"One should either write ruthlessly what one believes to be the truth, or else shut up." — Arthur Koestler
“Remember the time Stevie Ray Vaughan was here?”
“Whaddaya mean ‘the time’? I was his favorite car. He was here as a little boy, and always came back here after his tours to blow off some steam. Of course, after Family Style, his time, like ours, came to a halt.”
via Darleen
by Smitty
What’s more relaxing than a grandmother in the Keys of a perfect day, walking in the shallows as the tide flows in?
It’ss the first day after the cleanup was mostly complete from the next hurricane after Katrina. The family has trundled down to the beach to find it mostly the same, despite some strange small bits of debris that looked like bones, and seaweed that seemed. . .old, dark. Sinister?
The day is beautiful; the tube inflated; the hat in place. She enjoys sand between her toes. Until the foot slips on the slimy lip of a stone opening. . .
via Darleen
by Smitty
“You were right,” said Eddy in the playfully defeated tone they’d enjoyed for decades.
Mary reached through his arm to touch his hand as he turned to kiss her forehead.
They stood at the rail to view the high school track where their grand-daughter had just set a school record in the 100 yard dash.
“You were always so skeptical of her mother and her parenting,” chided Mary.
He laughed with joy to himself, the way a good husband does when agreeing with his wife, while being quite confident that a jury of their peers would’ve come to the opposite conclusion.
via Darleen
by Smitty
They were awesome. Cute, healthy (thank God!) and absolutely a blast. Ellen had waited so long for children.
He arranged them on the hospital bed for a photo op. The cards and flowers continued to pour in. No way to work all that in. Mom & Dad would be arriving any moment, radiating pride that their “grandparent score” was upped another notch.
He barely heard the door to the room open.
The gynecologist entered, along with another physician he didn’t remember. The room temperature seemed to drop 10 degrees; the bulbs were somehow dimmer; their faces: stone.
“Ellen. . . ?” he ventured.
“We’re sorry.”
via Darleen
by Smitty
Ponder
| So here I ponder, tired, aghast: Just how long can this nonsense last? Is it merely the same old noise, Heard by this ruin’s builder’s boys? The endless human song and dance Beats you far past the point of pants. |
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Finds you here, posed as The Thinker, (Since you are not quite a drinker) Hoping for some enlightenment, Wee tiny bit of comfort sent, From the Creator, far above, |
| Looking downward, one hopes, with love, On quite a dodgy, noisy lot, (The wages Adam’s sin had got) And so oft given to wonder, If the answer’s in the ponder. |
via Darleen
by Smitty
Rumors of the Doom of Korbill at Vally Myzods had finally drifted to Wesloch. 
Korbill’s son Korban had rallied the tattered, drenched remains of the Leimeners at Korbill Tower. The Wizard Zygiell’d had healed Korbill, and they were rumored to be mounting an expedition East to the Grey mountains, through which the orc horde itself had poured, to find the Dravonid Library.
Which. Must. Not. Happen.
The King of Wesloch had dispatched him, the Wizard Rogand, as ambassador to Korban. The wreckage of Leimen, while tragic, was no reason to risk uncovering the Codex Lopodunum. There was enough woe already.
Previously:
Episode 1
Episode 2
Episode 3
Episode 3
—
via Darleen
by Smitty
Dad’s are kind of hard to get. Mine never said much. He brought the fishing rig behind him, like he was pointing at one of my footprints in the sand that wasn’t neat enough. Then he cast it with just a hint of violence. Maybe one of the clouds was bad.
He smiled at me with eyes full of something that seemed to get stuck in his throat and handed me the pole.
“Here you are, honey.”
Fishing there with him in the ocean was the happiest time. Mom said that was as far from Afghanistan as he could go.
via Darleen
by Smitty
Looked left, down the street, toward the cathedral, as I paused before crossing at the corner.
Some common woman vigorously attacked road debris (glass? New Years revelers?) with a broom, keeping the street tidy in front of what I recalled was a cafe.
The acoustics were right, and I thought I heard her singing a jaunty song as she worked.
Like the dustpan in her bucket it hit me: standing here in bespoke suit, Mephistos, and shades, I was the object of pity, not her. One of us had joy in life. It wasn’t me.
Should I buy her cafe?
via Darleen