For Love or Money

Part 4 of an ongoing story which starts here, then here, next here.

For Love or Money

"Eye Candy in the fifth!"

The jittery hand placing a one hundred dollar bill on the counter had moments ago crossed fingers for luck. Charlie Puckett grabbed the ticket and turned to Elvira Dobbs who stood beside him, wearing a frown.

"It's done." His weak smile revealed a sudden lack of confidence.

"Charlie Puckett, you'd better hope that horse wins. I didn't come to the track with you just to sit around and look pretty, you know."

"Yes, Mrs. Dobbs...Elvira. I know. Why don't we find some seats and wait for our race." Charlie wrapped her arm in his and proceeded to lead Elvira Dobbs into the grandstands. He felt her arm stiffen in his grasp. "A beautiful afternoon, isn't it?" He murmured, trying to make the atmosphere light.

"Yes, I suppose it is. Nice warm sun."

"Warm like your lovely brown eyes!" As they settled in seats, he produced a single red rose and presented it to her.

"What the...? Charlie, what's this?"

"A rose for you, my sweet...to celebrate your beauty."

"Oh hog wash!" Elvira Dobbs stiffened and looked away.

"Mrs. Dobbs...Elvira, you are beautiful to me. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, remember. I see your inner self, the buried soul that is timelessly exquisite."

Elvira looked back at him. "You're pretty cute, yourself, Charlie," she said before turning away again as though the words were awkward. Her eyes remained on the track. "I've always known what a teddy bear you are inside...I've been aware of it for as long as you and Alfred hung around together."

"May I kiss you?"

"What?"

"May I kiss you, Mrs. Dobbs...Elvira?"

"Well, just once, on the cheek!"

As Charlie stretched over to plant a wet one, his eyes caught a view of the gate. "It's our race! The fifth with Eye Candy!"

Elvira pushed him away and jumped up to hug the railing. "Which one is our horse?"

Charlie leaned close and murmured in her ear. "That black one there, with the jockey in red."

He'd hardly got the words out and the gun went off. The horses shot out like bullets, including Eye Candy who hugged the rear but soon galloped to make it to the middle and then the front, neck in neck with Devil May Care, a muscular black steed with long legs that made the exhausting run look effortless.

"GO EYE CANDY, GO!" Elvira screeched, clutching Charlie's arm in her excitement. Bouncing up and down, she let go of Charlie to wave her arms in the air.

Charlie gripped the railing and watched.

The announcer's voice rat-tat-tatted on the loud speaker. "It's Eye Candy! Devil May Care! Eye Candy! Devil...Eye Candy...They're nearing the finish line...it's Eye Candy! Devil May Care coming on hard...Eye Candy! No! Devil May Care taking the lead! Devil May Care with Eye Candy right behind! Devil May Care! Devil May Care! Devil May Care across the finish line! It's Devil May Care the winner!"

Elvira and Charlie stood, stunned. Finally, turning to one another, Charlie murmured, "We lost."

"Yes, we did."

Charlie sighed, not a gentle sigh, the kind one can hide; but a giant display of unrest pushed through his lips in a colossal squawk that wished it was a roar.

"Charlie!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Elvira. It's just that I realized not only did we lose the race, but now you'll never marry me. Winning was the only chance I had."

"Who says so?"

Charlie blinked in surprise. "Well, actually, I guess I said so. I said if we won, I'd ask your hand in marriage."

"Charlie, if you ask my hand in marriage, we still win!"

"What?"

"Don't you see, Charlie! I wanted to marry you all along."

"But I didn't win us the jackpot!"

"Yes, you did. We're both winners because we have each other."

He fell to one knee and took her hand in his. "Elvira Dobbs, will you marry me?" he asked, holding his breath.

"Charlie Puckett, I certainly will."

And that was how Charlie Puckett became a millionaire, in more ways than one.


Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

Suppressed

A WordCatalyst Workshop PromptJust One Violin by Hamish Blakely

Suppressed

Music notes bounce from wall to ground
as hearts resound
tango heart beats
pounding stone streets

in syncopated misery
with needs to be
alone, undressed
their love confessed

steamy passion violin shrieks
hot ember streaks
in street dance heat
suppression beat.

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

The Lucky Three Continues

Continuation of the other Jo's Story, The Lucky Three

Mrs. Elvira Dobbs emerged from St. Anthony's, strolling and waving her bejewelled hand like a queen greeting her subjects. Pausing in the doorway, she stepped in front of Father O'Reilly and shoved him to the back in order to meet parishioners as proper royalty should.

"Hello, Mrs. Brooster! How are you today!" she murmured, extending her hand, her diamonds glinting in the morning sun.

"I...I was just hoping to see Father O'Reilly." Mrs. Brooster snaked her face upwards to look for the beleagered pastor hovering behind the other lady.

"Oh, certainly! He's...back there!" Mrs. Dobbs dismissed the matter with another flurry of jewels. Her white silk jacket rustled with the movement while costly perfume aromas invaded the vestibule's air space.

"Mrs. Dobbs...Elvira...I wanted to express my condolences on your recent loss." The little voice came from the side, wired, tense.

"What? Oh! Mr. Puckett!"

"I'm sorry about Alfred, a tragedy, really."

