Specs of Time

Specs of Time

She sat on her porch watching birds and the wind blow the trees.  They swayed to and fro in the early morning, the spring breeze was nice.  Amy awaited the arrival of her grandmother; her wait surely would not take too much time.  At the age of ten, she was always interested in various curiosities.  Of course she had “grown-up” things on her mind; she was dressed and headed for church.  Her new white shoes shined like porcelain; Amy’s Sunday dress was pale in hues and fitting for spring.  She was thinking of the afterlife.  Amy considered the every sermon she heard, each Sunday.

“What are we all, anyway?” thought Amy, “And what will we be if we make it to heaven?”  She thought and pondered for some time, almost fell asleep.  Suddenly a little brown finch dove from its normal flight in the wind and landed on the railing in front of her.  The finch seemed to look right at Amy and then to the porch’s wooden planks.  There was a small bug there.  The bird acknowledged Amy and flew down, snatching up the bug and flying away.

“Surely the small bird could think,” thought Amy, “It looked right at me.  I imagine most other forms of life can, too.”  She thought about it a while longer and decided.  For one, her grandmother was taking forever, and two, we must all be mere specs in time, able to come and go as any form of life as some form of a gift.  We live; we die; and we most probably can be anything or anyone, depending on certain circumstances.

Amy continued to wait, there with her small Bible.  Eventually, her grandmother drove up.  The huge black car probably weighed 8 tons.   It pulled up and Amy got inside.  “Good morning, grandma.”  “Good morning young girl; buckle up properly.  Did you remember to bring your Bible?”  “Yes ma’am.”  Amy secured herself snugly with her seat-belt, and they drove off to church.  Amy’s parents attended a different congregation.  Amy had been to church with them, before, yet she sometimes went with her grandmother, too.

The day was sunny and bright, the breeze gentle and nice.  Amy’s grandmother drove down the dirty old farm road, and Amy took in the scenery as they traveled.  The vast pastures were mostly the same every time Amy got to see them.  Some of them had cows.  One was used for farming wheat, and others were fenced yet not necessarily maintained too often for farming.  This Sunday would certainly be one that Amy would remember for years and years.

The Ride Back

The Ride Back

I had asked for two days off in a row; permission was granted.  Where was I to go?  Photoblogging!  Of course people of adventurous natures get into it… me too.  I took pictures of anything and everything with my new camera – it could hold over 1,000 photos in its memory.  I had enough footage to spend the next year with in editing and web display.  People would definitely like to see these photos; I was in action!

It was the trip back that I remembered the most, albeit.  Out of all of those sites, all of the crazy positions and smiling people in those parts of America, it was the ride back that I remembered most.  She was tall and thin, speechless.  She was blonde.  What was her name? I will probably never know.  I needed a place to sit on the bus; I smelled her from the door.  She did not smell bad; I liked it.

I caught a faint smell of flowers and sweat as I opened the door.  Only two things smelled this way – sex and summertime.  Surely I was not able to sit by her.  She was listening to her headphones, a trance mix.  There were other seats, she motioned for me to sit next to her, offered one of her headphones to me.  So I sat with her for three hours listening to trance music, as she placed her arm on my shoulders.  It was summertime, and that was the best bus ride of my entire life.

Cecilia, Part 5

Cecilia, Part 5

Cecilia enjoyed coaching woman’s basketball almost as much as she enjoyed teaching.  She kept her lesbianism to herself for obvious professional reasons.  Ms. Evans possessed a sincere desire for the furthering of the study of the English language.  She also was a devout thinker in the world of Math.  She kept up with the study of Math and English as a hobby.  She was also able to contribute to the world of art history and its expansion.

Things were going well.  Cecilia and Muria kept the physical side of their relationship completely secret.  They went to the nicest restaurants, as before, and the two lovers only pleased each other sexually on rare occasion.  Cecilia could not complain and Muria did not mind; it worked out.  Muria got along with her husband better, even though they got along fine, anyway.

Cecilia still maintained her contributions to the city.   As a person dedicated to many ideals, one being education, Cecilia made sure to take at least one day off a month to check on her small private school.  One of the school secretaries was not the brightest woman.  Her name was Jena, and everyone loved her.  “There is something I want you to see,” said Jena, one day.  Cecilia was  not really planning on speaking with her, needed to return to the 2A school by noon.  Cecilia had plenty of time.

“What can I do for you?” asked Cecilia.  “We have a lost and found box; it has various things in it that the students or other people leave or find.  I found something in it with your full name on it – a camera,”  said Jena.  “What kind of camera?” asked Cecilia – she possessed a high-end Canon for all of her photography and blogging needs.  As someone who could afford such a toy, she was sure to have the best and use it properly.  “I think it is a metallic, burgundy Nikkon, and it looks like a cheap one,” said Jena.  “I will take a look at it,” said Cecilia, “Thank you, Jena.”

