10thDotM: Webster Pg 983

The octopus met the turtle on the edge of an island where the cliff hangs over the surf . It allows the unlikely duo to converse closely. They meet there quite frequently.

The octopus extended a tentacle up to the turtle, something bright and brassy gleaming against his dull, slimy skin. The turtle moves forward to the outcropping of rock. His head tilts, small eyes working tirelessly to mentally remove the obstacle from the treasure.

The octopus pulls away slightly peering to the cave on the other side of the sound. The turtle follows his gaze and nods imperceptibly.

The turtle turns around and begins to work his way down the rocks to the grass. He picks up a small mirror shard from the ground. He tilts his his head, sunlight blasting from the shard.

A similar blast of light shines on the right side of the cave. Small, dull tentacles are seen coming over the foamy crest of the surf.

The large octopus shoves the sextant on top of the cliff and cruises easily to where the small tentacles had disappeared.

Frantic splashing slightly obscures the 8 arm embrace from the turtle's view. He turns and drags the sextant to his hole, pushing it deep into the recesses until it comes to rest against a small mound of other treasures. He climbs slowly onto an old waterlogged dictionary and closes his eyes, his mouth chewing slowly on page 983 until he hears the frantic squeaking of a rabbits above him.

He pulls himself out of his bed and makes his way up the hole.

01.01.2011: The Letter to Me

Dear Krys,

This is a new year. Don't let the past continue to haunt you. Take time for the things that are important. Take more pictures, make more music, read more books, kill more zombies. If it is important to you, the time isn't wasted. Continue to strive to see the best in people. Don't get hurt when someone doesn't give you the time you think you deserve. Ensure that when it comes down to it, you give your time as willingly as you would want them to. You're not as ugly, fat, mismatched, short, dorky, or outcast as the person you think you see in the mirror. You are just as you were intended and there is a reason that smile line is there, those pimples still come around, and those love handles stick out... you are a woman between adulthood and youth dancing gloriously in your individuality. Don't let a boy define who you are. Let him complete you. If he doesn't, let him go peacefully. You deserve to be chased, adored, and appreciated. Stop waiting for happiness to find you. Make it. Share your love, experiences, and stories as openly as you share books and music. Practice random acts of free kindness. Where someone may enjoy the gifts, they will probably appreciate a thoughtful text, an extra hug, or ten extra minutes even more. The dog waits all day for you. Throw a ball, take a walk, or give some extra scratches. Remember he has been through Hell, just like you.

Most of all, never stop walking in the daisies. You are never.... ever.... ever alone.

Love,
Me

10thDotM: Softly-Spoken Bullets, Hardly-Spoken Lips

People rush in and out of glass doors that proclaim extended holiday hours and enormous markdowns. Windows rimmed with real snow showcase the wares of a desperate economy ringed with fake cotton fluffs as if people need to be reminded of the bitter chill.

Everyone is awash in the gray and black of winter garb. Some festoon their drab appearances with dollar store Santa hats and gaudy rhinestone reindeer. Their thick mittened hands are full of potentially unappreciated gifts they will continue to pay for well into the New Year.

The diner door swings wide, the busy district swallowing the fabricated sounds of small town diner warmth and congenial conversation. Her black hair blasts back from her olive face. She pulls her scarf close and hesitates for a moment before turning to her companion.

His gray hair and gray jacket camouflages him well into the teeming mass of people. He holds her hand briefly, whispers in her ear, then falls in step with the passing current of humanity.

She is momentarily swallowed by the tide, her red jacket remaining emblazoned in the mind’s eye as her only beacon of existence. She is unsure of her steps, hesitating several times before dedicating to a course of action.

She walks through the people and stops on the curb, rushing cars blowing her hair and clothes away from her, threatening to leave her naked and shivering before me as she was before. She grips her neckline so tightly that I see her knuckles whiten from effort.

Her skin is the flawless perfection you come to expect from opulence. Her mouth is smooth enough that you question whether she has truly ever felt pain or happiness. Her pristine brow is flat, smooth, untouched by age and worry.

Her lips are parted and I feel her mechanical, rhythmic strokes. She’s kneeling on the ground in front of me, expensive mascara staining her perfect cheeks. I cup her chin, feeling the choked sobs waging a war in her throat. I press hard, allowing her whimpers and tears to release me.

Her hand raises slowly, fingers spread wide against the explosions of air from the busy street. I focus on the counterfeit perfection of her face.

