Fast and furious, consumed by a fire intentionally set to burn out of control. For three weeks we ate, slept, and breathed each other, we couldn’t get enough. Leading us here, all hopped up on adrenaline and desire in a log cabin on the edge of nowhere.
It started with no expectations, just a chance meeting in that little coffee shop on West 92nd. She caught me staring at her as she flipped her head nonchalantly in my direction. Like a deer caught in the headlights, all I could do was shoot her a smile. It must have been something special because it pierced her heart with an accuracy that would have impressed Cupid. Before we could even process the tidal wave that engulfed us both, we were tangled in each other’s arms, like bramble left to grow wild.
It wasn’t just sex either, it was more. Visceral and at the same time intellectual. Intensely passionate yet soft and meandering. Physical yet vibrating on a higher plane.
But as fires burn they mellow. Without more fuel they fade and eventually the last embers blink out. I could have handled that, even anticipated sifting through the ashes but who could have foreseen its abrupt end? The ring of her phone sucking all traces of oxygen from the room. The flames extinguished in a suffocating instant.
I’m left to watch through the window as she sits like a ghost on the edge of the dock. I don’t know who called or what was spoken but as I watch her in the breeze, I can feel the moment slipping away. Dissolving into the landscape one grain at a time. By sunrise, she will be gone…
It had been weeks (or so it seemed) since his holiness led our congregation on a hike into the wilderness. An expedition to seek our salvation. Mostly it was a mix of exhaustion, meditation, hallucinogenic tea, and the promise of something better. The promise seemed emptier with every step along this journey.
“Stop with this doubt, you’ve come such a along way.” I screamed to myself in a whisper, the palm of my hand smacking against my forehead.
It was difficult to hold a train of thought with my gut screaming at me like a muthafu… We’d been subsisting on the tea and some lukewarm liquid prepared by the congregation’s women weeks ago. It couldn’t have been real food because it didn’t seem to spoil. I was told it was designed to ensure we were pure in mind and body for the coming cleanse.
I joined a hunting party a couple of nights ago after Carl had retired. We’d fashioned makeshift bows and arrows and set out to catch anything we could find. A couple of rabbits made the untimate sacrifice, but the skinny rodents could only coughed up scraps. We built a small fire to cook our kill, but some were so hungry they picked the meat raw from the bone.
As the sun rose across the mountains and crept into our camp, His holiness Carl emerged from his tent. He was a slight man, unassuming in almost every way. His gifts were not physical but he could hold conversation, draw you into whatever narrative he was preaching. If just one of us had opened our eyes for even a moment it would have become evident that while we starved Carl thrived. I sure his concubines were in the know but the rest of us were too blind to see.
Morning always started with pray and a sermon from Carl but today was different. The usual routines were replaced with a sense of forboding. Today was the day we would ascend into the heavens. Everything we had brought with us, everything we’d made was gathered into the center of camp. A colossal column of smoke rising into the morning air casting a dark shadow over the clearing, blotting out the morning sun. Some now realizing this was a one way trip.
The hike seems lighter and somehow heavier today as we moved through the trees. “Are you coming or not?” Carl demanded as he took a few steps further onto the small ledge. He raised his arms and began to chant something in tongues. The line behind him had stopped moving, gripped with a new fear. Many believing flying was only a metaphor.
“It is our time to soar on the wings of God. Who will offer themselves up first.” he said as the the ringing of gunfire at the back ripped through the thin mountain air.
The echo jolting me back to reality as I tried to run from the trail. At the front, the crush pushing the congregation over the edge. Some, true believer spreading their wings as they fell over the precipice, other pushing agaisnt the tide to get back from the cusp. Fifteen, maybe 20 paces from the trail searing pain rip through my abdomen. Falling next to my wife and onto my two young children. Imploring them to remain calm and quiet. The life draining from my eyes praying, like it was the first time, that the plume of smoke had drawn someones attention.
What they see is happy-go-lucky, not a care in the world. Like cool watermelon dripping down a child chin in the hot, noon day sun or ice cream filled evenings walking the state fair midway. A kaleidoscope of happy colours swirling around a perfect life.
