Weird Shorts | Page 8

colors and patterns of
protection lines. She could easily discern the difference between one
family's and another's design, could tell which house was full of love
and which was devoid of it. Still, the distinctive threads laid by the old
black dude ran up and down each block, sometimes many threads in a
yard, but occasionally only one or two. Every time she walked back
into her own yard, she marveled anew at the beauty and intricacy of its
protective pattern, more precious than any of the others she'd seen, and
her heart swelled with the knowledge of her husband's devotion to her.
One Thursday morning as Andrea and the old black dude munched
their cookies and sipped their tea, they heard a thumping sound, one
that seemed to vibrate inside their bones. The old man rose and walked
toward the front of the Hales' house. Andrea followed. Suddenly he
grabbed her by the arm and pulled her with him behind a large shrub.
Together they watched as an older car filled with tough-looking young
men drove slowly by, rap music booming rhythmically at top volume
through expensive stereo speakers.
To Andrea's amazement, her well-groomed neighborhood abruptly took
on an unkempt, dingy aspect. The yards looked weedy and sparse. The
houses seemed in desperate need of paint, and the windows needed
washing. Trees wilted, garbage piled up, cars sagged. The trolling car
passed more rapidly down the block and turned onto a street that would
lead it back to the main highway.
When the car was out of sight, Andrea and the old black dude returned
to the picnic table.
"The protection lines made those men think that this isn't a good
neighborhood to rob," she stated rather than asked.
"Yes, little Missy, that's right."
"Then does that mean we'll never be robbed? Because of the protection
threads?"

"No, you can't change fate. And nothing can stop a really determined
burglar, but the lines can decrease the probability of robbery and other
bad things."
"You know, you never told me your name," said Andrea as she bit a
tiny piece of chocolate from her cookie.
"What do you call me to yourself?"
Andrea's face burned, and she looked down at her hands as she
mumbled, "The old black dude."
When she didn't hear any response, she peeked up at him through her
eyelashes and saw a wide grin on his face.
"Well, little Missy, that's who I am."
Chapter 5.
Rhyme
Poetry.
Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.
Albert Einstein
CLOCK
Numbers bleed as I attempt to discern the time.
A dog barks in the distance and I contemplate
A ligature for the hemorrhage.
My head is full and yet, they are only numbers.
Why can't they be there for me?

They aren't as real as I am and stillÖI have no
Control.
EXPLANATION OF ME
They say my face is angry and mean.
When I'm tired, I look mad.
Without a smile, I look sad.
In my mind
There's a hint
Of a once stoic grin
That in reality
Has never crossed my lips.
The stoic was for him.
The grin was for me.
I am older and happier now.
My mind is mostly well.
But my lips and eyes have memorized
A life once spent in Hell.
NUMBERS
Numbers meld together, As I obsess on this thing called, Time.
It's at this ocular junction, That I fantasize.

Is it mental heat, That keeps me marking time?
Or is it, Something else?
Some dark place, In my mind.
To separate those numbers, The forest from the leaves, I refer to my
fever, To act, And be my sieve.
Show me mercy. Show me shapes.
Take me to, Another place.
But, please, Give relief, Lest I labor, Needlessly.
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WINDOW
The glass is tinted.
You don't see me.
I see you.
I smell your smoke.
I feel the cold that envelopes us.
I wish we had brought coats, today.
I wish we could get our shopping over with.
I wonder, "Could someone please close this door?"
THEM
I hear THEM. THEY sing my name, I hear THEM, From the corner of
my room. THEY think I'm paranoid. I think THEY'RE loud.
TICKING

Aware of the pain I cause myself, I place an audibly Ticking watch to
my ear. The sound of his voice warrants this motion. A reply warrants
this motion. A statement warrants this motion. Otherwise meaningless
chatter warrant this motion. I study his face And I listen to the ticking I
gaze into his eyes And I listen to the ticking I watch his lips move And
I listen to the ticking I obsess on his Southern accent, big ears,
Weathered lips and deep, sincere voice. It is time to leave and I place