A Tale of Tulips Malloy

(not fitting into any assignment theme, I had an itch I
had to scratch, hope you don't mind)


I was born on a hunter's moon.
Mother was an emotional Irish immigrant.
We lived in Carbondale Illinois. Father dug coal.
He worked scared, and lived scared.
Irish were a mean sort. Folks sometimes called us
land-pirates. Irish meant that you worked. You were born a given day,
and that was your only day of grace, cause two day old infants were given
a bucket and mop and told to clean up.

I remember ruthless songs, and ruthless stories.
My happiest memories are days that I didn't suffer
lacerations. Me mother, for her burden I, I did pay a price.
I was granted life, fed and clothed. Aye, a lad I was.
But, branded with a namesake.
Irish live with a cloud of
vengeance hovering, looking for the distant day wherein their
soured grapes of wrath can be wrung out like a tired God,
disgusted over its creation.

Tulips Malloy. It was enough to kill me many times over.
Save for the providence of fallen angels sent to protect me.
I would have gladly be burdened with a hundred-weight stone,
chain and shackle, and exiled to the South Pole.

The stark cold school houses we as children were obligated to attend were enough
to deaden everyone to the bone. Yet, for my luck. My first name broadened the
bleak picture to a roaring bonfire. Laughter is good for the soul it is said.
And, I know there are some very healthy souls I grew up with.
Fate is the real fist you are handed, not the one you imagine, or want.
Father, expected me to stand up like Ramses the Great and
defeat entire armies. If I dared limp or show despair at the end of a day,
Father would entertain lashings which would kill an oak tree.

Sullen, I grew sideways, instead up upward.
My inside world was one of constant vigilance calibrated
in micro-seconds, and that was on easy days.
I could shift from this into pico-seconds in a femto-second.
We learned about Darwin's theory, and survival of the fittest in
6th grade. The class realized, as I should have succumbed years earlier,
that I was a contender in this race for survival.
I was fast in running contests, the fastest, if you don't mind me bragging.
You see, fleeing for ones life bolsters a gusto for genuine motivation.
Tulips became a gift when the awful period of transmutation finally came to a fruition.
I became the shrewdest, most outrageous clever lad in all of Carbondale.

There were outsiders who would travel a few miles just to see what a Tulips might
look like. Most of them had ill intentions. Most of them, when looking me dead in the eye
would see clear warning signals. A few dared to stand up and start a verbal match. Then
a shoving match. I would always allow the courtesy of first contact right on my jaw.
My solidity would often distract the aggressor and diffuse the violence.

Life didn't stop becoming a challenge, it was assumed that I would quickly move into
employment to work coal. My father, in a span of 2 years, had fallen off so badly that
I knew his death was coming before next winter.

I was leaving. If I had to crawl out blindfolded through woods and swamps, I would.
I was leaving everything I had grown up knowing. No endearing memories to
surrender anyway. I had mustered the gumption to make bold moves without saying
anything about my intentions. They said that Tulips was brash and legendary as
any Irish hero, but mysterious as blinding fog. I shall move along in life, but will hold onto
Tulips as my given name. Both curse and charm in it.

Marc

not my week

My weeks go so fast. They are always good and each day feels strangely like every other one. They start on Tuesday and I can't believe how quickly Tuesdays come back to me. My weekly impression is that I love my life. Here is a weekday impression list for someone else:

Tuesday: Week begins. Feeling of motion. Ending with a motion sick stomach.

Wednesday: Feverish nightmares.

Thursday: Dizzy.

Friday: Attitude that eats away at my spirit and everyone elses.

Saturday: I like to think I'm productive but lately, I'm not.

Sunday: Wishful dreaming, realizing those dreams are but tools for recreational hatred toward myself.

Monday: Whatever

Friday nights

Friday nights were all about Mario Party.
Ang & Michael would get off work at 8:30 and bring their dinner to our apartment.
We would play until after midnight without a care in the world, always having the time of our lives.
The game was never the same twice but the one constant was Valerie falling asleep with the controller in her hand.

