The world is sideways today. Not skewed, not akimbo, not even mildly turned upside-down.

Sideways.

He has an announcement.

Bing! The computer chirped, once, irritating, knocking me off my doze, mid-snort, jerking me up and out and into. Alongside.

I hate when it does that. Face planted on the keyboard, I’d barely made it through the last line of promised searches, before the fog and spider webs cast nets of blankness.

You’re better at that than me, Hon.

I’d been better at most everything since our grad school days. Research. His, mine, ours.

Damn, I really, really hate the de' Medici’s, hate the period, hate the costumes, hate the endless machinations and backstabbing and bickering and mindless preening. And those were just the fucking actors.

I had this in mind for her all along, Hon. Wrote it special, she saw it, she saw herself in my words, made it hers. This is the one, babe, this will do it. I’ll be on my way.

I say author, he says screenwriter. I say to-may-to, he says to-mah-to. Whatever the way is, I’d just as soon see it sink in a stinking canal than to have to dredge up yet another piece of authenticity that’ll end up being blown to smithereens -- Michael Bay’s theory of the Big Bang applied in all its post-Medieval splendor.

It made my teeth hurt. It made me hungry.

Shoulda listened to my old man. Never marry a writer he cautioned – he should know, having fifteen mystery-thrillers under his generously-proportioned belt. His apple didn’t fall far from the tree, but fall it did and now it nestles under a pile of misshaped twigs masquerading as words, slowly rotting away.

Make sure you’re there when I get home. You might not like what I’ve got to say. I’ve given it a lot of thought.

After ten years of now what he finally manages to push a worry button. The man doesn’t think, he simply does*not*think. There’s this disconnect between his left and right brain, a bypass, maybe something done surgically at birth.

It’s important.

Uh-huh. Everything is important, critical, of utmost. He lives in an alternate reality of air kisses and Gucci bags, where personalities exist as alphabetized entities on an Excel spreadsheet, A’s in, B’s if you must, hangers-on and hanging-by-a-thread.

So he’s had a thought, an important one, in an announcement sort of way. My belly’s in a full-out roar now. I tap a blunt fingernail on the keyboard, muted plastic tink-tink-tink.

I knew it was coming.

She, who saw herself in his words.

She, who fucked every writer she ever worked with.

She, who needed no butt-double but paraded around the set with boobs large-and-in-charge.

That she.

I could Google rings around that vacuous bimbo and look where’d that got me. Myopic, wearing sweats with stretched elastic, pounding out words, not mine, as my girth, the bags under my eyes and my youth expanded, disbanded, leaving me hollow, empty.

Well, maybe I couldn’t do anything about she, but I sure as hell could do something about hollow and empty.

Hello Ben & Jerry’s Chubby Hubby, a pint, fresh, the lid resisting me, then releasing with a sharp sucking noise that made me wet and tight ‘til I clasped my thighs together hard. Anticipation, it’s all about the slow burn that only ice cold can give you.

I get the soup spoon, not the namby-pamby teaspoon. No, I want a full load, chipmunk cheeks distended, pretzel bits and nuts and chunky chocolate oozing out the corners of my mouth, dribbling down my chin as I suck and tongue it, furnace hot, to run lava slick down the back of my throat.

I slide to the floor, in raptures, licking the spoon, over and over and over. An orgasm of the taste buds that slowly traverses my esophagus, to lodge with sensuous fullness mid-section. Vaginal heat, oral chill, seething, boiling, bubbling mid-stream.

I look up. He’s home, my lord and master. Let the announcement begin. I run my fingers around the waistband, no longer caring.

Solemn. Eyes cast down. He doesn’t seem to notice I’m on the floor, having a moment, the spoon trailing a last pass on my sticky lips.

Then he stares straight into my eyes, carelessly rubbing his paunch, determined.

Hon, I’ve made a decision. I’m going on a diet.


******************************************************************

I’d prowled the canyons for years, ever the visitor,  never the native. There’s white noise, a background din, the heartbeat of nine million souls, a tower of Babel. You’d be hard-pressed to hear your native tongue, the rhythms salsa’d, fluid and fast. A beat beat beat and the press of flesh and you try to avoid the impossible, the footprint shrunk to
nothing.