"Yes, my dear Alfred. But he has left a lasting impression. I can appreciate him more in death than in life, I think. He was such a lazy sloth when alive, but now..." She flashed her diamonds. "In death, he is a noble provider...dear Alfred."

Charlie's eyes lit up watching the starlike jewels. "Yes. Has it occurred to you, Mrs. Dobbs, that Alfred would want you to remember his dear friends...his loyal friends...now that he has passed and can't look out for them?"

"Whatever are you talking about, Charlie?"

He smiled at her use of his first name. "Perhaps Alfred would want you to share some of his great abundance...with his old friends, as it were."

"Certainly not!"

"Perhaps a loan, a solitary loan of $100.00. I have a magical idea, Mrs. Dobbs...Elvira...to imitate Alfred's generous last act of placing a bet on Eye Candy who is running in the fifth tomorrow afternoon. History could repeat itself, and I would, of course, share with you as I am asking you now to share with me, Mrs. Dobbs...Elvira."

"Are you insane?"

"Mrs. Dobbs, would you call your current state of wealth insane? Just such "insanity" is what put those jewels on your fingers."

"Oh my Gawd! You're starting to make sense."

"Mrs. Dobbs, just $100. Just $100. It's a long shot. I...er, we could make a fortune...another fortune for you."

"Okay, Charlie Puckett. I'll give you the $100, but heaven help you if we don't win. I'll be looking forward to ruining you for making a fool of me."

"Oh, we shall win. And when we do, I shall ask your lovely hand in marriage. We will be such an unbeatable team, how could you resist?" He dropped to one knee and clutched her hand.

"Oh, Mr. Puckett," Elvira blushed. "I could resist. The question is, will I have to?"


Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

Mourning

This blog is in mourning for the loss of theburghblog. PittGirl retired her blog today. Say it isn't so, PittGirl!

OMG! Did the pigeons win?

Mr. Dobbs

Fanned out by Charles Dana Gibson

In response to a Word Catalyst Prompt

Mr. Dobbs
(Gentleman on the Left in Picture)

Plump Mr. Dobbs wiggled his stubby fingers into empty pockets and sighed. After paying off Swenson, he'd have no money left, not even a nickle. Damn Yankees! They lost. Mr. Dobbs wasn't a pleasant individual to be around to begin with, constantly scowling, forever dressed in a wrinkled suit and tie, a battered straw hat shielding a balding head from the summer sun. When he lost a bet, people scattered from his path. His big lumbering body coming down the street, propelled by angry words sputtering, remained a force to be reckoned with. Today people ran away even faster.

Mrs. Dobbs was waiting for him in the living room, her arms folded across her chest, standing tall and determined, a closed suitcase set beside her.

"Well, I see the Yankees lost," she told him first thing.

"Hmmmph."

"And I suppose you bet the rent money on them again, is that not right, Alfred?"

He shot her an exhausted glance. "Yes, I bet the rent money...and yes, I lost it."

"I told you. I told you! If you lost the rent money again I was leaving. Do you remember?"

"Yes."

She studied him. "You really don't care, do you? You don't care if we have no roof over our heads, food in the fridge. All you care about is the next round of bets."

He didn't answer.

"I must be crazy to have stayed here this long. What was I thinking? I sold my mother's jewelry once because we were broke. Do you remember that, Alfred? Do you?"

Silence.

"Well, that's it! I'm out of here!" Mrs. Dobbs picked up the suitcase and pushed past her husband, slamming the door in her wake. Mr. Dobbs stood quietly and made no effort to chase after his wife. When the car pulled away, he let loose with a yawn. He headed for the den and his favorite overstuffed recliner, a nap foremost on his mind. What a surprise to find a brown leather handbag perched on the seat, opened, inviting, forgotten by Mrs. Dobbs. He reached in and his fist emerged with a wad of money. Fanning it, the fat man chuckled. Next pulling a newspaper out of one pocket and his cell out of another, Mr. Dobbs hit speed dial.

"Hello? Swenson? Put me down for $100 on Eye Candy in the ninth. Yeah, I got a few bucks. My wife gave it to me."


Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

Rolling, Rolling, Rolling

A WordCatalyst Workshop Prompt

Rolling, Rolling, Rolling

Wanda Shortstuff rubbed the back of one hand across her forehead, smearing flour in a broad, white streak. Outside, snowflakes tumbled to ground, mounding up in stacks, some of them over three feet high. Then wind blew and drifted the snow, scattering the white stuff helter skelter, painting the world in a rushing, white haze.

"Where's my rolling pin? What the he...Oops, better watch my language. Almost said the bad thing. Santa may be listening."

Ollie, her friend, sat nearby stringing popcorn for the big Tree. His elf ears perked up when he heard her statement. "Where did you learn to talk like that?" he squealed.

"Oh, ever since we got satellite TV here at the North Pole, little bits and pieces sneak through...like that word I almost said." Wanda sniffed in disdain and continued her search for the rolling pin. Opening drawers and cupboards, she stuck her nose in and looked in all those dark places. "How can I have the gingerbread men ready Christmas eve without my rolling pin?"

"It's a conundrum," Ollie murmured, stringing three more kernels on the popcorn garland.

Wanda stood, hands on hips, and stared at the elf. Her face flushed. "You never take me seriously! Never!"

