Tagged: creative writing
eWasteOfMoneyEee
“Just what does he put on his eHarmony profile?”
Well, for today, I’ll tell you my response to the prompt: “The Most Influential Person In My Life Has Been.”
I wrote:
Leo Tolstoy–I thought I was alone until I read his books. If I have to pick someone alive, then there’s this little girl I know who has a way of turning everything old into something new.
To be clear, panties aren’t dropping like I thought they would. Big surprise.
In any case, here’s the latest example of old-to-new that makes me smile.
Once the sun gets working, Denver has been warm of late. But until they turn it on it’s chilly. So I pick up H- from school yesterday and she’s still wearing the two long sleeve shirts I picked out that morning, one thin one and one fleece. Back in the car it’s slightly warm. Like any good woman she complains. Like any good man her wish is my command. At first I turn up the air conditioning fan one click. With the resultant fan volume increase, I can’t help but visualize pricey gasoline being wastefully poured out over the pavement. Then I remember that its not actually hot out. It’s just hot in the car. So I turn off the a/c and roll down her window a bit.
Little did I know that bliss had been waiting right outside her door. Laughter and giggles ensue as she proceeds to narrate to me in detail how the wind is so strong that she can’t push her tiny hand forward. I check the side-view mirror and sure enough her small hand is tucked back as far as it can go against the door frame, barely breaking the invisible plane that demarcates inside from outside.
Next, she excitedly exclaims that Rarity’s mane and tail are blowing crazily in the wind. Turns out that the pony just finished up in the shower and needed to dry her hair.
Then I remember this little girl is around a quarter polish, so I should have seen this unmitigated joy coming. (In my defense, you never can tell how pronounced the illness will be until after puberty). You see, I grew up laughing at the following joke.
A black guy, a Mexican, and a Polack are being exiled to the desert for the rest of their lives. They each get to bring one thing in unlimited supply. The black guy picks food. The Mexican picks water. The Polack picks a car door so that he can roll down the window when it gets hot.
Like I said, old becomes new. I don’t care if the line doesn’t work. It’s true and it’s funny. I’m keeping it.
Free Day At The Art Museum
“Pete, I think that that was the line.”
“There are so many couples here.”
“We’re the cutest couple in this place,” say two teenage girls loud enough for 1995 to hear after taking a selfie.
A flock of college students approach a twenty foot tall stack of folded quilts. To the agreement of the rest, one female righteously asserts, “They should give these to the homeless.”
“George.”
“Yeah, Pete?”
“I don’t think I’m a museum person.”
“Me neither.”
“I mean it’s alright, but I’m not that intrigued or even empathetic to the artwork. I don’t get most of it. I saw that Picasso piece. I was impressed that I was actually looking at a Picasso. Really, though, all I know is he cut off his ear.”
“He was insane.”
“Right. I will say this though. You and I, and H-, we’re walking around here, looking around. When you see something you like, you walk away, and I don’t think twice. I’ve been doing the same. H- too. Then we find each other and move on. It’s a very nice pace. But I’ve never seen couples do that. Have you been watching the guy’s faces as they follow their women around? Art is a very individual thing, no?”
“I have. Did you see that one, the dude with that smokin’ redhead by where we had H- dancing to the African drums? He looked miserable.”
“Oh my god. George. Read that first sentence over there.”
George turns and reads about Jaune Quick-to-See Smith’s Trade Canoe for Don Quixote piece.
Indian canoes were used on the river highways for thousands of years, but after the Great Invasion, they were also used by trappers, traders and U.S. government agents.
His head quickly retreats an inch in disbelief before turning to Pete.
“I know. Great Invasion. How does that get published? Just stick to drawing lady.”
“I wonder how far she’ll get before she realizes you’re not next to her.”
“I don’t know. She’s been doing it all day.”
Pete quickens his pace to keep H- in sight.
“Little girl! Little girl! Where’s your pare-”
“I’m here.”
“Sir, you need to stay in the same room as your child. You don’t know how many kids we lose here.”
The Crumby Face
“Type daddy, type!” H- said.
The pair was finishing up breakfast. That is to say he was finished and had moved on to the laptop and she was diligently using her fork’s four tips to scrape up every last bit of cinnamon roll frosting from his plate, having already completed the chore on hers.
He looked towards her, tapped his skull, and smiled as he said, “I’m thinking of ideas.”
“I’m going to count in my head,” she responded naturally.
“Nice, H-. Do that,” he said, returning to the laptop.
A moment passed before she announced, “Daddy, I’m thinking of ideas,” and in doing so chased away one of his.
He turned.
“Oh yeah?”
He wanted to get frustrated, but a dab of icing and an abnormally large chunk of the roll prevented any emotion from surfacing save head-shaking disbelief.
