The Weekend's Words

I did manage to squeeze out a few minutes to write in between intense visiting with our old friend's Cindy & Ad from Goshen, IN. It was great to see them after a long time. But I didn't neglect my creative endeavors, so dishcloths were crocheted, more inches added to my knitted pastels scarf, a little writing was written. And here it is.

Oct. 26--The pink tipped tentacles of the giant anemone sway in the surge blindly groping for food. I don't even know what they eat. Fish? Plankton? They look like elongated breasts clustered together in a reef crevice, rather like a deformity one turns away from in embarrassment. They have a certain air of the penis about them too, as if a biology experiment had gone horribly awry. A bouquet of penis-breasts or breast-penises waving at passersby like the friendliest flasher pleased to see you and shock you at the same time. Some tentacles are long and thin, others are fat but all have that unavoidably pink tip worn proudly for all to see. (Pay no attention to the woman behind the pencil; she has no clue what she's doing.)

Oct. 27--He stood in the shade leaning against the old lighthouse recently tarted up for tourists. His trembling hands had made an inventory of his pockets, patting and groping, before he remembered he no longer smoked. Deliberate footsteps from around behind the lighthouse to his right brought his chin up and sent his eyes darting for a rock or a brick, something to use as a weapon, something for protection against further assaults. He tried to edge left, away from the sound, sliding his foot, trying to move silently. The footsteps came closer and now he thought it was more than one person. His stomach clenched as he looked at the feeble stone in his hand, maybe enough to stop one attacker but not much help with a gang of them. Now he heard their heavy breathing and muttering. He cocked his ear trying to hear their words. Were they splitting up to circle the lighthouse? To squeeze him between them, cutting off his escape? Nearer and nearer came the stealthy footsteps, his sweaty palm slid on the rough surface of the rock nestled in it. He shifted it, trying to grip it tighter, all the time pressing himself back into the brick base of the lighthouse as if he could melt into it and disappear. Close now, so close he saw a small stone dislodged by a foot roll into sight. The breathing of his stalkers was harsh and loud over the pounding of his heart. He slowly raised his hand and narrowed his eyes to steel himself for the fight when a fuzzy muzzle came into view, three of them actually, as the trio of wild donkeys paced by, their hooves crunching in the rubble and their dark questing eyes gazing at him as if to ask, food? His breath released in a short bark of laughter that caused the donkeys' ears to flicker and he ran a shaky hand over his face. He dropped the rock, consciously loosening his grip finger by finger, feeling the blood rush back. The lead donkey chuffed and shook himself, then turned and led his little herd on down the coast in search of who knows what, food or companionship or perhaps merely habit.

So there you have it, such as it is. See you Thursday.
--Barbara