"Huh? Where'd that come from?"

"You always ignore me when I need help. But when you need me, I'm there for you!"

Ollie chuckled. "Put a lid on it, Wanda!" He returned to his popcorn-stringing. "You take yourself too seriously."

"Take myself too seriously! Take myself too seriously! Without me, there'd be no Christmas cookies around here."

"Mmph."

"There you go again! I get so mad! I could just...I could just..." Wanda, face red and hands shaking, reached into her flour canister and a grabbed a handful. Poof! She threw it in Ollie's face!

"Yuck, spit! What'd you do that for?" Ollie spied his friend grinning, her eyes dancing with revenge. He made a grab for the butter dish. Wanda rushed him, but he pushed her away and buried his fist in the grease, lifting a handful. He squashed it in Wanda's face.

She stared back, her eyes registering disbelief. The girl's face, sculpted in yellow butter was covered with too much gunk to reveal any other lines, until she made a dash for the pie case. Shards of butter flew off and through the air, sent airborne by her speed. It plopped to the floor creating a treacherous grease slick. At the pie case, she lifted a lemon meringue and ran with it in Ollie's direction.

"Bomb's away!" she yelled, throwing the pie at him. As the concoction left her hand, she slid on the butter slick and slammed to the floor.

Ollie never saw the lemon meringue pie coming. He'd been wiping flour off his face, and when he dropped the towel, the pie zoomed in a like a guided missile. ZWAT!

"Whaaat!" The poor man fell into a heap. glazed in lemon custard and meringue.

"HO! HO! HO!" A booming voice filled the room, along with the jingle of tiny bells. There was no mistaking who was coming. "HO! HO!..." Santa Claus stopped short when he saw the two sprawled on the floor, covered with baking ingredients. He touched a chubby finger to his nose in thought before asking, "What's going on here?"

Ollie and Wanda exchanged glances. This could demote them to cleaning the reindeer stalls. Ollie answered first. "We had an accident with the cookie dough. Um...you see, we lost the rolling pin, and we had all this dough, and Wanda and I were looking for the rolling pin and we knocked over a few canisters and butter tubs...we were frantic to find the rolling pin. The Christmas cookies need made and all."

Santa waved his hand. "More than I wanted to know. But about the rolling pin...I had it. In fact, I've come to return it today."

Wanda's face was etched in confusion. "Santa, you had it?"

"Yes, my dear. Ever since we got satellite TV, I've been watching the food network." He chuckled. "Thought I'd try a few pie recipes."

"Oooooooh."

Santa continued. "By the way, I made a lemon meringue pie. Would you like some?"

When the two didn't answer, he chuckled again. "I didn't think so. Well, here's the rolling pin. Merry Christmas! And remember, be kind to one another." With a wink and a smile, he was gone.

Wanda and Ollie never fought again, at least not with food.

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

The Light Illusive

The Light Illusive

Illusive, it trickles through cracks in my gritted teeth,
warming, illuminating
parts of my being I meant to keep mine.
I reach to grab it, contain it, send it away
and it jiggles like jello.
Laughs.
It's here to stay.
Annoying, it talks.
Nags.
Tells me to be better,
to sing,
fly,
soar.
It's the voice of motivation, I suppose.
But it doesn't have my tones,
my diction.
It's someone else's voice.
Yours.
It won't go away,
even after you're gone.


Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

And Farmer John Smiled

Pigs  by Pablo Picasso

A WordCatalyst Challenge

And Farmer John Smiled

 

 

Gluttony splashed with dirty water,

everyday celebration

in corn fed jubilee,

pigs in a barnyard, sloppy smiles

mud-slicked playfulness

wrapped in harmony

with waste and wallow extraordinaire

flung from rusty pails

groping, gorging gleefully

stuffing, delirious, mesmerized

like fast-food zombies

in satiated ecstasy.

 

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

WordCatalyst--November Issue

A fresh edition of WordCatalyst has just gone up. Here's a sneak peek at my column, and don't forget all the other fine columns, stories, poetry, and artwork while  you're there.

A Man and His Dog

Jasper Rollins' body lay still, an itinerant gnat flying around his bushy beard and a single bead of sweat dripping down his brow. The cobblestone alley was bumpy, uncomfortable to lie on. But he didn't notice in his inebriated slumber. An earlier rollover had already sent a nearby trash can crashing over on its side, spilling its contents.

Fritz, his pet German Shepherd, finished off those leftovers long ago. Well, "pet" is perhaps a strong term. The dog wasn't Jasper's pet so much as a traveling companion -- two souls who met up in the night, a rainy night, each taking shelter in the same box car. Snuggling together for warmth in the drenching cold air, they didn't so much as introduce themselves to assume instinctual, comfortable common ground dictated by necessity. No introductions necessary.  Read more...

Morning Glory

A septet is a seven-line poem with the following number of syllables per line, no rhyme. 3, 5, 7, 9,7, 5, 3.

 

 

Morning Glory

 

Blue satin

openly awaits

morning's misty tears running

in rivulets seeking velvet depths

of miracles translucent

brushed with golden strokes

crystalline.