She hadn’t spilled in ages. She used adult size silverware. She dressed herself, sometimes even expressing gratitude when seeing that what he laid out for her matched. She could lift the piano key lid and make her own music for thirty seconds at a time before tiring. And despite answering, “The dragon talks?” when asked how she liked her dad’s Smaug-turned-Bane stylings, she could even call out sight words as she struggled to get comfortable atop him at bedtime.
But when it came to actually fitting food in her mouth, the battle was lost.
He began a careful examination of the data with high hopes of determining she wasn’t at fault. As she returned his stare, shadows shed light on the explanation. He swung round for a profile view. She matched him.
“Hold still H-,” he excitedly requested. Then he happily declared, “Yep, that’s the problem.”
I mean, could you keep food off of your cheeks if they stuck out farther than your lips?
Follow Me On Twitter
Despite all my family bashing yesterday, I have finally decided to listen to my brother about Twitter. So I have an account now. Follow me @petedeakon if that’s your thing.
(New post tomorrow…apologies for missing today, but I was busy crafting an award winning speech last night. 🙂 )
Sex Is Bad
It is. I know it is bad. I know it is bad because I have felt a woman willingly place her hand in mine. I know because I have enjoyed the exponentially arousing feeling of her fingers brushing down the length of my fingers as we interlace them. Because my shoulders have received the full weight of her eyes after she concludes that they can bear her trust. Because I have been allowed to consider each and every subtle quality that define her face and neck. Because my tongue has tasted the deposit and withdrawal of her unfamiliar breath.
I know because I have been caught unaware by the ferocity with which my delight in the delicate dance of our tongues was overcome by an unmistakable wish to devour my prey without obtaining permission or forgiveness.
I know because I have seized her narrow waist and smashed her concealed hips into mine before granting my hands license to hunt for the entry point. Because, ever confident, I have triumphed past that magical barrier which separates exposed from unexposed.
I know because I have lifted her into the air and felt the unrivaled trifecta of her fingertips guiding, her legs surrounding, and her body enveloping as she descends.
Oh yes. I’m convinced. Sex is bad.
****
Happy Valentine’s Day
Teaser for Buried Within, by Pete Deakon
The screen fills suddenly with what appears to be a creepy looking Target employee standing directly behind a beautiful young brunette as she shops. Next we see the young brunette giving in to a handsome, though, bumbling man’s flattery in a grocery store. The image quickly changes to the red shirted creep now driving on the highway in too small of a car. Changing again, the screen now shows the brunette and handsome man skinny dipping in a lake and as they begin to kiss they carelessly sink under the water. Now the sceen fades to black and reappears with what we can tell are clearly faster moving images beginning with the creep climbing out of his car in the driveway behind the beautiful woman as she starts to run toward the house. Now a heartbeat sounds as the handsome man pulls into the drive after work and sees her legs on the ground in the garage as it opens. The next beat is followed by a policeman’s face denoting helplessness while the man hangs up his phone and resignedly tosses it to the side of the couch. The next beat shows the man loading an ax into the trunk of his car. Then after the next beat a bedroom door opens to reveal the creep’s back as he sits in a chair unaware anyone is in the house. The next beat is followed by the camera zooming in on the handsome man’s face as he begins with a terrible violence to swing the ax. One more beat and we see the image cut out right when the ax would’ve made contact with the creep. Silence accompanies a black screen. A moment later, we see and hear a breezy Missouri forest in the fall which has what can be none other than an empty grave and mound of dirt beside it. Then the words Buried Within appear, followed by “Coming Soon.”
The Idiot At Kohl’s
After passing through the doors at 9am, he walks up to the nearest manned register.
Perturbed that she didn’t immediately speak up upon his approach, he clears his throat and asks, “Excuse me. I was wondering if there is perhaps a sales associate who can take my measurements for a suit? I have to order a tux online for my brother’s wedding, but I don’t know my measurements for the shirt and coat.”
She looks mildly confused but after a moment’s consideration replies, “You’ll have to go back to customer service for that.”
“Thank you.”
The line at customer service is short. The problems are not. Finally, it is his turn.
“Um, yes. I just need some help with finding my measurements for a suit. My brother is getting married and I have to reserve it online, but I don’t know my measurements. Do you have someone, maybe in the men’s department, who can help me with that?”
The bewildered woman silently stares at him when she suddenly remembers something. Pressing her radio button, she says, “Jewelry: I have a customer here who needs you to take his measurements.” Then she turns to the man and says, “Just head on back to the front to the-”
“Yes, I heard. Jewelry department,” he concludes for her, seriously considering skipping the wedding.
Before he is able to leave the area, an associate more experienced in customer service stops him.
“Excuse me, sir. What did you need help with?”
Annoyed at this extra and unwanted attention, he only slows his walk as he explains, “Oh, I just need some measurements for-”
“Well what size shirt do you wear?” she interrupts.
