Saturday, July 18, 2009

Black Cats

It was the Fourth of July in Fort Worth, Texas – and my brother Richard felt like playing a joke on our younger sister Ella. She played in the backyard while Richard carefully approached her from behind.

His tiptoed steps were perfectly stealth as he pulled the black cat firecracker and match from his pocket. Its stem was long – and Ella didn’t hear the match strike.

Richard’s lips curved more and more into a Grinch-like smile as he moved closer and touched the flame against the stem.

It was perfect – except Richard forgot to release the firecracker.

While he savored the scent of the burning gunpowder the flame moved up the stem and into the stock.

How ironic.

Two black cats.

One silent.

The other loud...

Blast!

And one hand exploded open.

Monday, March 16, 2009

Hot Coffee

In this dream, I sit at the edge of my bed. It appears that I’m in a rest home and the room is crowded with occupied beds. The man lying in the bed beside me is fully dressed in coverall. Dark oily stains cover much of his sheets and I wonder if he works in an auto shop.

Between our beds, a small shelf sits against the wall, on it sits Styrofoam cups, a pitcher of water, and a pot of hot black coffee.

A tall elderly man approaches the shelf and pours himself a cup of water. He then drops a small pill in the water and takes a seat at the edge of my bed to drink it. I’m annoyed at him, but he looks tired, and I don’t want to be rude.

Moments later, he lumbers away.

Next, a middle-aged woman approaches the shelf. She appears to be stressed, mumbling to herself, and holding a dark pill. I get the impression that it is her last pill—and she is debating whether or not to take it. She holds the pill over a cup, still debating with herself.

I think she’s addicted to it . . . and her better half wants it no more.

She steps away from the shelf . . . turns and tries to walk away.

Two steps later, she angrily swings around and tosses the pill into the batch of coffee. She wants to destroy the pill, believing that it will quickly dissolve and be done with. However, the same motion which releases the pill into the coffee then desperately jerks up the pot from the shelf and begins pouring hot coffee into a cup, hoping to retrieve the quickly dissolving pill. The cup overflows—but no pill. Her wild glance swings over at me and then back at the shelf as she reaches out her open palm.

“No,” I say to her, as she turns the pot upside down—pouring hot coffee into has palm, screening it for the now fully dissolved pill. The last drop strikes her palm before she flings the empty pot against the wall and jumps on the edge of my bed to throw a fit.

I watch, as her angry eyes search, hair flying amid her wild screams, and the expression on her face when she realizes that her has burned her hand. Her eyes find me once more.

“YOOOOOUUUU!” she hisses, “You told me to do it!”

“What?” I try to reason with her—but realize that she’s mad, in a crazy sort of way. The pill must have been some sort of suppressant.

She launches at me and grabs my ankle as I kick myself awake.