Concrete rises and falls, uplifting, splattered with unmentionables and you tiptoe and jig, eyes lowered at your peril.

The cop in the cop car, irritated at the cabby—not from here, just off the boat, his fare looking bored, then peeked as yellow turtlesNand approaches the turn, too cautious, uncertain. The burp of a bullhorn,Nexpletives hurled, but the yellow creeps and crawls and horns screech and blare and the cop in the cop car hurdles past and yellow makes its turn and we surge into the blank space left by his hesitation.

They call it Hell’s Kitchen, it’s on the map that way, but you follow your nose and on every side curry and marinara and the sweet rankness of heady scents releasing grumbles and mumbles and saliva drools and pools until you can bear it no longer but she’s haughty and inquires, nose in uptilt and disapproving, and no, there’s no reservation, would you mind waiting outside? On the uptilted, cracked unmentionables and we’re summarily dismissed and we grin and move on. 

What do you have a taste for she asks and it’s beer that draws, not the refined wine and linens and sneers. Crowded tables hug the edges of the cracked and uplifted, burgers dripping tantalizing, red raw ripe, succulent. 

Cross against the red, always against, it’s a contest, a test of wills and the high notes tickle and tease. The hoity toity beckon up and down the cross streets, wrought iron, stepping down into caves of gastronomic pursuits but we want simple fare and the pub draws closer until the heavens bleat and we duck and fumble for shelter, then plunge forward, the thirst almost too much to bear.

Dark, polished, mirrored, tall table’d, stool’d and narrow, a cherub greets with a saucy grin and bids us welcome and we struggle to squeeze into our grazing allotment and she brings tall glasses of deep auburn richness and the first sip goes down smooth, chilled, and gulping it flows and fills the empty places. 

The cherub recommends and we think why not, never heard of such a thing but the lilt of the real assures and we demur and debate and tease but the taste jolts as tentative we sample and the fulsomeness assaults the back of the throat and the sips go down even smoother and we order another amidst the sounds of laughter and media bleeping and sweeping away the cares of the day.

To my left, Quebecois, soft and gentle, and he leans over, engaging and they smile and explain, the Aussie and Quebecoise mixed and mingling as we two smirk and share and gossip and muse and the giggles of the young gentle the eve.

Peasant fare in royal presentation, a largesse of richness, milky white, mounded and torched to tense peaks sheltering savory, herbed and petulant goodness, loading the fork and sliding, tonguing the fullness and talking and smiling as the auburn lowers and the harsh hail of day yields to the tease and the promise.

Weaving, sated, eyes sweeping the seated, the upright, the slut and the rake, a wriggle of ample hips and we howl at the joke and I tap unconscious at the thigh and smirk, thankful. 
 
They see me off, my trusty steed awaiting, and I savor the touch and the promise and the knowing—sore and exhilarated and weary to my bones and the diesel spins a dream and sweeps me away…


***********************************************************************

 
 

“She’s a beaut ain’t she, boy?”

“Suppose so.”

“Don’make ’em like that anymore.”

“Uh-huh, if you say so, Gramps.”

“Had me one, back in the day.”

“Can we go now?”

“Hold onto yer britches, boy, we got us plenty o’time. We can stay and visit a spell.”

“Visit what? This ole junker piece o’shit?”

“Watch yer mouth, young ’un. Yore ma would beat the tar outta me if’n she heard ya say shit like that.”

Alex smiled. He’d finally gotten a rise out of the old man.

“It’s simple, Dr. Martinez. Fill his mind with things familiar, old memories, things
he cared about,” the Head of Innercranial Functionality had exhorted him. Why
the fuck him? He hated being on MedDeck, hated the smells, the rank musty scent
of time passing, bodies suspended in a stasis waiting on a miracle.

“Wait, Gramps, don’t touch those,” Alex dove to restrain the wizened form who’d advanced faster than Alex thought possible at ten metagrav.

“Please, Gramps. We’re only allowed to look. You know the rules.”

The man was known as Gramps—only that—with no clear reason for it other than his long standing in the community and obvious rank. Some thought he held the key, some magic bit of knowledge, as he appeared to recognize the bizarre images in the video feed that had sprung unbidden onto the monitors.