Breathe. Relax. Aim. Squeeze. Surprise.

She falls forward as in a slow motion movie sequence. She teeters like she has lost her balance. The city masses continue to ebb and flow around her. She quickly passes the point of balance and topples into the front of a well-timed bus, her secrets spread like a lurid advertisement for the city’s judgment. The carcass of their keeper is ground deep into the pavement and flung onto the hood of a bright yellow taxi.

I hold the hot casing in my hand, feeling its redemptive power, and begin to unfasten the silencer.

Happiness is a perfume you cannot pour on others without getting a few drops on yourself. -Ralph Waldo Emerson

“Travel is more than the seeing of sights; it is a change that goes on, deep and permanent, in the ideas of living.” – Miriam Beard

10th DotM: "Hounded"

"According to the police report, Mr. Sheridan, you brandished and fired a twenty-two caliber pistol in city limits."

"That's correct, Your Honor."

"Do you care to explain why, Mr. Sheridan?"

He offers a quick glance to the lawyer behind him. She nods, her tight bun making her face look like a bird's instead of a human's. He shifts his weight, the linking chain of the handcuffs catching the overhead light. For a moment, it almost looks like an expensive white gold watch chain.

"It rang too much, Your Honor."

"Excuse me?"

He clears his throat. The judge's white hair and blue eyes seem to float above the customary black gown. His gavel gleams.

"It rang too much, sir."

"You do realize you are on trial, Mr. Sheridan, and any clarification you can give could possibly save you jail time."

"Yes, sir."

"Start at the beginning and end at the uhh...."

The judge holds up a plastic evidence bag. Floating in front of his face, suspended in clear plastic, is a popular smart phone. The black serenity of the phone is pierced by a dime-sized hole with spider-web cracks radiating from it.

"...shooting."

"My phone rang sixteen times before ten in the morning."

"You are mighty popular, Mr. Sheridan."

"No one really had anything to say. They just wanted to listen to me breath, I guess. Sir."

"And this is why you shot your phone?"

"No, sir. After the morning phone calls, I started getting messages on my chat service. But my chat service kept freezing on my phone or taking forever to open. By the time I could answer the first message, I'd have two more from two other people."

Chuckles from the other lawyer and the bailiff. His face flushes momentarily and he stares at the handcuffs on his wrists.

"When I had taken care of most of the people on messenger, people started calling my office phone. My cell phone had forwarded itself to my office phone."

"Did you set it up to do this, Mr. Sheridan?"

"A long time ago, Your Honor. Now it does it whenever it feels like it."

"So your phone keeps ringing all day, Mr. Sheridan."

"Yes, Sir. My phone is quiet all through lunch. I was waiting for a call about a client I've been fighting to keep. When I get back to my office, I have some voicemail. The client wanted to give me the chance to match another firm's offer. Since I had missed the call, he went with the other firm."

He drops his head, a defeated smile crossing his lips momentarily. He lifts his head, the gleam of the gavel catching his gaze.

"My friends started mass texting to set up the dinner to celebrate another friend's big promotion. I work downtown, so they wanted me to get a table at Vinelli's. When I got the table, the phone calls and texts started to let me know when people would be there and what they should bring and how late they were running..."

"The court understands, Mr. Sheridan. Please proceed."

"Dinner is interrupted by my phone. Drinks afterward are interrupted by my phone. I realized that everything I ever do is interrupted by my phone. Your Honor, I can't even crap without my phone beeping to tell me something 'important' or telling me of another message."

"So, why don't you just shut off your phone, Mr. Sheridan?"

"If I don't answer, Sir, it only gets worse. They call more often to tell me that they called. Or they leave voicemails to tell me about other voicemails they left and the instant messages I failed to respond to. My email is overflowing with reminders to listen to voicemails about voicemails about messages and voicemails."

"What happened next, Mr. Sheridan?"

"I took my phone out on my patio at my townhouse and shot it twice with the gun my father gave me for my birthday."

"Twice, Mr. Sheridan? There is only one bullet hole."

He shifts his weight again. The bailiff chuckles as the air cast makes a squeaking noise against the linoleum floor.

"The phone rang before I shot it and scared me. I missed the phone."

The judge turns his head, covering his laughter with a very fake coughing fit.

"Mr. Sheridan, some community service will do you good. No more brandishing weapons in public, even if the phone is asking for it. Try the blender next time. Its a much slower, legal death for electronics."

It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are. ~e.e. cummings