When we moved out of the apartment and into our house, the atmosphere stayed the same and Friday nights lived on.
As the months went by 8:30 became 6:30 and we started to have dinner together.
I would try to make something new or special every week and that is when I truly developed my love for cooking and cooking for others.
We no longer had to ask Ang & Michael if they were coming over on Friday, they just started asking us what was for dinner.

Valerie was pregnant in 2005, and she stopped playing Mario Party with us on Friday nights.
She could no longer stay up that late, so we had to replace her by playing with one computer player that we called "the droid."
Our one goal was not to let the computer player win, it didn't matter who won, as long as it wasn't the droid.
After Ari was born, things really didn't change too much, we just had to keep our voices down a little when we played.

Now that we have Ari, Piper and Emilie in the mix, we rarely play Mario Party anymore.
We continue to get together every Friday and still make new and exciting dinners and desserts.
Eva & Daniel have been coming over on Friday nights when they are in town, and sometimes Katie too.
Having them with us make the evenings we spend together even more special because of all the memories we share.

What started as just getting together to play a simple video game has turned into so much more.
Friday nights are about good food, good conversation, and family and friends creating memories together.
Even after all these years, I am genuinely disappointed when something causes us to miss a night.
I can honestly say that there is no other way I would want to spend an evening.

Mother's Last Wishes

There were three things I disliked about planet earth. For one thing, the women were frighteningly similar to the men, spare some parts. Two, the food looked nothing like anything that should be eaten. And three, I was growing fond of a person and his name was Charley. He was what earthings called “Elderly”, so I enjoyed calling him Charley Elderly, since I never learned of his last name. What Elder Charley didn’t know is that besides me being a refreshing friend, I was going to be his ticket off of this soil-and-corpse-laden sphere in the sky. Earth didn’t suit such a refined and classy gentleman. I could see Mr. Elderly had to drain his evolutionary capacities to avoid social persecution and see himself blindsided by loneliness, day after day. His intelligence surged into involuntary hiatus in order to linguistically engage with those in lesser form around him; the thick-throated, foggy-eyed prisoners of their circumstances, such backward and poor circumstances. He couldn’t have too many lives to live yet. He had already 83. For an earthling, that was plenty. Why anyone lives more need still be explained.
I feel that the duties prescribed to me from my contagiously heroic mother, must be carried as the Earth goose wears its down. After witnessing her having been carried away by the ancient Floxed Farrens of Sacrifice I feel I am fit to proceed with her orders, and now that I have acclimated my temper to the new environments, I am closer than ever to accomplishing the mission mother was so restive to exonerate before her cleansing.
Now that I’m back home and have Charley with me I can finish the mission, complete all mandatory procedures. But first I must explain an oddity of the earthling nature exhibited so well and often by the race, and one I witnessed for the first time yesterday. I caught Charley in the Muskill Mountains when he went to eliminate his body of his breakfast, tying a piece of his shirt into a thick loop. I noticed he had his sights on a Feze Tree limb which was about out of his reach as he was not a tall man. I watched from the path’s edge as he began wrapping the tail end of the shirt around the limb to secure it. Finally it occurred to me that he might be tying what the earthlings use to recover their spirit; a noose.
I told him that in order to survive he must not kill his body, because now he was in a new land and must subscribe to our world’s regulations, especially those concerning the dealings of his own mind.
He watched me in a horrified state, walk closer to him and take his hand away from the Feze.
Charley wasn’t responding to his name and also showed signs of Nebular 6 Intergenic Phaseout, which helped the cause seeing as how the first step in his organ removal is tranquilization.
The first organ to be taken is always the liver, the most toxic of the earthling inner-bodies, it is quickly eaten by evaporation chamber to make sure its destruction is replete of any harmful substances that strand out into larger exhibitions of danger. Charley’s stomach was sucked clean of all earth food during transport to my home, so the stomach is safe to remove and insert for sale at market. These sell the most prolifically, and during family days the stomach is roasted and enjoyed in small pieces within Sau plant broth. Earthling Elders, it is clear to our species now, have industrious inner-bodies which favor an advanced palate, formidable jaws, and a flexible purse. Mother’s last request was a mission most successful thanks to the procurement of an old man on Earth who had no one left and who would never be missed. The business of selling earthling inner-bodies at market continues to remain a tradition on my planet. The highly prized meat is worth so much more than any animal in our region and the taste is unsurpassed in its complexity. Thank you Charley Elderly and to the smooth operation.