Copyright 2008 Photo and Poem - JO Janoski

Toby the Grouchy Pumpkin

A WordCatalyst Prompt

Toby the Grouchy Pumpkin

Toby, the pumpkin, led a simple life. He was born, or should I say "blossomed" in Farmer John's field on a summer day, nothing more than a tiny green speck at first. But with lots of light and water he grew and grew. Amongst the trees and birds and flowers, he prospered in that good country air, finally reaching a humongous size of 24 inches in diameter, a freak of nature, as it were. 

 

His mother pumpkin, Emily, felt great distress over her mutant son. She rolled and thrashed in the patch worrying and fretting. Toby was truly the main topic of conversation in the field.

 

"Have you seen that giant pumpkin?"

 

"Yeah, man! Let's hope he never breaks loose and starts rolling! He'll smash us all like a steamroller!"

 

Indeed, bugs and birds and plant life alike stayed clear of humongous Toby. His frightful size made them all scurry out of his way. And the vine that held him struggled under the load of his weight, nearly 40 lbs. One October day, the rain poured and the winds blew, and the stressed out vine gave up.

 

"Run along, big Toby. I'm setting you free," the vine murmured in breathless gasps.

 

Toby considered that a good idea. He was all grown up, fully colored a bright orange, and ready to rock and roll, so to speak. In fact, he rolled over a slope and settled in a ravine by a gurgling brook. There was one other odd thing about Toby. All that time of being an outcast had hardened his outer crust and made him tough. And it made him grouchy. Yes, Toby the pumpkin was a major grump. So when he landed in the ravine, he was delighted to be away from the patch and all those neighbors who treated him like a freak. He was alone, and he liked it that way.

 

He and the creek got along fine, being different life forms and all. They had no foundation to criticize one another. Actually, Toby found the creek to be dumb as a door knob, with little to say but its silly incessant gurgling. So Toby ignored the waters and remained happy in his new home.

 

Happy until one day a little boy came along and took a shine to him. Not literally, of course, although you could shine a pumpkin if you wanted to. The boy had other plans, and before Toby knew what happened, the youth had picked him up and tossed him in a cart and took off with him. Knocked and bumped from the ride, poor Toby arrived at a farm house dazed and confused.

 

"I got it!" the boy yelled. "I found a good pumpkin."

 

"Bring it on into the kitchen!" a woman's voice answered.

 

The youth carried Toby in and plopped him on a table.

 

"He's a nice big one!" the woman observed. She approached wielding a knife while an enthusiastic glint sparkled in her eyes. "Very big, indeed!"

 

Toby was so frightened he wondered if his orange might fade to mere yellow. He saw the knife coming at him and thought for sure his pumpkin body would simply collapse into a Dali-esque orange puddle. The blade of the glinting knife reached his skin and pierced it. It didn't hurt. Rather, it evoked a smooth soothing sensation. The knife went to work, slicing and poking while Toby enjoyed every stroke. The blade eased a rounded lid off the top of his head. Next a spoon went inside him and scooped. The spoon's digging and dragging evoked a giddiness like Toby had never known. He loved it, and the utensil's action left him feeling light and airy, cleansed.

 

Next the knife went to work again with more slices and zig-zags, gracing Toby with a face--triangle eyes, rounded nose, and a big, snarling, notched mouth, a frightening face, really. Next, the woman placed a candle inside him, the flame flickered and glowed and Toby's new glaring expression lit up. She placed him on the porch, and passersby ooh-ed and ah-ed at his frightfulness. A funny thing happened. Toby no longer wanted to be alone. He liked being on display and the center of attention. And so, as Jack-o-Lantern, grouchy Toby found his place in the world, where he could be a grump and people loved him for it.

 

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

Even Angels Have Bad Days

My apologies to the town of Moberly, but I love the sound of  your name. It inspires.

Even Angels Have Bad Days

Those mists of Moberly had a chilling effect on not only one's spine, but the psyche, as well. People pondered where the icy fog got its powers. Did it roll in from the river like a tempestuous snake slivers through damp morning grasses? Or did it fly in like cantankerous angels wishing ill on all in their paths. Even angels have bad days, don't they?

It followed me home that evening, after a day of fishing. I felt its moisture on my skin and its freezing hands wrapped around my torso like a strait jacket. I couldn't breathe in the suffocating mist, or perhaps my pounding heart was giving way, sucking the life out of me. I remember walking, then running in terror down our road with the fog over my shoulder, with me finally taking two steps at a time to reach my doorway. Once I'd gotten in and slammed the bolt, I thought I was safe. What a fool!

In the supposed sanctity of my home, I first heard the voices. 

"Edmund, you can't hide from your conscience."

"What? Who is that?" I turned on my heel and scanned the room, looking for the voice's source.

"You won't see me. I'm in your head."

"You're the mists of Moberly. You followed me home."

An icy draft blew through me, knocking me off balance. "Or so you imagine." The voice wavered with contained emotion.

"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT?" My fear transformed to a fiery rage. I was home. I wanted to have my evening meal. Rushing to the kitchen I slammed a frying pan on the stove. When I tried to light a fire under it, the mists blew out the flame with a blast of icy breath. I persisted, finally succeeding with a sizable flame. Spooning a blob of butter into the skillet, I listened for its satisfying sizzle. Next I reached into my bucket for a slab of freshly cleaned fish and tossed it in the skillet.