“Do you know what it is, Gramps?”

The old man nodded happily. “V8.”

“V8.”

“Lotta horses under the hood.”

Gods of Aten, here we go again. ‘Horses’ for crying out loud. And what the fuck are
they? Where was he getting this stuff?

Gramps sidled sideways and slyly winked at Alex, “We could, ya know…”

“What, Gramps? If you know how this thing works, tell me, please. It might be important.”

“Important, oh yes, boy. Bigger than that. Better than.”

“Better than what?” Alex could barely keep the exasperation out of his voice. If he weren’t careful, the old man’s brain would shut down again, an endless repeating cycle of hope, despair and gods-be-damned ‘functionality’.

“Allow him to explore within the image, Dr. Martinez. Remember. Form follows function.
If we can get him to recognize the form, then there is hope we shall ultimately discern its functionality. If we do that, perhaps…”

Gramps tilted his head and grinned wickedly. “We could drive it, son. Would you like that?”

“Do what? Drive?”

“Uh-huh.”Gramps tottered toward the artifact, then stopped abruptly.

“What now, Gramps?”

“Somethin’…” he hesitated.

“It’s alright, you’re doing great, Gramps.”

“Great,” he grumbled, cautiously reaching toward the hologram, then quickly withdrawing as if stung. “Shit, boy, that t’ain’t gonna cut the mustard.”

Mustard. That had a ring of hope. His belly growled. He watched the old man circle the
relic, shedding sanity until rheumy eyes brightened, the grin coming slow and easy.

Gramps held out his hand.

"Whatcha want now?” Alex allowed irritation to creep in, too weary, too weak to deal.

“Gimme the keys, boy. It’s time to drive us home.”


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

     Triple-layered against the bite, I slipped on insulated boots.  Tom – the solid grey cat - led, spooked as usual, with Demon Cat bringing up the rear.  Steam spiraled off the stock tank.  I heard the who-whos echoing from the barn and shrugged away their displeasure.  Sun warming my back, I tripped over hardened ruts, hoofprints flash frozen, leaving me – and my kitty companions – to mince and dance an odd little rhumba.

     Winnie stood, semi-polite, over her feed bucket.  I’d done the switch the night before, swapping out the triangular feed bin for an insulated water bucket, the cord fed through and wrapped on the stall bars.  Kasey had liked to chew and yank cords out, getting his jollies off the weak current.  My girl is smarter than that but still…  She’d drunk for once, almost a third down, liking the warmed water.  I’d set a different bucket out for the grain.  She hovered over that one, expectant.

     Cotton gloves weren’t my best choice for this bitter cold morning, but they gave me feel.  Odd that.  My fingers tingled to numbness as I fumbled with the grain, chipping away the frozen bits and filling the bucket, scooping out the contents with a metal coffee can.  Quaint and old, very old.  Serviceable though, measuring life in sixteen ounce doses.

     I slid the stall door away, keeping a wary eye.  She likes to loom, my girl does, and personal space is not such an important consideration.  She’s flattened me more than once, then looked down at me in surprise, but she’s never mean-spirited.  Discourteous perhaps.  But mostly she just ‘is’.

     I leave them to happy munching and head for my next challenge.  Hens, lots of hens, big hens, red hens, black ‘n silver hens.  And then there’s ‘Junior Rooster’ – who’s a party in feathers, strutting around, proving to all who might question that size doesn’t matter.  I’ve got some of last year’s black oil sunflower seed that makes for a nice treat on a cold winter’s morn.  Cracked corn too.

     I’m mugged at the gate.

     I do what any sane person would do when confronted with ‘doom on you’ – I heave the bucket of seed and corn high into the air and watch it shower down in a black-gold arc, retreating with my pride semi-intact, and hoping the neighbor on the hill has something better to do than watch my daily humiliation.

     I free the prisoners, set out a bit of the good stuff and much more of the just adequate, as Her Ladyship follows me around, taking nibbles off the stack in the wheel barrow.  The wheel barrow bounces over the ruts as I head back for my next chore – cleaning stalls.  Miss Winnie sidles past me in the barn aisle and parks her ample butt in the hay mow while I pick and sift through the new bedding.  The Bobster  - he’s my son’s valiant steed - had done a lay-down.  He looked like I’d rolled him in cookie crumbs.  Winnie's that color so it’s harder to tell, but I’m sure she curled in a ball and slept the night away.