If only they could see the tears behind the façade. Years of unhealed scars festering beneath the surface. Small pieces if flesh taken with every new cut. Revealed in the only place it can’t be hidden, in the black of dead eyes nobody bothers to peer into.
Demons trapped and screaming to be released but like a wounded animal concealed from the predators circling. The world begging us to celebrate our weaknesses like a badge of honour. Sycophants waiting to pounce for their own benefit, but I will never reveal what’s eating away my insides, clawing to escape my control.
John Ronald lay in bed struggling to breathe, each drag more laborious than the previous. He knew the end was near, his lungs were filling with blood and fluid faster than his body could work to clear them. Making peace with the inevitable, he closed his eyes and waited. His wife had long since crossed over and there was nothing left for him to hang on to in this world. His kids, standing at his side in these final moments, would get on just fine after he’d gone. They were supposed to outlive him anyway.
At ease, he began to drift. Aimless at first but soon he was riding the crest of a current pulling him toward the light. Moving faster as his life passed before him until he was immersed in the glow. Everything faded in an instant as he crossed the threshold. Nothing more than a brief flash before arriving in a small shire on the other side.
Drawing in a long easy breath, he surveyed his new, yet familiar surroundings. There was an energy about this place that bristled through the thick morning mist. Although he could only glimpse moments of movement through the scattering sunlight, the bustle of this place was evident. The inhabitants flitted and danced about their business, filling the sweetly scented air with joy, song and raucous laughter.
As the air cleared and the scene settled into focus a shoeless half-man in a green vest, grey shirt and potato sack pants stepped up next to him. The halfling paused, taking a moment to look out across the scene before them. Then scrunching up his face he spoke, “Welcome! Welcome, Mr. Tolkien, it is a pleasure to have you back in Hobbiton. Your place in the hillside is ready for you and as luck would have it, you are just in time for second breakfast.”
It was hot as Sadie stepped into the barn. Her grass-fed organically raised family, back from a day in the pasture. The herd lowed as she pulled on her boots and gloves. Bessie was waiting as always for Sadie to set the stool at her side. A few fruitless tugs and then relief as milk began to flow from her engorged teats.
There were pumps, feed and other technology designed to increase yield and productivity, but Sadie found something relaxing about the sound of milk ringing against the interior. “Wholesome, sustainable farming, our commitment freshly expressed into every can.”
The prosecutor began his summation with vigorous enthusiasm, “In a display of utter cowardice, Mr. Kutinitov plunged the blade he carried with him right down to the marrow. Splaying the victim, his estranged wife wide open.”
“Ask yourself why?” he continued. “Sure, she had set fire to everything, exposing his philandering ways and singeing his reputation almost beyond repair. Certainly a motive in and of itself but his reason was even more basic, greed. You see, he wanted the engagement ring back, her ring, the one he’d given her along with his promise 13 years earlier. He’d spent a small fortune to buy it and he knew it had only appreciated in value. You heard his jeweller confirm that he had been to the shop to inquire about it and shortly thereafter broke into the marital home.”
He paused for effect before driving home his final point, “When he came for the ring, she refused and swallowed it to keep him from taking it. She could not have known that she had become an unwitting accessory to compromising her own survival. Her death was not a crime of passion as portrayed by the defence, it may not have been premeditated but his reasons for being there were cold, calculated and planned. As such you must find the defendant guilty. You know what’s right, return a verdict of murder in the first degree.”
As many of my followers know despite having opened an account at Worpress way back in 2012 I’m fairly new here. I didn’t really start posting regularly until late 2020 and only kicked it into high gear last year. As such my stats are not exactly the type advertisers back the Brinks truck up for. Not that advertisers were ever the measure of success. I’ve stated it before, this site is meant to be a fun creative outlet for me
Still, I happened to look at my stats today and halfway through 2023, I am about to blow past my previous high for views. Last year the blog had 6156 views and as of this moment, 2023 has had 6155 views. Perhaps if you were one of the first to check out this post you might be part of Greg’s Blog history. The tying or record-setting visitor. Stop laughing all you giants of the industry. I know those are sad numbers but they are my numbers and in two more views 2023 will be the most viewed year on record. Beep Beep.