Cecilia brought the camera with her to school and then home.  She chopped up some ingredients from her fridge and tossed them into a big salad.  Cecilia poured salad dressing onto the “thing” and decided to check out the foreign object, or Nikkon.  It had a memory chip in it; she removed it and put it into her computer.  Without too much difficulty, Cecilia was able to pull up four pictures.  Each photograph was of someone burning something late in the night; it was Muria.  The photos were clear enough to tell where she was, as she was in the vicinity of the back of her property.

Cecilia did not really know what to think of it.  She thought about it though.  Thinking – what could it do for her?  The photos were taken the night of Christian’s disappearance.  The next morning was a Saturday; Cecilia woke up and called Muria.  Muria did not mind sharing an early morning coffee with Cecilia; Cecilia enjoyed bringing her favorite coffees to Muria’s house.  This morning it would be the Tropical Maui blend Cecilia had just recently purchased.  It was sure to be a gourmet espresso that would them both well-wired.

They shared coffee and Cecilia showed Muria the pictures.  The coffee was great.  The photos almost freaked Muria out, however she thought about it and realized that she probably did not have too much to consider in the world of worry.  She figured someone had definitely taken pictures of her; that the individual was sure to get the photos to Cecilia, somehow; and that there would not be too much to worry about.

 Someone may have known of the foul play, may have even seen Muria’s actions.  Whoever it was gave up the whole camera – not just copies of their photos.  The person was a probable wealthy neighbor, unwilling to say too much about one thing or another.  Cecilia decided that she was not in too much direct danger, though she was still a little unsettled.

“What were you burning that night?” asked Cecilia.  Muria was far too cunning to be naive or anything other than logically diabolical.  “I remember that night,” said Muria, “I was cleaning out a bunch of old stuff to throw out, and I came upon a painting from my husband’s college art class.  It was of a nude woman; he kept it all these years, though I thought he had thrown it away.  I skipped the book club to burn the old painting.  I did not really know what I was doing; I burned it on the ground with charcoal lighter fluid.”

“Maybe he took the pictures?” asked Cecilia.  “I doubt it,” said Muria, “I think he fell asleep watching television that night; he did not get off the couch until the next morning.”  Cecilia left the small cartridge with the photos on it with Muria and went home.  The two both found it to be odd, however nobody contacted them ever again.  Someone knew Muria started a sizable fire, that was all.

α   β   γ  δ

The Airport Lady

The Airport Lady

Ned was a twelve-year-old novelist.  He spent most of his time reading and writing, was going to fly on a plane to a conference on writing.  Ned had about 40 minutes to board his plane, so he went to check with the flight attendant near the entrance to the big tube that would connect to the flying jumbo-monster.

“Hello,” said Ned, “I have my boarding pass, here.  Do I give it to you now?”  “Keep that with you and we will announce boarding in 32 minutes,” said Wanda, the flight attendant.  Ned felt better, he then knew he was in the right place.  He left the entrance stand to find a place to sit.  Dressed in blue jeans, a tucked-in white t-shirt, and tennis shoes, Ned was dressed casually enough to have a bit of confidence.  He was flying alone; his mother was not too worried.  Airports to them were like shopping malls.

“Where should I sit?” wondered Ned, then he saw her.  The lady he saw was very pretty.  She was wearing an orange dress with navy-blue lines – the dress would have been impossible for other women to sport.  She was reading a magazine; Ned had to sit by her.  Even he did not really know why.  “Is this seat taken?” asked Ned.  “No sir,” said Ms. Flowers.  It seemed as though she was losing interest in her magazine.

“I see I am not the only person waiting to board this plane,” said Ms. Flowers, “Did you find the flight attendant to be somewhat uptight?”  “I think she could crack a glass marble in her… you know,” said Ned; the attendant might as well been a talking pair of starched pants.  Ms. Flowers nodded to agree as she glanced towards the attendant.  The woman in the orange dress looked to the ground.  She was sad about something.

“Is there something you would like to talk about?” asked Ned.  Ms. Flowers looked to Ned and said, “I would love to, you would not understand, though.  How old are you, 12?”  “I happen to be exactly 12!” said Ned, “You are quite the intelligible woman guessing.  Why are you sad?”

“Once a year, for four years in a row, I was able to see an ex-boss.  I currently work in consulting for another firm, however I was using my paid vacations to come and see this man.  He paid me.  I did not need the money; it was nice to see him, though.”

“This arrangement was professional?”

“You seem smart for a 12-year-old.”

“I am a prodigy; I study all sciences.  I write; I publish.”

“Wow, maybe you could give me advice.”

“I always think, ‘Let it go.’  I remember not to dwell on anything that may bring me to an unhealthy frame of mind.  As for you; I am no doctor.  I can relate a few things, albeit.  Do you want to hear these possibilities?” Continue reading