He freezes mid-stride and wishes he would’ve said, “Perhaps you couldn’t tell, but I don’t know my size. That’s why I’m here. I don’t know my size because I’m an idiot. What’s worse is you should have recognized me for what I am and ignored me. But you didn’t. It seems I may be contagious–all the more reason to let me by unmolested. But, again, you didn’t, so now you get to listen. The clue you missed was that you were talking to a man standing in a Kohl’s because he believed that someone employed here would have the dexterity to use a tape measure to help a brother out. In any case, please stop talking to me now. Mind you, I don’t point the finger your way for causing this situation. I accept the blame readily. You see, just like you, I should have recognized I’m an idiot because only idiots would shop at a store where everything is always 70% off. By definition that’s not possible. And now I have a question for you. What’s it like to work for a company whose destruction would improve the world?”
****
All below units are U.S. Customary
Neck – 16 1/2″
Chest – 42″
Sleeve – 36″
Brain – Pea-sized with little room for growth
Through His Eyes
A bitter poem as the worst holiday ever conceived approaches dreadfully slow.
Longsuffering does not mean suffering through long hours at work to buy you jewelry.
Longsuffering does not mean suffering through long lines with other procrastinating men to buy you flowers.
Longsuffering does not mean suffering through long years of staring at some perplexingly huge teddy bear that got me laid once.
Longsuffering does not mean suffering through long explanations about why you can’t make friends with women.
Longsuffering does not mean suffering through long lists of men’s names who you thought really loved you.
Longsuffering does not mean suffering through long years of hoping you’d get the clue that I wanted to be more than friends.
Longsuffering does not mean suffering through long periods of silence as you conclude life is as your dad said it was, not as you wanted it to be.
Longsuffering does mean suffering through long days and nights which add up to years of wondering where the hell a woman worth her salt hides and if I will even be able to recognize her.
To Touch or Not To Touch
“And how old are you, Daddy?” H- asked for the third time.
“I thought I told you earlier today, H-, I’m thirty-three,” he said.
“Well, I’m four and a half,” she responded. “When I’m thirty-three, how old will you be?”
Taking longer than he’d like to admit, he finally concluded, “I’ll be fifty-two. No, wait, sixty-two.”
“And when I’m sixty-two, how old will you be?”
“Hmm, I’ll be,” he paused to do the math again. “I’ll be ninety-one.”
“And when I’m ninety-one, how old will you be?”
“Well, I probably won’t be around,” he said, figuring she mentioned death enough while playing with her stuffed animals that she’d get the point.
“Where will you be?” she asked with a look of simple confusion.
“Never mind. You’ll have your own kids and they’ll have kids and they’ll have kids when you’re ninety-one.”
“I’ll have kids?”
“Probably.”
“Like one?”
“As many as you want.”
“Two hundred and,” she paused, “nineteen.”
He laughed.
“Sure, H-, you can have two hundred nineteen kids.”
“But then my belly will explode!” she said with a giggle.
“Well, not all two hundred nineteen will be in there at once.”
“I think I’ll have two kids,” she said, revising her desire drastically.
Playing along, he said, “Okay. And sometimes two kids can fit together.”
“And they will not touch the stove,” she said, wagging her finger.
Looking at her and smiling, he thought, “And there it is. Seems I probably was too dramatic on that lesson last week after all. I’ve been wondering about that. Noted.”
Then he said aloud, “Yes, H-, they probably shouldn’t get in the habit of touching the stove.”
Arpicembalo Che Fa Il Piano E Il Forte
“Large keyboard instrument that produces soft and loud (Barron 95).”
At seven feet long, six hundred seventy pounds, and taller than a toddler, it demands attention. But for a few aesthetic nuances, there is purpose in every handcrafted stationary and moving part. Equally beautiful and functional, the black behemoth exemplifies creativity. Neither do its origins disappoint. Cristofori’s problem was monotony. The harpsichord produced one sound. The strings were plucked. No matter how hard or soft the musician pressed down on the keys, the resultant volume was the same. But life’s spark would not let the matter rest. He sought both soft and loud, and henceforth created a new connection to the Infinite.
Mystifying in its identical name, the keyboard these words are typed on sits atop a wooden table in a room whose walls and closed blinds seem inclined to constantly advance inward. The piano keeps them at bay. Its weight symbolizes its persistence to preserve its place in this world.
The words begin to grow short. The afternoon advances. The man approaches confidently, if lazily. As he steps around the bench, his body brushes against the hanging blinds. He pulls his hand up short of the light switch. As if unable to contain a joyful secret, the swinging blinds reveal the sun is shining. He opens them and smiles.
There is nothing, I mean nothing, that compares to playing the piano in the light of the sun.
*Barron, James. Piano: The Making of a Steinway Concert Grand. New York: Times, 2006. Print.
Captain’s Log 