"Cook all you want. It won't make me go away."

The mists! I turned around, hoisting my spatula in the air, ready for battle. I was tired. I was hungry. I wanted my dinner, and the mists were getting on my nerves. Ha! Of course, they were. Why wouldn't the mists of Moberly get on a person's nerves? I flipped the fish, determined for normalcy and a hot meal.

"You won't be able to eat with me around."

"Watch me," I replied.

A gurgling chuckle filled the room. The mists were amused.

I flopped my fried fish onto a plate, grabbed my fork and set about to have my supper. Utensil poised, I broke off a flaky chunk, but when I lifted the morsel to my mouth, the mists crowded around my wrist and stopped me.

"Are you really going to eat that fish? You know you went fishing without a license. As your conscience, I cannot let you eat that fish."

The mists were right. Damned conscience! I'd gotten the fish illegally, sporting without paying five bucks for the required license. Slamming my fork down, I stood and emptied the plate in the garbage.  As the mists watched, I next humbly set up a bowl of cereal. With my first crunchy bite, the pesky gray fog swooshed out the kitchen window. Damned mists of Moberly!

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

WordCatalyst Prompt Response--Character Exercise

Jeune Fille Vert by Tamara de Lempicka

WordCatalyst Prompt Response--Character Exercise

 She was a lady of distinction, of that a person could be certain. It was the way she could wear a hat, with flair, making it blend with her being to produce a doubly entrancing vision. A nod of her head wearing her favorite white-brimmed topper brought men swooning to her feet. Her tiny, red pursed lips danced a tango with those wide, questioning brown eyes, eyes  that seemed to fret whether a classic dip was the next step coming.

 

One might think she had no permanence with the frailty of her expression. But her white, high-cuffed gloves exuded an air of being "old money" as opposed to some new trifling thing not to be taken seriously. But then her breasts rebelled from conformity in tight green silk, protruding and screaming to be heard, wanting the world to know she needed noticed.

 

Such a contrast in statements, the entire woman with all her parts put together sent one's mind into a tailspin. Was she high society or slut? Was she the confident woman of a stylish hat or a child with eyes full of fear for the unknown. Screaming for help or strutting her stuff? Only she knew.

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

Workshop Prompt and an Announcement

A new workshop prompt is posted at WordCatalyst!

Also, I'm proud to announce I've been appointed Story Editor for WordCatalyst magazine. I'm honored and eager to spread the news!

Autumn Cinquains

Just because I'm in the mood...

Autumn Cinquains

Autumn

leaf ballerinas

twirling scarlet fans

lighting windy gold memories

aglow

 

 

Winds

of Autumn

lurk in corners

hoping to blast summer

away

 

Autumn

royal sky

bowing in blue

with silky respectful nuance

again

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

The Bar Maid

(Painting by by Edouard Manet--Bar at the Folies-Bergere-1882)

 

Word Catalyst Image Prompt

She worked at the Follies Bar and everybody knew her.

The men lusted for the lady. While lined up at the bar, they spied her rounded bottom as she bent over to pick up a dollar flung to the floor by an enterprising fellow. They also enjoyed her bouncing bosom, where she always wore a tiny bouquet pinned to her dress in the middle of the bodice, advertising her ample cleavage. When she hurried to clear glasses from the bar, the flowers and more jiggled with each movement.

The women hated her, and none was more critical than Mrs. Anna May Hopkins who ranted every Tuesday night at the sewing circle. Her husband, Edward, spent most evenings at the Follies, so that didn't help.

"Such a slut! Wearing those plunging necklines, and bending at the waist--in front of a mirror yet! All the men have to do is watch her bottom bouncing around in the glass. And it doesn't even look like they're staring directly at her. How convenient! I think she put that mirror there on purpose. That lady is no strangers to mirrors, I might add...especially in the boudoir, I'll bet. Humph!"

"Anna May, don't be so hard on her. She only works that job because she has a little boy to provide for." Elisabeth Townsend stepped back as soon as she uttered the words. The hateful glare coming from Anna May Hopkins frightened her.

"It's no wonder she has a child to provide for. I'm surprised she doesn't have a dozen bastard children...two dozen!" Anna's face flushed a vibrant red.

"Calm down, honey! I don't know why you're getting so excited. What is she to you anyway?" Lily Pratt handed Anna May a fresh spool of red thread.

"She's nothing to me!" Anna May forced out the words, more a hiss than a sentence.

She's only had a son by Edward. That's all!

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

Another Day

A little poem on a topic

fascinating to me...

Another Day

 

Lumbering giants within view

Thunderous roars smash against sky

Trembling earth in primitive zoo

Dinosaur challenge, live or die

No bars, no locks, animals vie

Instinctually unrestrained

Behemoth falls, demystified

Passionless victory attained.

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

Two Cinquains

In response to WordCatalyst Workshop prompt:

Brook Song Cinquain

 

crystal

brook song stirring

ascending chord bubbles

strummed on green grass violin strings

gleaming.

 

Blessed Snow Cinquain

 

plush quilts

of velvet snow

draped by white-gowned angels

over needy world's plaintive wails

for peace.

Poems Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

New Prompt over at Word Catalyst

A new writing prompt is posted at WordCatalyst Magazine. Why not give a cinquain a try?