Family Tradition

A good stretch back, maybe three or four months ago I was asked to take over my grandpa’s tobacco fields. Now that’s grandpa Jasper Bertrand from my momma Lisette’s side. I guess tobacco has been in my family since damn near the time it came to this part of the country. My daddy told my cousin Hazel that we probably even had kin on the ship that that Walter Raleigh feller was on. Uncle Cecil said he figured Raleigh was the one responsible for tobacco being in Carolina in the first place…. and I don’t guess I’ve ever known Uncle Cecil to lie. He’s stretched the truth a time or two, but never so far as to make something untrue.

I’ve had a devil of a time deciding whether or not to get tied up in this whole tobacco farming business. Years ago it might’ve been an easier decision because things were done by hand. I guess the work was harder but it seemed simpler in nature. With the year now being 1956 a lot has changed in the industry. Hell, it seems like hand labor are dirty words and people act like they’ve never even seen a goddamn mule. It seems to me that nine hundred man hours to work and cultivate an acre is still movin’ pretty datgum fast. On a good day you can beat that record. I’ve seen it done.

I guess my biggest fuss comes from the farming industry now being run by a bunch of kids who’ve never had their hands in the soil. All they seem to care about is how to save that next penny. When it comes down to it, tractor or no a season is still gonna be a full year.

The seed beds have to be prepared by early January and planted in February. Then you have to stake the ground and cover it in linen. If the weather holds out the earliest you can transplant to the field is April 1st. But depending on the weather is like telling God your plans. It’s only worth the laugh. I know that the work of a John Deere is cleaner, but it still can’t match the work done by three experienced farm hands. All you need is one guy to make a hole in the furrow with a hand peg, another guy to place the seedling in the hole and one more to water and fertilize it. As far as those pesky horn worms are concerned, my three year old could do that in an afternoon and I don’t even have a three year old.

When it comes down to it, tobacco farming requires four things. You gotta harvest it, you gotta tie it, you gotta barn it and you gotta watch the furnace. All in all tobacco has one ingredient….tradition. Or maybe I’m just scared of the future.

Foundation

So you want to know the story behind this place, do ya? How your grandpa was able open this quaint little bakery that your daddy is now in charge of? Well, come up here and sit on my lap and I'll tell you how it all began.

One day I was at work typing away on my computer when the phone rang. It was your grandma on the line and she told me that your great-grandpa Kevin wanted to meet with us at his office after I got off work. Not one for doing much after I put in my eight hours, I moaned and groaned a little, but I went anyway, naturally. Kevin dealt in wills and estates, so I was wondering why he wanted us to go to his office.

As it turned out, Grandma's family had a house in Tell City along the Ohio River that had been abandoned for some time. Some folks bought it dirt cheap and decided to turn it into a bed and breakfast. During the renovation, one of the workers found a peculiar little metal box hidden behind one of the walls and gave it back to the family. Inside the box was the last will and testament of Abner Obrecht, founder of a chair factory in Tell City. Also in the box were some stock certificates that the will specified to be left to his next of kin.

