Taking what life throws at me one pitch at a time
While foraging around he saw zip, zilch, nada. This gerbil in wonderland found nothing but scarcity. Living his life with a fork in a world of soup, His one find; a bottled aftershave labeled “Banshee”. Though intrigued, the furry little critter needed no pheromone smothering tincture. It would only prolong his amorous dry spell.
Reconciling my checkbook was an unpleasant sudoku puzzle back in the day. I would load up the hookah with organic caterpillar and smoke cipher woes away.
"I wonder if it's true that a buttered slice of toast always lands buttered side down?" She leered back at me over the breakfast table and winked. "Wanna find out?" People our age had no business behaving that way, but we put that mornings inspiration to the test for a spell. Someday I'll Google that question. But I did not then and I will not now. Some mysteries of the universe are left to be explored over and over again. The buttering of the toast can be wonderful and messy. Surprising and surpassing expectations. Not a chore, but a delight. Whether morning or night, my little toaster would often pop up when least expected, delivering a surface for that delicious spread. Toast is fine. But Biscuit was different. Since I've never heard of a buttered biscuit theory I can only imagine you never can know which side a buttered biscuit will land on; so you just have to roll around for bit. Or a bite. Or a bit of a bite. That was the way of the Biscuit.
Biscuit Bolero
Now please pass the toast and for heavens sake be careful.
I loitered in that corridor the whole school year, nonchalantly leaning against my locker in between periods 4 and 5; while not so discreetly watching her. Noting every nuance of her garments which changed daily without ever repeating. I was hypnotized by the cut of her strut. No, not strut; the glide in her stride.
She clearly worked hard to ignore me. Still I convinced myself she was sneaking a peek my way with a sort of stifled psychic acknowledgment. I reciprocated with my patented teenage gaze and smirk. Was I stalking in a crowded school hallway?
I only ever saw her at that spot at that time because I thought regimented consistency of school schedules served up that gawking opportunity. Nor did I ever follow her, though fleeting possible sightings at other locations in the school were not unheard of whispers to my eyes. But I never spied her at large out on the free range world.
Something about her didn’t track right; until the last day of the school year when I found the memorial plaque beside the school trophy cabinet. I wasn’t stalking her, she was a ghost haunting me.
Susan and Sally went to the seashore to a very popular seafood restaurant. Being fully paid up members in the ladies who lunch bunch of society, they settled in with cocktails for a nice long one.
Susan’s gaze locked with the stranger’s across the crowded restaurant, and she was suddenly overwhelmed by a powerful emotion. She did not know why the vision of this well appointed flâneur had stirred such deep body quivers and quakes within her. She felt a very strong compunction to go down to the beach and sell seashells at highly inflated prices to fulfill this strangers deepest need.
She had hoped he had designs on her. But truly, he only cared for himself. No more long lingering lunches for her. She was now a slave to the growing seashell economic bubble.
More shells. More better, was the watchword of the era. Even her one time friend Sally could not save her from herself or her shellfish desires.
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A Scroll Threw Life 