WordCatalyst Workshop

Last Breath

Last Breath

 

Sunset hums with gold ribbon strands

soaring like birds on moody skies

seeking sturdy limbs to withstand

autumn breezes with wintry eyes.

 

Amongst quivering brown leaf folds

infusing hymns with golden hues,

Fall time God-wonder to behold

in glowing trees with life renewed.

 

One last dance before life force goes,

lonely time for leaf dance display

to shimmer golden before snows

at winter's hand bring sultry days.

 

Last breath of gold in final glows,

soon to tremble as winter blows.

 

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

 

Inclement Storm

Photo by Ron Janoski

Inclement Storm

 

A magenta sun inched downward in the dusty twilight sky as Joe the bartender shined a beer mug with his spotty rag. The last of his day customers, office workers and shoppers, had gone; and soon the night owls would wander in, asking for  beer and steaming fish sandwiches or a plate of oysters. At first, he didn't spy the mop of red hair at the bar's edge. Then he noticed two disembodied hands spread wide next to an empty, leftover mug, while a head bobbed up and down like a jack-in-the-box as a little girl, standing on tip-toes tried to lift her face up into view.

 

"Excuse me, mister!"

 

Joe bent forward to look over and spy the munchkin.

 

"Can I help you?" He laid the mug and rag down and offered a hand to hoist the little girl onto a stool.

 

Settled, she folded her miniature hands in front of her, studying Joe with huge brown eyes that questioned.

 

"I came to ask you a favor," she stated.

 

"Well, okay." Joe rubbed his chin while he looked the girl over. She appeared clean and not too shabby. Well, a little shabby. Her tiny dress had a button missing and a stain on the collar.

 

"Could you please not serve beer to my father?"

 

"What?"

 

She looked back with a hopeful expression.  "He comes here every Friday night. He gets all dressed up in his Sunday suit, and he comes here."

 

"So?"

 

The wide, brown eyes darted back with a determined glare. "He comes here and he gets drunk."  She paused and looked to the floor before returning her gaze, this time with a tear trickling down one pink cheek. "He gets drunk and yells at my mother...and hits her."

 

Joe shuddered, taken aback by the remark. His eyes scanned her face for bruises. There were none.  Thank God.

 

His silence was broken by the sudden sound of fresh rain swishing against the windows, next to run in shimmering cascades coating Market Square in a lustrous sheen. The weather had changed suddenly and without warning.

 

"Get out of here, kid! You're bad for business." He shot her a deft wink, evincing a smile on the little girl's face. She crawled off the stool and skipped out the door.

 

Three hours later, he came. The suit showed signs of wear and tear...rough treatment, careless treatment, the knees scuffed, a tear in the elbow, small blemishes apparent only to eyes that study...and know the whole story.

 

"Gimme a beer."

 

Joe glared at him. "Wouldn't you rather have a ginger ale?"

 

"No, dammit! I said a beer, and I want a beer. Are you nuts?"

 

The bartender's face flushed, growing redder with each rugged heart beat. He leaned forward, pushing his face close, their noses almost touching.

 

"Get the hell outta here!" It was a growl, not a whisper.

 

The fella backed off, looking at the barkeep as though the proprietor was not merely cantankerous, but dangerous. Without words, he turned and ran for the door.

 

"Go home and take care of your family!" Joe yelled.

 

They were the last words the drunkard heard as he pushed through the door. He stood outside in the rain, hands like ice, heart pounding, as the words sunk, the words laced with anger. Slashing, crashing anger it was, an ire that extracted a pint of flesh with its meaning, painful, bleeding, ripping, until a piece of him was gone.

 

He turned on his heel and headed home. It was a bad night out to go drinking anyway.

 

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

A WordCatalyst Workshop Prompt

From 20,000 Feet

A poem inspired by my recent (first) airplane trip:

From 20,000 Feet

 

Floating world

nested in patient blue sky

time doesn't touch me

as long as I dress up in

soft cloud shoes

and move in slow motion

in time with white velvet rhythms

of ethereal light.

All the while

my soul streams

alongside a Force, a Power, I strive

to understand,

but can't.

Glaring metal wings tossed me in this soup

away from all I know.

How can this world exist

up, up, high above my universe.

My all-important universe,

or is it?

And I am king of my destiny there,

or am I?

Up here, floating, I barely exist,

or rather, I never existed so much,

or this way.

When I'm here

I'm someone else.

I'm eternal.

I'm pure,

and I'm free.

I'm not king, but

I float.

Just like clouds.

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

WordCatalyst Writing Workshop is back! Try our latest prompt!

Happy Birthday, Bob Church!

Magical miles of wonderment

sailing clouds by heavenly doors

on a quest to paint true faces

on memories forevermore.

 

Spin life's wheel to match up faces

and so we play roulette games

but it's not a gamble, really.

These spirits whisper their names

 

...without sound, in words on paper.

 

 

This post is a public note of thanks to Bob and Louise Church for their generous invitation to our gang of Word Catalyst columnists to fly to Moberly MO and help old Bubba celebrate his birthday. Words escape me to describe the thrill of meeting cyber acquaintances face-to-face for the first time. Photo faces come to life like cut-out dolls in the hands of a five-year-old, talking, laughing, confirming nuances of their personalities already well expressed by their words written over the years.

