see them touching each other in a playful way- a series of shots:

-Blowing smoke at each other

-Kissing cheeks

-Close up of a nipple being kissed

-Close up on eyes (in love)

They smoke and hold each other during this entire conversation.

I love being awaken by the rain

It’s the only time you ever like being up this early

This is true. (takes a big drag - Exhales smoke rings)

It’s peaceful.

Do you think that?

HE FOUND HIMSELF LOST

It only took a few moments to realize that it was time to go. The crooked eye gazes from people on the street could be felt. It itched. Strangers were not a common occurrence around here. The town slouched in ruin from when the mine dried up all those years ago. Cracked stone structures bearing faded names; monoliths of a once thriving town appear more like gravestones. The few folks that still lived here floated around like ghosts. It was as if he found purgatory- in Gallup.

“Don’t step on a crack or y’all fall and break your back” repeated in his mind as he walked the sidewalks and streets. It would be next to impossible to play that child’s game here. Come to mention it, he hadn’t seen a person under the age of what seemed like fifty since he arrived. No kinder here.

Being here made him feel alone but in a comforting way. Silence filled the streets and once every few hours the clanging tolls of a train crossing would chime. He never saw a train though. Funny thing, he walked by the crossing located west of town. The thing looked older than the town. Lights broken out long ago, cock-eyed railroad crossing sign and interesting enough, no bells.

The solitude walked him up and down the streets and alleys like a stray dog relinquished from the fetters of the leash. He found himself lost, staring straight into the front windows of a long dead and buried hotel. A forgotten scene of dust abraded furniture waiting for guests to return. Chairs positioned as they were...

The beauteous sullen hue of a leaden sky imbues the fervor of morning

Aromatic notes of petrichor dance up the drowned petals and leafs of the onset of autumn

THE SPEAKER OF TRUTH

Be still and listen to what he has to say. It’s best that we all listen. Still now.

It’s great to be in front of you fine folks this evening. I am thankful to each and every one of you for taking the time from your evening to come speak to me. There’s no proper introduction for what I am about to tell you. There’s no sugar to coat. All I have is the truth. What truth you ask? I can see those sideways glances and turning heads. I understand them. I too would be one of them if I didn’t know the truth. Have you ever asked yourself why some people get everything they want all the while you’re sitting there wishing? I have the answer for you. It’s right here. You see, there is a reason I was asked to come to your town tonight. Reasons come in many forms. In many sizes. I’m certain after all that occurred today you understand why we are here right now. I look upon you tonight with a sympathy that most will never understand in their lifetime. I feel for each and every one of you. All those ungranted wishes weigh you down. I see it. I see it in your spines. The weight must be unbearable. You could say that’s why I am here tonight-To take the load off. We all sit here and share the same silence. There is one concern that keeps me from cutting to quick, and allowing you to see the glory I see. We must ask permission.

As the sun undresses itself from behind the ridge line spilling atop windshields, throwing its blinding glints in to the bleary eyes old man staring out the vacant diner window. The furls on his brow deepen peering out the window in full squint trying to focus through the light

This would be the second misfortune of thickening edges that would redefine life for Thomas Willmen.

SHE’S A BIG PRAYER

Now she’s quite a looker over there

That’s Sally -I imagine she’s up to her usual Sunday rosary business.

She’s a prayer? A big prayer

I think she’s really into confession. Something about being alleviated from all that dirty laundry. A way of making right of a wrong, you know.

You sure know a lot bout her

Everyone knows everyone’s business round here - That’s how I knew you were going to be here this morning George Freeman. Just like how I know you woke up this morning next to your wife’s sister Mary. She’s very pretty isn’t she.

You stop this right now

In due course George, I’m due course. Now, It’s time to listen for once in your life.

MIDNIGHT FIELDS

You vast stalks of night

Cue the passage to our paradise

Fields of gold tarnish direct eyes

I bathe through you

Cleanse through

You vast stalks of night

Broken shadows splinter across her face as she peers out the dusty and dated blinds. They crinkle as she bends them to get a better line of sight on Sarah. Sarah lived next door and was always dancing around her house in her pallid birthday suit without a care to her floor-to-ceiling windows and lack of curtains.

