Unreliable Third

terzahcain:

This reblog has been waiting for Halloween! Ewe!

Originally posted on interruptingcow:

Blood stain
It was late.  Kinsey was irritable and frankly, downright angry.  Here it was, close to seven o’clock when she wanted to be watching the season finale of Runway, and she was at Target.  Her two best friends hadn’t done their part for the science fair project they’d been assigned.  “Why do I always have to be the reliable one?”  She directed this question to a rather large shopper who was blocking the isle, his cart full of cereal boxes and gasoline.  “What the hell is he doing?” she thought, as she maneuvered around his pockmarked and ridiculous expression.  She ignored his attempt to tell her a knock-knock joke and hurried past the hypodermic needle display.

A cold sweat broke on Kinsey’s forehead and traveled down her chest and back.  Her arms became weak and shaky and she pushed her cart to one side to take stock of her situation.  Tinsey…

View original 1,060 more words

Series – Characters

Originally posted on interruptingcow:

A stocky man with square features, TG is an obvious descendent of Scandinavian ancestors.  His gait has a peripheral intrigue to it, all at once forceful and manly, yet with a hint of a bowleg.  One would never mistake him for an English teacher, yet that is his passion.  A walking anomaly, the former Marine will just as soon pull out a guitar and belt out a homemade song to inspire his students.  He is a favorite among the youth.  He maintains tough standards in his classroom while still attracting (and entertaining) with his theatrical facial expressions and extravagant verbal ballet.  If there is one thing he is certain about, it’s just about everything he does.  Whether spawned from the Marine or the Teacher in him, TG has a decisive nature that makes most feel secure around him while a few grit their teeth.  TG is a loving and devoted…

View original 160 more words

Lavie

Originally posted on interruptingcow:

Love Liebe 1You – who take me into the wilds of life and show me sunlight on a tree-hidden lake.  You – who reads me tiny of your conflicted soul and shares me tears from your tender love.  You – with your pillow swept hair and hard-earned freckles.  I love you.

I drifted in near wakefulness while still nestled in your lingering warmth.  And you came to me, curled up to me, and asked me.  Such tingles traveled from my ear to my neck, where you kissed me and planted your wet eyes.  It traveled to my muscles and rolled round my heart, electrified my back and legs and I had to stretch that morning stretch.

You – who bandage my fiscals and cover my scars, you water my passions and snip my anger, and you cook me sustenance and talk to me of spiritual things – the question was answered before…

View original 20 more words

Migraine

Originally posted on interruptingcow:

down for the count
up for the bill
water, more water
swallow a pill

head full of broken
shut your damn lips
type in my logon
man this pain rips

check my to do list
throttle a yell
keep the damn light off
Lord, i'm in hell

responsibility
headache is killing me
punch out this deadline
now make a b-line

sunlight and dizziness
throbbing and sleepless
poetry rounding
forehead pounding

oh for a temperate dark quiet room
to wrap me in stasis, a comforting tomb.



View original

Screen Love

terzahcain:

Marlene . . . Joan . . . time travel.

Originally posted on interruptingcow:

Joan Blondell eats with the boys at a North Atlantic base while on a United Service Organization (USO) camp show tour

When I was in college (the second time), I fell in love with Joan Blondell.  At the time I was 33 and Joan was 99.  I just couldn’t help marveling at the full bodied, big eyed beauty joking around on the screen as we watched Gold Diggers of 1933 in my “Reel American History” class.  Years later I discovered that she was also the cuddly looking, grey-haired waitress in the movie Grease.  That’s when I realized it probably wasn’t going to work between us.

Still, I couldn’t shake the ending of Gold Diggers of 1933.  The movie is your typical Busby Berkeley, showgirls-in-symmetrical-order, film.  In general, it’s about girls needing a man with money to survive.  But it’s also about the show within the show and, in the…

View original 214 more words

A History in Woods

terzahcain:

Still no time to write for a project AND for the blog. Enjoy this re-post as I prepare for National Novel Writing Month when I will post whatever line was the best from the day’s collection.

Originally posted on interruptingcow:

Griffy Woods - squirrel - P1100479
In 1928, when Nila was born, the woods had been there, surrounded by more forrest on all three sides. A dirt road drew it’s contour on the east, and a creek ran it’s southern side. When hayfields and corn started dividing the countryside, they’d stopped at the creek, and at the sudden rise in elevation on the north and west sides, and the woods had remained a remnant of what used to be. These and the paved country road where the dirt road had been, clearly defined the boundaries to the property when Nila and Jim eventually purchased it.

Nila and Jim married when she was twenty in the summer of 1948. They acquired the woods twenty years later in hopes they might one day build a house there, but the little town of Menden had grown up around the first and only house they would ever live in for…

View original 673 more words

Stale Mate Pleading

terzahcain:

My constant love/hate relationship with the clock …

Originally posted on interruptingcow:

You iron neck-clasper. 
You heart-thumping tasker.
Indifferent to yearning,
your constant page turning
gives no pause for rest - 
just unending test.

Tick off, Time! You bat out of hell;
You thoughtless vulgarity
trolling the bell!

Be gone, Time! And leave us to dwell
in transparent void fabric,
fondling the quell.

Cease fire, Time! The war to a close,
a permanent armistice, 
"little while" froze.

Yet now we are stalling
our possibles lulling.
This present now lasting
our longing now fasting.
This moment relates 
no past/future fates.

Noble Time, be our friend.
Slow your tock, physics bend.
Give us hum, Beating Drum.
Let us dance to your strum.
Change your race to a walk;
feel the sun; have a talk.

Whisper sweet nothings into our ears -
find adoration stroking your years.