 

We were not strangers meeting for the first time, but rather family who just hadn't seen each other yet.

 

Louise cooked up a feast worthy of, well, to be honest, the entire Russian army--ribs, a whole turkey, ham, salads, sandwiches, cookies, pies! Bob's woodsy three acres, complete with a brook and the laughter of grandkids, made for a soothing, happy, love-filled day as we pulled out the stops and savored every minute. We talked, we laughed, in a no holds barred mixing of  minds and spirits to make memories to elicit smiles for years to come.

 

A little music and song filled the fresh air, featuring Harry Furness and his harmonica, plus a grand finish from Bubba himself, doing a raucous comedy that littered the living room with sprawling, roaring, laughter-collapsed bodies rolling in glee. Well, as you can see, a good time...no, make that an forgettable, magical time, was had by all. And we thank you Bob, for letting us into your heart and into your home. God Bless!

Photo download available here, thanks to Techie Dave.

Traversing

Butterflies by Andy Warhol 

 

Traversing

 

To fly

seeking nectars

of all earthly delights

traversing on butterfly wings

your way.

 

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

Note: We're on our way soon, Bob!

Alone Again

Photo from Easy Street Prompts

Alone Again

Alone again, walking barren streets,

rain-glistened pavements,

giggling water drops dancing around me

in rivulets

laughing back at my misery

all happy to be set free

from disagreeable black clouds.

Droplets on the move, rippling in excitement

drenching my shoes in merry slobber

as they go rolling on ahead of me

happily clamoring a perky rhythm

on windows and rooftops

before toppling to ground

to make happy water mobs in motion.

At least the rain has somewhere to go.

I don't.

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

Six Unremarkable Things About Moi! I've been tagged!

1. I don't drive. I've tried, but I have an intense fear of physical danger.

2. I haven't listened to popular music hardly at all since the late 60's. I love classical music even though I don't know much about it.

3. I love everything from the 19th Century. I absolutely swoon at antiques of any kind. I'm convinced I lived then and then somehow in a weird cosmic burp I got dumped here.

4. And yet, I embrace modern technology. I love computers. I've used mac, windows, and ubuntu. I have no fear.

5. I love nature like it's religion, but I'm not a tree hugger, but rather an artist of a sort, writing about it and photographing it, never politicizing it.

6. I absolutely hate having company around the house. Please don't visit me. I'd rather meet friends at restaurants.



Many thanks to Jo (the other one) for tagging me. I in turn tag Bob, Harry, Shirley, Scot, and Terry--You guys know who you are!

Lady Illusive

Le Blanc Seing by Rene Magritte

Lady Illusive

Lady illusive

coming, going, unnoticed

horse trots whisper soft.

Forest winds echo her name

after she has gone

in swirling crescendo songs.

Hymns remembering

her plaintive sighs of longing

wishing to stay on

but unable to linger

just to see his smile.

Every-day decision

love in green grasses

splendid, dew-drenched emotion

or heed bleak warnings

of dangerous illusions

from love's master magician.

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

Poppies

Poppies

red-dressed damsels

fluttering petal fans

swaying sweet summer melodies

at dawn.

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

Cheap Thrills

Knives - painting by Andy Warhol

Cheap Thrills

And so you are a razor wit

cutting slashing 

through meat and mire

relentlessly

searching for laughs.

I chuckle along

through gritted teeth

because I'm never sure

of your aim 

or purpose

and I don't want to bleed

for your enjoyment.

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

Clandestine Love

Boats Leaving the Harbor - painting by Claude Monet

Clandestine Love

What if we meet on sparkling waters
just before end of day
in sailboats side by side
gliding never touching
in a clandestine ballet
our secret safe
with only white-tipped splashes
against wood-planked sides
to telegraph our love
in exciting ripples
only we can see.

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

September Issue Word Catalyst

The September edition of Word Catalyst is up, and it is one of our finest issues, including a moving tribute to 911, lest we forget. All is not doom and gloom in this issue, however, lots of columns, poems, essays, stories, artwork, and photography. Don't forget to read my column, Tales of Whisper Gap, this month entitled "The Lady in Green."

The Lady in Green

She pursed tiny skittish lips, painted scarlet to join rebellious forces with her luxurious auburn hair. White gloves cloaked the lady's long curved fingers--one could imagine screeching red nails under the cloth; and she wore a green satin dress, shining, shimmering, wrapping the girl in sumptuous folds that insisted, nonetheless, on clinging to her curves. With one shoulder laid bare in defiance, a wide-brimmed hat bellowed her uniqueness to the world. In quiet contrast, it shadowed half her face. But when one eye peeked out, it shot tragic bullets. Read more.

Life Undisciplined

Jungle Sunset - painting by Henri Rousseau


Life undisciplined
Unruly, punctuated
by serene moments
dressed with soft flower buttons
sewn on green woven
noisy jungle platitudes.

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

In the Sphere

Hands with Sphere by M.C. Escher

The psychic's leathery hand lifted her crystal ball high, suspending it above my face. Her charm bracelet jingled as it slipped down toward her elbow, and that lady's thin, veined arm trembled under the weight. But I barely noticed as the vision in the sphere shot electric bolts to my psyche. The old man was there.