Greg Glazebrook @ GMGCreative
Thanks to everyone who stopped by, one-timers and regulars alike. I appreciate you taking a moment. Keep coming back and please tell everyone to come take a peek!
For years the S.O.B. told me I had no sense of direction, the worst navigator he’d ever seen. How was it my fault he’d go left when I said right?
“Where is my breakfast, what did you get lost?” The prick used to tell me he was amazed I could find the kitchen in the mornings.
Being berated for my navigation skills was the easy stuff. He’d get absolutely incensed and take every opportunity to make me feel like I was six inches tall, worthless. I can assure you I had no trouble finding the rat poison he kept in the cellar. Extra Warfarin in his scramble to go with his prescription.
That was then, but as I attempt to jump a train to freedom I’m left wondering if I will ever be able to decipher this bloody map.
“Come on, come on!” It’s only a matter of time before they find the body. As panic grips me and everything comes flooding back, I begin to wonder, “Was he right?”
Clicks and likes were not my main objective when I created Greg’s Blog. In its current incarnation, it was meant to be a creative outlet. I didn’t expect awards or accolades; quite frankly, I’m no Hemingway, Dickens or Shakespeare. Hell, I’m not sure I’d have qualified to write the Sears Catalogue back in the day. That said there is always a tiny rush when someone likes what you’ve published and I love reading the posts everyone publishes in response to my prompts and challenges.
So why the rant? Well, I find myself standing on the brink and contemplating throwing myself into the abyss when I browse other WordPress blogs. Yes, I have a group of people I follow and their content is excellent. It is when I explore beyond those I follow and find content that is unreadable. Then I look and see hundreds of likes or volumes of comments attached to these posts and I have to wonder – How shite is my site?
I think I have a decent handle on the English language. It is my mother tongue, and I always excelled spelling and had a good grasp of structure and punctuation throughout my school years. Even in my working life, managers and colleagues ask me to proofread their work. I have an uncanny ability to remove noise and focus on the key points of a paper or presentation without making the message threatening or unprofessional.
So what is the problem then?
many of the sights in question seem too bee completely devoid ov structure format or punctuation as they ramble on un-relent-ingly incoherent id be kind calling the writing a raw ruff stream of consciousness brain storming pile of dung sometimes i think that if i were to read a single rambling paragraph or sentence as it was written id asphyxiate myself long before reaching the last word because commas periods question marks and quotations are not only optional they dont exist except for the ellipses… they litter everything… in fairness… i may be guilty of that last one two (three? four?)… but at least I’m cognizant of it…
So, How Shite Is My Site? When I compare my WordPress stats to some other sites I think the answer is clear.
When Ida discovered that she could hear the voices of the dead speaking to her when she tuned into a certain radio station, she decided to change the station.
Well maybe not right away but as she sat in the courtroom listening to the Crown Attorney describe the trail of death and destruction she’d left in her wake it became evident.
“Forty-one injured and 17 dead in all Your Honour. Several were shot where they stood, and others were stabbed waiting for the bus or standing in line at the gas bar convenience. Three more were taken when the accused set that same gas bar alight. All blown to bits in the ensuing explosion including one poor soul whose legs were found sheared off just below the knees, still standing in front of the toilet where he’d been peacefully relieving himself.”
Was this ever going to end she thought but the anger in his voice kept rising as he continued, “Still more, run down in the street by the rust-coloured pickup truck she’d stolen from her ex, a.k.a. victim one. Mostly unaware of their fate as they went about their daily business and she’d have us all believe it was voices…” he paused momentarily before speaking again with greater emphasis. “VOICES OF THE DEAD – that made her do it.”
“Do you have anything to say to this court Ida?” the Judge asked.
Her own barrister counselled her to remain silent but how could she not say something. The families needed an explanation, closure.
“Well, your honour, maybe –” a quiver present in her voice. “Maybe I should have changed the station sooner.”
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