I wanted to capture how we have such a love-hate relationship with time.  We stress over deadlines and…

View original 151 more words

Neighborhood

Originally posted on interruptingcow:

Snowy frozen bush night

January 20, 2014 – Today I fought with a snow bank. The damn trash can was frozen to the side of the house by the snow dropped from the roof. It was trash day and I haven’t put the trash out for a couple weeks so that thing is full. But now I guess I can’t because it won’t move and the closest thing I have to a shovel is a broom. I tried attaching with the broom but ended up getting the broom stuck in the snow and I felt like the entire neighborhood was laughing behind their curtains. The car started and the defroster worked. So that’s good at least.

January 25, 2014 – I bought a box of big trash bags. Since I can’t get the stupid trash can out of the snow, I figure I’ll stock pile my trash in the bag until next trash day…

View original 536 more words

War with Me

terzahcain:

No peace in sight.

Originally posted on interruptingcow:

Every night I wage a war.  The enemy crawls into the room and begins its familiar bombardment, first with feathers and then with rubber bullets.  In a matter of minutes I’m surrounded by fire breathing dragons screaming with urgency – I must enter their realm.  I refuse, at least for a few more hours.  It’s about the fight, yet I don’t even know where my objection starts in me.  This battle makes no sense and doesn’t do me any good.  But somehow, Sleep has become my enemy.

Its army comes at me as if I’m expecting it.  Like I’ll throw myself at their mercy once the grenades are thrown.  I shake my head and pop my lids open again, a yawn stretches me but I stay connected to the wakeful world … with my eyes.

Two days ago I went to the eye doctor and he tells me I have…

View original 257 more words

George Mowgli – 9

Originally posted on interruptingcow:

He’s back.  If you haven’t followed George from the beginning of his adventure, feel free to seek out his stories by scrolling down to the “Be a Seeker” box on the right side and typing in “George Mowgli.”  You can also start from the very beginning by clicking here.


Her cackle from some location below elicits an involuntarily response, pushing the left side of his nose and mouth into a sneer.  “No doubt she’s turned on the stupid box and is laughing at some brain-sucking sitcom.  She’ll probably find it imperative to try and repeat the scene to me later.  Won’t matter if I’m engrossed in a good book or napping.”  He pulls his face out of the sneer as if putting a long abandoned piece of laundry back in its drawer.  Matter-of-fact.  No point letting more bitterness creep in.Airwalk Men's Mason Mocassin Slippers

In about three hours, Micah will either shut himself…

View original 141 more words

George Mowgli – 8

Originally posted on interruptingcow:

His palms are slippery.  He turns his right hand over, barely recognizing the mottled exterior, the soft-skinned canvas of his lifelines loosely draped around the bones and swollen joints.  Like ghosts in his mind, a false duet of memories and the present, he can still make out the muscles of his youth as he twitches his thumb.  Days were when his calloused hands put in time at the lumber mill, returning home with nubby, dirt encrusted nails as evidence, scrapes and bruises the “war wounds” of their service.

A bar of Lava soap, wrapped in the dirty imprint of this or the other hand from those days, still convalesced on the shelf in the mudroom.  He thinks about tossing it once in awhile.  Recollections of the texture, the solace of that gritty lather under soothing warm water, prevent  further consideration.  Comforts of the past.  He splays his fingers and turns…

View original 31 more words

George Mowgli – 7

Originally posted on interruptingcow:

He’d wanted to name the baby, “George, Jr.” but Sarah whined it wouldn’t do.  Not poetic enough.  Not ear catching.  What would the girls at work think?  Looking back, he was certain she’d only agreed to have a baby because she wanted an excuse to stop working and stay at home.  It was clear, once the mission was accomplished, she was ill-prepared and had as much motherly instincts as a harp seal.  He’d watched one of those television documentaries on the creatures and experienced deja vu when he discovered the mothers abandon their defenseless babies vulnerable to predators, alone on the ice after only twelve days.

Now he knows what that must feel like.  Hadn’t put two and two together back when she forgot Micah was playing on the sun porch and locked the door.  Poor kid had nearly fainted of dehydration by the time she realized.  From all accounts…

View original 131 more words

George Mowgli – 6

Originally posted on interruptingcow:

It would never be said of his son – Micah, “A chip off the old block.”  A  middle-aged man of pale complexion and reddish brown hair – these and his glasses were the only traits that could be claimed as ever being shared between the men.  His son’s exterior was a contradiction.  One could easily make out his hefty midsection, still within the socially accepted picture of “average,” but gaining.  His choice in the latest alternative band t-shirts attempted a distraction to the mismatched area in contrast to his spindly legs and scrawny neck.  Lanky but graceful – his straight, wiry hair sat atop his globe as a wig might.

It was clearly his own hair; its roots visibly clawed into his head nearly a full inch behind where his forehead should have ended.  It seemed to follow a set of standing orders as it cascaded back and then, in…

View original 117 more words

George Mowgli – 5

Originally posted on interruptingcow:

George reaches up and pulls himself up again.  Amazing what energy can be found in those “cringing moments.”  His left toe catches the ledge as he brings it up and his right arm swings itself forward on its own volition to counterbalance his imminent demise.

Sarah had a mole that could be mistaken for a cold-sore.  She tried to apply her makeup to under accentuate its redness.  Lingering just above her lip and southwest of her right nostril, it could have become her trademark.  Entering her 40s  she should have accepted the “opinions and rumor mill be damned” attitude that is a right of passage most other older women enjoy.  Instead, her collaboration with her flamboyant beautician produced a pair of eyebrows – reminiscent of the golden arches – relegating her mole to a sideshow in the vaudeville that was her presence.

READ ON –>

View original