Just as I remembered, his eyes glared straightforward as if recognizing me through the vapors. Those orbs pulsated with insane gestures, fire, wind, a host of biblical plagues. But I left him behind years ago. Nonetheless, in the glass sphere he blared larger than life. The shoddy, wrinkled brown suit remained the same; the same old ugly beard brushed against his chest and his brow still made furrows across his forehead with each fevered breath.

He sat in the usual place, surrounded by dusty old books, the ones he said gave him superiority over other humans who were not so well read. I could spy the day's soft light powdering through a faraway window. No doubt it would soon feel out of place in the esoteric cauldron he called home. What purpose did light and life serve in those dingy surroundings. Surely the sun would gather up its ballerina rays and make a hasty retreat soon.

"Ach, the ball, it is too heavy," Helena the psychic said, snatching it from my view to lay the globe on a cloth-draped table nearby. She rubbed her wrist and stared at me with childish eyes. "Did you see what you wanted to see?" she asked.

"I don't know," I said. "I saw insanity-personified. I saw... ." I paused. No, I could not tell her. I could not tell her I saw myself. I was supposed to be cured now. That old man was supposed to be gone. But he lurks, waiting. I know that now.


Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

That Package

That Package from Easy Street Prompts


That package
arrived wrapped with brown paper
soiled with abstractions
in screaming shapes and forms,
an abomination of masking tape
criss-crossed in confusion.
The whole thing
left me breathless
because I knew you wrapped it
cursing my name.


Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

The Loner

People in the Sun by Edward Hopper



The Loner

I went to sunny climes
and ignored the light.

In my worn satchel I carried a book,
an old tome
I had since high school,
its leather cover scarred and tested
like me.
I'd never read it
merely carried it as I traveled through life,
and it got knocked and bumped along with me.

We sat on rickety wood chairs
and faced the sun
white-skinned and lacking flavor.
Our chairs were lined up
likes pews in church.
Hopeful faces pointed upward
to the preacher man sun
hoping he would fill souls
by coloring faces,
making them beautiful people,
tanned, vivacious,
people of verve and grace and wonder.

I stuck my head
in the book instead
since I'd brought it
hoping rather to find enlightenment
among chapters and verses
describing other people's lives
as if it would rub off on mine.
I thought it could.
I read
and found the book merely reiterated
where we'd already been together,
this book and I,
same lessons, same life, different colors.

My face burned anyway but unlike the others
I saw no value to it
and it hurt.
That was when I decided
to stay home next time
and read my book in the shade
alone.

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

Dreams Gone Black

Fanned Out by Charles Dana Gibson

Dreams Gone Black

Thunder faces, hearts in despair
it's over, no more games to play.
So lost, so sad, pure angst laid bare
Earth spins out an unnoticed day
as we sit, motionless display.
Fanned out, our field of dreams gone black.
Waiting for another game day
Sitting here until it comes back.

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

A huitain contains 8 lines, 8 syllables per line
Rhyme Scheme ababbcbc

The Nooning

The Nooning by Winslow Homer



The Nooning*

Ants run
on dirty plates
tossed on summer green grass
while Mom's wash fans boyish rumbles
at noon.

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski


*Nooning -- a rest or meal at noon

Two Strikes

Two Strikes by Charles Dana Gibson


Summer heat, good old boys, two strikes in the ninth
peanut vapors, gritty vibes, cacophonous uproar
beery stenches tickle fate, sweat forms on the brow
Cross your heart, clench your fists, come on bring it home!
beery stenches tickle fate, sweat forms on the brow
peanut vapors, gritty vibes, cacophonous uproar
Summer heat, good old boys, two strikes in the ninth


Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

Empty

The Music Room by Vilhelm Hammershoi

Empty

Empty of dulcet chords of love
fast drawn curtains deny day's light.
Clouds roam kissing edges above.
You've gone and thus defines my plight.
Music transformed to filmy night,
a sad crystallized existence.
My whimsical heart closed up tight
awaiting with love's persistence.


Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

A huitain contains 8 lines, 8 syllables per line
Rhyme Scheme ababbcbc

Kicking Up

Image credit: Rick Mobbs - my four sisters


Kicking Up

Storms gather
with tides nipping shore
but sisters know how to swim
dancing in rushing waves together
kicking up inspiration
that way sisters do
holding hands.


Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

Trapped

In the Black Circle by Wassily Kandinsky



Trapped

Trapped in your circle
smoked by nihilistic doom
abstract emptiness
loaded with discordant sounds
of obtuse hunger
while fragmented splotches roam
gruesome moving forms
plotting to seize my being
smothering ego
total assimilation
ignominious defeat.

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

Blinded

The Night Window by Edward Hopper


Blinded

I lie sprawled on concrete
like an alley cat
looking to the stars
my body iced
by frozen concentration
and Jack Daniels
eyes zigzagging the skies
like jet rockets
looking for recognition.
But my supine image
is cast in darkness by your glare
of normalcy
blasting from an electric high tech tower
hovering above me.
I'm nullified by your bombardment
and Technicolor grand-standing.
While in the meantime
I'm amazed by your oblivion.
Are you're blinded by your own bright lights?
I wish you'd keep them to yourself
so I can enjoy the stars.

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski