Archive for the ‘fiction’ Category

FAMILY FUN AND OTHER STUFF

~ CHAPTER ONE ~

FAMILY FEUDS OR HOW THE WORLD ENDS

Every family has one or two or half a dozen or more, those family feuds that can last centuries – Uncle A cannot stand Aunt B and such.

Seemingly, the holidays are the perfect time for these feuds to begin.

Take for example in my family; in 1958, or sometime in those hazy times, when the clouds form inside the brain fogging out the reason for the feud but giving it still a hint to know there is a feud, Great Aunt 1 took a piece of cake and began eating it.

“This cake is kinda dry.” she whispered to Great Aunt 2 who, unbeknownst to Great Aunt 1, had made such cake.

Great Aunt 2 huffed and puffed and  threw her hands in the air.

“How rude!!” And stormed out of the house to never speak a word to Great Aunt 1 for close to 50 years.

A feud soon started over chocolate cake.

I guess wars have started over less.

My aunt, my pop’s sister, will not speak to my uncle, her brother and hasn’t since basically time began.

I was born in 1971 and they weren’t on speaking terms since before then.

It always puzzled me and I asked both sides what was going on.

My uncle would tell me, “I have no idea! I’ve tried to mend the relationship many times! I love my sis!”

My aunt would reply, “He knows!” and then would hang up the phone angrily.

My pop would smile slyly and reply, “I think it’s over her bike that she thinks he chopped down into a chopper. I did that!”

Years have gone by, Presidencies have changed hands more than I can count, and still, my aunt will not speak to her brother, my uncle.

I got a reason this summer, as I stayed a few nights in a motel room in Butte, Montana.

I had bought a bottle of Black Velvet and was drinking it with diet coke(I have to watch my shape and yes, round is a shape) and soon found myself dialing my aunt.

“Hello?” she answered.

“Jello!”

We both laughed.

Why?

I have no idea.

After some small chit chat about cousins, friends and other stuff, I approached the topic easily, with just a touch of harshness to make it seem like a grill session at the police station.

“Why do you hate your brother?” I half yelled drunkly into the phone.

“I don’t hate him, I hate his wife!” the truth came out, though, my aunty S, had figured that out many years before.

Apparently, on a Christmas Day, back before the dinosaurs or 1958, the family had gathered at my grandparent’s place, a place that does not exist any more, even the town it was in is now gone, swallowed up by The Berkeley Pit.

After a feast, the family moved to the living room, for conversation and homemade beer.

Something happened that day, a fight of words broke down between my Aunty S and my grandfather; hiss growl, you, no you!!!

And soon the great rift between the family would begin; though no one remembers what started the fight, I believe it was over chocolate cake!

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~CHAPTER TWO~

Stalker Dating Imaginary Love

June was waiting for something, drinking a half empty bottle of wine, on the bench, sliding south.

Where genius met, nobody knew, especially June.

Categories of questions fell from the sky, striking her on the nose in the form of rain.

She feared the dark but hated the light even more, in the light, they, the normal peoples could see the tears, the bruises, how she hated the light, that which exposed the truth, and the pain.

There was that chance, out there, someone was watching, knowing, seeing the truth, seeing her madness as she danced naked there in her yard at midnight.

A few times the neighbors, nosy pricks, would call the cops.

A few times she’d be placed in “For observation – 3 days” to see if she was a harm to herself.

A few times she had danced to the rhythmic music with a gun to her head.

She wouldn’t have pulled the trigger and even if she had,she didn’t have enough money for the bullet.

One time, she had pawned the gun to buy some bullets but then it came to her, where would she get a gun and she went home, downed a bottle of scotch she had stolen from the liquor store and danced around the yard naked making wild hand gestures to the sky above in hope that the aliens would see her.

She felt like a trapped being on this planet, like her true self was meant for some other place, out there, among the stars, maybe she was a princess.

Or a warrior, killing those who opposed her mighty sword.

She had a boy friend, a few actually, all imaginary but it kept her mom happy.

“How is life?” her mom would ask.

“Great! Stephen is taking me to the movies tonight!”

What was the harm?

If her mom asked, the movie was great, Stephen was now somewhere else, fighting for our freedom.

If she got too nosy, Stephen was killed, land mine, blew him to Mars.

It all made sense, inside her mind, she didn’t need Stephen anyways, she had Mark, an actor, he was on a TV series, she had sent him a letter, he had sent her a picture, yes, Mark was the answer to the question.

Now if only she had a gun….

Monday December 12th, 1921 –

My dearest Lanora,

My true love, to hold you one last time, to kiss thy lips, sweetness, embrace, shall we?

…it seems…

…I assume…

To be, as the young say about me, to be ‘improbable’ in things that could be, but in the scheme of things, are not.

