From my "One Picture. 1,000 Words" series:
The stray dog, who they had named Brown Boy, cowered under the kitchen table. He had learned to beg at the doors of rentals, generally finding tenants on holiday to be more benevolent than the locals. When this couple invited him in, he naturally accepted. They regularly doled out treats and scratched his ears—talking to him in a sweet, soft way. He could get used to that, but in between the kibble and the cuddle, there was so much racket. He’d like to doze through the hot day, but there wasn’t much napping amid this clamor. Best thing to do, lay low.
I don’t know how long we’ve been walking through this uh-roy-oh. That's what she called it, an uh-roy-oh. She said, we’ll follow the uh-roy-oh... people always build towns near water. Then I said, but there’s no water. Then she said, when it rains there is. So, I looked up at the sky, but it didn’t look like rain would be coming.
The stiff linen paper hissed as Luisa sliced through the envelope, leaving a jagged edge to the previously smooth seam. She exhaled sharply and slid the card from its cocoon, dreadfully anticipating its woeful message… You’re invited! Luisa’s brows furrowed. The greeting, misunderstood—invited to what? Join him in the afterlife? She opened the flap and read further. Her eyebrows raised, giving respite to the crease that had claimed the real estate between her eyes in recent weeks.
Roje knew this day would come. He couldn’t keep it all a secret forever. Eventually, he’d meet a special person worthy of an invitation, or some big shot would demand entrance. Or worse, he’d be caught in the act. More than anything, he couldn’t believe the day’s arrival had taken so long.
Sometimes I imagine that I live in a classic black and white movie, shot on nitrate film with its rich, silvery tones. Some days, I’m Cary Grant, dashing and debonair; other days I’m Humphrey Bogart, brooding and cynical. My wife is usually Lauren Bacall or Katherine Hepburn, and when I’m getting lucky, Rita Hayworth. My daughters are Natalie Wood (Miracle on 34th Street not Splendor in the Grass) and Judy Garland from Wizard of Oz. But even Hollywood eventually abandoned nitrate film due to its propensity to burn down the house, and they totally figured out that color film was 'the bomb.'
Sam shakes her head, “I’ve had enough for now.” She slumps onto the couch. Watches him light up. The embers glow like the burning heart of a dragon. Ronnie’s eyes close as he holds the smoke for maximum effect. Sam reflects, she used to like his curly mop of hair. It was part of the attraction. Now it just looks like it needs to be washed. When was the last time he took a shower?
It didn’t matter which direction I took, everywhere I was stepping on toes. And my critics were correct. What did I know about any of it? Nothing. I’d never even lost someone dear to me. I only knew that I wanted to help. Then, I got a dose of their reality. Three actually.
When they step onto the dock, they feel vested. Accomplished. Blessed. After they secure the sanctity of their vessel, they pause to acclimate with their surroundings. Despite their terrestrial orientation, their bodies continue to sway as if they are still at sea. They’ve returned to the land, but they have not surrendered to it. They are but visitors. Temporary. Transient.
A collection of 1000-word stories (including the title) inspired by a photograph. All stories include usage of the image with full rights. To read the full story, contact me.
Trichloris
published June 10, 2018 by The Sunlight Press
Excerpts, available for publication:
Air B. and B.
The stray dog, who they had named Brown Boy, cowered under the kitchen table. He had learned to beg at the doors of rentals, generally finding tenants on holiday to be more benevolent than the locals. When this couple invited him in, he naturally accepted. They regularly doled out treats and scratched his ears—talking to him in a sweet, soft way. He could get used to that, but in between the kibble and the cuddle, there was so much racket. He’d like to doze through the hot day, but there wasn’t much napping amid this clamor. Best thing to do, lay low.The Arroyo
Cinderella Story
The Collection
Kodachrome Dream
Sometimes I imagine that I live in a classic black and white movie, shot on nitrate film with its rich, silvery tones. Some days, I’m Cary Grant, dashing and debonair; other days I’m Humphrey Bogart, brooding and cynical. My wife is usually Lauren Bacall or Katherine Hepburn, and when I’m getting lucky, Rita Hayworth. My daughters are Natalie Wood (Miracle on 34th Street not Splendor in the Grass) and Judy Garland from Wizard of Oz. But even Hollywood eventually abandoned nitrate film due to its propensity to burn down the house, and they totally figured out that color film was 'the bomb.'Orange Crush
Standing at the Edge
It didn’t matter which direction I took, everywhere I was stepping on toes. And my critics were correct. What did I know about any of it? Nothing. I’d never even lost someone dear to me. I only knew that I wanted to help. Then, I got a dose of their reality. Three actually.Ties that Bind
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