     I used the two-wheeled barrow as it makes my trip to the manure pile easier.  JJ, the Demon Cat, has something in his sights just on the edge of the steep drop.  He jumps and skitters, arching his back, tail poofed.  He listens.  He sits.  Apparently it is safe for me to proceed.  His brother, Tom, is off on an adventure.  I’ll not see him until dinner time.

     I set the wheel barrow on end and contemplate the tan battleship still filling the narrow entryway into the hay storage area.  Winnie’s happily sucking down some odd bits of alfalfa.  There’s a half bale of it out in the field but she wants ‘this’ bit.  Because she’s not supposed to be in there and because I’m in the barn and it’s her job to supervise.

     I squeeze past wielding the pitchfork, intent on my next task.  You learn, with horses, that if they are being naughty it’s best to just ignore them.  There’s no fun if no one pays attention.  She keeps an eye on me as I scoop up old hay off the floor and pile it in the small wheel barrow.  The girls need fresh bedding.

     Winnie backs out, past the garden tractor and the up-tilted two-wheeler and the buckets and shovels and broom and manure forks – without disturbing a thing.  1300 pounds of muscle and attitude and she threads the needle with precision and grace, doing it blind for she can’t see behind and moves on trust alone.

     She spins in the aisle, stiff this morning.  It’s in the shoulder.  Age.  Arthritis.  She looks to see if I’m coming.  I grab the handles and follow her out.  She knows the drill and leads me to the pen.  This hay she avoids, it’s dusty and stemmy.  Like I said, my girl is smart.

     Glittery, evil beady eyes watch our approach.  The giantess behind me apparently does not impress.  One of the reds fluffs and shakes and puffs a chest, waiting. 

     I set the wheel barrow close, but not too close.  I need to do the impossible.  Open the gate, scoot to the wheel barrow and shove it through, dump it and back out before the prison break.  Winnie gives me a comforting nudge and I bolt toward the narrow entrance.  The doggone thing sticks and bends the wire frame, then pops through.  A red hen hustles under my feet, gone.  Winnie moves in.  She shouldn’t be able to, it’s too narrow.  But there she is, nostrils distended as she zeroes in on the ten pounds of chicken feed and cracked corn and sunflower seed sitting in a tall metal feeder, almost under her nose if only I’d get out of the way.

     I’m between a surly mass of feathered demons and a broad chest pressing me forward.

     I do what I do best.  I scream bloody murder.

     Bracing hard, I shove with all my might, making sure I’m in constant contact.  She’s been known to take a little love bite off my ass - not so bad with jeans, not so good with fleece pants with that single thin layer.

     The one escapee pecks desultorily at the hard ground.  I scoop her up and heave her through the gate.  Winnie tires of the festivities and wanders off to devil the Bobster, her other partner in equine crime.  I spend another twenty minutes fitting a heated bucket for the girls and hunting through drawers and plastic storage bins for the short length of extension cord.  Plugged in, filled with fresh water, the biddies opt to peck at the ice I’d dumped out of the old bucket.  Peck, peck, peck. 

     I should do an egg hunt.  But I’ve had enough fun for the morning.  I needed coffee.  I needed dry gloves and warmed toes.

     When next I go down I’ll take some bits of tomato.  They like that and if I throw the bits off into the far corner, they’ll swarm and leave me be.   I might even have time to find the eggs.  Of course, they’ll be frozen by then.

     Right now I don’t much care.  JJ hops along beside me as I amble toward the house.  I pause at the stock tank and lean against the fence, surveying all that gives meaning and purpose to my life.  But it’s time to go in.    

     I have words to write and coffee to brew and a lap to warm with grey and white silk.



^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

He straddles the Duc, winks, then nestles damp curls in a bulbous plastic mass, sweat still pearled on cocky lips, a nod, a kick and the beast ignites, spins, wild, shoulders hunched, power, retreating ...

I love the early morning mist of summer, still, sounds muted, frissons of cool stealing round my ankles, wayward, timid, ready to bolt as the hammer of heat stands poised ...

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^