Where? To see that smiling face of yours upon a vision, a quest?

To hold your hand, gently, tenderly, in mine?

To reach out towards a dream, of passion, fiery, disillusioned by that feeling, in the mind, in the loins, to hear the calling, under that pale moon light.

Who here does not know that feeling, of love?

A madness some say, to love, to dream of that sweet kiss upon the lips of a suited lover, a sweet, maddening thing, matter not that age, but in the heart, to rip apart, to destroy, with mere mentions of running away from that which is love

To fade in bitterness and hate.

I write you this letter, though I dare not send it, in case your family shall read it, to know I lust in my heart, to care, to love thee in such a way as to be almost a sin of that thee flesh, pressed against mine, in a forbidden way.

I would purpose to thee, on bended knee, to ask for thy hand, but alas, I am too poor, in both money and spirit, a broken man, this wine my only friend.

So here I sit, upon a plot of land, underneath that willow tree we once sat under, a stolen kiss, a glance, my hand on your lap, writing this letter to you, my sweet love, my Angel, thee who drives me to better things.

When I think of thee, I smile, my colleagues think I am growing quite mad, to hear them say, it is as you do not exist, I am writing these letters to a ghost, a nonperson, if such a term exists.

I tell them you are quite real, not a dream in my mind, scattered to the four corners when I awake.

They do not understand, how could I, a man of the cloth, a priest, be in such love, sacrilege, a sin?

I wish I had not taken this path, I wish I had gone with thee when you asked, my love, to raise a family with you, to be there for you, as you would be there for me.

Remember our talks in this place?

That night?

I remember it well.

I can still smell your sweet perfume, feel your soft hands in mine.

How I wish I could go back in time, to that day, to be there one more time with thee.

I know impossible, but, a dreamer dreams a thousand dreams, to sleep, to wander that sweet place in hopes that you are there.

Mayhaps tonight, you shall be there, I may hope, though dare not speak it, so that I do not curse myself, so I shall wander back, in hope, sweet love, that I shall see thee tonight.

With my love,

I shall send you this letter, I care not who reads, I am yours, in body,

Franklin

The Dancer: a poem

Posted: September 27, 2017 in fiction, POETRY
Tags: , , ,

Into the night her dreams did come, her eyes glowed with love and time.

She dances in moonlight with stars in her eyes, laughing and laughing and spinning around.

She sees through the madness, and chuckles and glides, her kisses as sweet as the wine.

Children of madness do not bother her, she is the gardner, making the world growing madly in the dances she does.

She is the one whose smiles can stop all the wars, whose words can cut to the bone.

She is my soul, she is my love, dancing among the stars, words do not describe what I am missing…..

 

Fear and Loathing in Louisville, Kentucky

By

Jason Giecek

 

I am in the land of Ali, the birth place of Hunter S. Thompson.

I am Dr. Me to Mr. Me to my lover’s preciousness.

She hates me during those phases, here I sit in evil phase, writing about the love of spring in the summer time.

I laugh at that sentence, almost comical, making me want to carve it into my chest.

I stand in fire waiting for life, to die, to dance in star light.

She cringes from human touch, she can’t remember a time that love was real, not a barren place, didn’t have to place her hope onto the back of her baby, life was reality, not just a dream,

A hopeless nightmare….

 

 

 

…a battered soul, a spirit lost to the midnight hour, the world spinning out of control, set to destroy. Warning to those who dare think to enter this land, only death shall follow…

lights-1254324_960_720.jpgA misery inside, a passionate fire put out before a fiery rage, a scream into the moonlight, close my eyes, do not let me die here, in this broken place, wake me up from this nightmare.

I stood at the edge, my eyes gazing into the starry skies, the Gods stood by, waiting to see what fate decided, suicide of a worthless soul, his spirit to disappear from everything.

The endless nights, the beast prowled, the silence of the dead dying on sheets in crypts made of marble.

“Craw….” the words echoed from my dying throat. I could not see, just hear the voices in the winds, her scent drifted into what was left of my brain.

The Goddess, the madness, she was there, not as a vision, a dream, but flesh and blood, a person.

I wanted to call out her name, but my voice was gone, ripped out and stolen by the crow, Master and Mistress, to the wind, to the time, it was nothing but a fantasy, strangely ripped from the pages of time.

The city had been built, a perfect place, filled with perfect people, but destroyed by imperfect solutions.

Towering buildings, golden, rusting in the sands, bridges destroyed, crumbling into the mighty seas.

The Guardians, the beasts, trying to guard this horror, kept watch, killing those few who made it through the defenses and the gates, the world was not ready for the truth.

It had to be spared the horror.

 

Mired in misery, the waters, the lands, the air became poison, killing all.

They who dared to enter the arena, the dead world, were killed, the memories of them erased…