SHE DUG THE SOIL OF THE HEART

She dug the soil of the heart Deeper the gape became Shed tears loosen earth Spoil of dreams remain

IT WAITS

hero’s shelved themselves above skies of pitch.

rain heavy with their wishes abrade paths to resolute salvation gnawing splendor awaits it waits and gnaws

gnaws and gnaws

A GODS GIFT

Everyone gots along dere ta same likes dey were sisters and brothers. Cept me. Dey all stares at me. Some kind enough to laugh to dem selves but mostly dey lookd yous straight in da eye and laughd. Close enough to smells ders breakfast. I has a tired eye. It only open a lil. Momma says my eyes like dat cuz jesus kissed me when I was born. She says I came from stars. kids still laugh tho. (We soon discover he can hear people’s thoughts and can control them)

VAPOUR DIPPED PINES

Quiet enraged sky

I climb

I climb

Console the heights

Of anemic stars

A Serenade drips

And drips

Slate-vapor dipped pines

They climb

They climb

SEWN SKY

Lightning splits scuds as black as sin In a ferocity of white splendor threads

Sewn austere smiles fleet in succession

OBSERVATIONS OF HER WINDOW

Her window watched as the figure approached from the dark distance. Nefarious intent prominent in its gait. Her window kept it in frame all the way up to the point where it filled the panes entirely. Her unlocked window wails out in warning as it’s slowly opened and quickly penetrated. The dark figure stands over her as she sleeps. Her window did nothing but watch as the figure engulfed her in shadow. All they found when they went to wake her up the next morning was her window; open.

LEGION

In mass they sit straight up, facing directly forward, silent. Hands formed in greedy gestures of supplication. Some clasp their mouths fervently to capture their falling burdens. Some count rosary beads in their nervous shake riddled fingers. Approaching footfalls echo through the stillness increasing in monastic volume as they approach awaiting eyes. Hymnal cants begin to overtake the footsteps. A hum of their quickening pulses amplifies. Voice as stern as the cross grumbles in a tone similar to Orson Welles.

“We are wrath. “

His red, sinewy face obscures by dancing blessment smoke and slits of light cutting through stained glass windows.

“We all have been chosen.”

COAST

Oscillating vaporous wraith of dreams disperses with the early morning fog. Coastline smears with brine and trails of retreating water. Curses of their tidal dictator. Lunar dominion.

THEY ARE MANY

They abide by a inherent wisdom of stars passed down by firelight whispers. Those star-born whispers of world dissolution are blown out with handfuls of earthen detris. Grains in wind dictate their steps deeper into the void; its architects rise up infinitely penetrating the sky in a baronial exhibit of whetted craze sandstone. All here formed in granular grandeur that brings gods to weep. They are many.

A greasy obscenity of steak and eggs sit on a tired plate in front of him. High pitch screeches of a knife and fork meeting the plate are audible to the entire diner.

A RELIEF IN RAIN

The smell of dirt and rain pulled George’s attention away from his morning cup of coffee. His train of thought derailed by the petrichor. Wreckage of his life was dulling with fresh aromatics of incoming spring rain. There’s a relief in rain.

I HEARD HIM

James spoke in splinters, shards of words crinkled from his throat as convulsions overtook him in a darkly manner that even he never known before. His ghost white complexion gave envy to the pale of fog. No one near could put together the mystery of his words no matter how close they leaned in to his lips. But I did. I heard him.

“ it’s…here…it’s…it’s…been…waiting”

FOR A FEW MORE MOMENTS

When their hands unhinge it feels they are worlds apart, an unpenetrable void of separation between them in a matter of seconds. They both wear smiles and their eyes hold onto one another for a few more moments. These moments are the ones that stay with you forever. A longing understood only by the blind and love. She kisses his cheek signaling farewell and that was it. That was the last time he saw her.

FIREFLYS AND STREETLIGHTS

I have an infinity for fireflys and streetlights. They are beautiful- just like you. They light up the world.

(pause) You light up my world.

Moon a sickle cut and clear

Your path in gold

Stocks scratch the wind

The scream of wheat

Bend to life

We drink them as we thirst further

BEAUTIFUL RED STROKE

Between the bleats and the howls; the moonlight and the blood, a cold south-blowing breeze creeps in through the sliver at the bottom of a window mistakenly left open and makes its gelid way into house stealing every bit of heat before crawling into the back bedroom where it nestles in right next to her. She shivers. Reaching for the bedspread that during the night had been worked off her body and sent sprawling to the floor she realizes that she has been sleeping without it for hours. Her skin is gone beyond the pale and given the curse of cold she cannot move her body. The howls shift her mind as they finally penetrate her bleary state. No longer are the bleats of her flock, which at this point, she is unaware they have all been sundered and strewn across the desert in beautiful red strokes .

There is a green hill just beyond the fence. For years I could have sworn to hear the soft sounds of a piano playing. We were told never to go past the fence. No matter what. Those dissonant chords lulled the consequences to a point where all that matters was the sound. The fence made a perfect ladder.

Green grass on the other side is muddier than it appears. Each foot is pulled from the mud with sickly sounds. All the sloppy footfalls fade under the increasing piano’s volume. The arrival at the top of the hill became an image I would picture daily over the next thirty years of my life.

Legs gnarled, crooked and mud caked standing in the tall grass. It’s luster faded and cracked away by nature a long time ago. The warped piano wailing out diminished cries for it’s missing player.