Now, Abner was an eccentric old coot from what I've heard; I never had the chance to meet the man. Lord knows how long that safe sat in that abandoned house. As it turned out, Abner's next of kin was your great-grandmother Julie. It appeared as though she was going to be the recipient of a nice little inheritance, except for one glaring stipulation in the will. As the acceptor of the inheritance she would have to establish her own commerce or service, in other words, become an entrepreneur. Now, your great-grandparents were not in a position to pursue this, so being next in line, your grandmother and I were offered the inheritance.

Let me make one thing clear, your grandmother is not one for change, and taking a risk that involved money is most definitely out of the question, so I really had to plead my case in order for her to go along with the idea. Your father and Aunt Emilie were still young, so your grandmother had legitimate concerns about college expenses and any medical expenses that may unexpectedly come our way. Your father was quite a rambunctious child and he made his fair share of trips to the emergency room. Did I ever tell you about the time he rode his tricycle down the basement stairs? Ah well, that's a story for another time.

After a lot of debate and hand-wringing, your grandmother and I decided to accept the inheritance. I had always wanted my own business and this was an opportunity we decided we just couldn't pass up. As luck would have it, or maybe fate, Eva and Daniel were on their way home from France were Daniel had just completed an apprenticeship at a local French bakery. I pitched the idea for us to open a bakery together and they agreed to the partnership. The rest, as they say, is history.

It took a lot of work, a lot of trial and error, and a lot of patience; but we got it done. We opened this little shop nearly forty years ago. It seems like yesterday your dad and aunt were running around the back room with pretzels in their hands. A lot of different breads have come and gone over the years, and some have been staples since we opened. None of us could have imagined this bakery would have done so well and we'd still be here. We put a lot of love into this place, made a lot of new friends and cherished memories. It goes to show that with passion, hard work, and doing things the right way, anything is possible; and that little bit of luck involving the inheritance didn't hurt either.

The Bakery

I was seventeen when I lost my parents. But, thankfully, a kind uncle pitied me, said I was ugly, but that I had a "spark" that the others didn't, and left me a great amount of money that I had to invest in some kind of business venture. He was a successful tailor, but I couldn't sew on a button or darn a sock, so I had to think of something else. I decided to open two bakeries in a nearby college town. The idea of bread, something so essential, comforting and nourishing tempted me. Maybe bread also reminded me of home and mother, she'd make bread herself: herb bread with chunky garlic butter, challah bread, pumpkin bread and banana bread.
I opened one bakery next to a lawyer's office downtown and the other on campus.
Now, the only think I knew about bread making before all this happened was getting out my white bread machine, dumping in the 'bread machine' flour mix and some water, and pressing button '2' for white bread. An hour later, I had my boxy bread with a weird hole in the bottom of it.
Let's just say I had a lot to learn as a store owner. I bought huge mixers and an oven and all the most modern stainless steel kitchen equipment on the market. I got a dough slicer, walk-in cooler, and ingredients: sacks and sacks of flour and grains and seeds, yeast, salt and bricks of butter for croissants and brioches. And I decided on the name Breaking Bread Co.
I liked the idea of being in the back, playing my own music, working magic with the ingredients, getting in a creation vibe, making an edible product I was proud of and that kept the clients coming back time and again.
I hired Lynn to work the register at my downtown location and Darwin for the campus one. I gave them keys to the bakeries, figuring if I showed them from the start that I had confidence in them, they wouldn't want to let me down and they'd perform optimally. Lynn had a nose ring and a smokers laugh and ended up knocking on my door every weekend late at night, drunk, and sleeping on my floor. Let's just say she didn't last long. I hired Karey to replace her. She was tan, with satin skin, and the male clients liked her dimples. All for the better. We liked to say she could sell bread to a hobo. And then, if fact, she did! We called that flax seed and buckwheat bread "Hobo's Harvest" ever since.
Darwin was a computer science major, an average Joe whose conversation was limited to cars and playing cards and his bowling league. He handled the campus crowd pretty well and came up with a "grasshopper toddy bread" after experimenting at his house with mocha and green food coloring that was a hit.
And making bread was easy! I got used to coming in at three a.m. and liked getting off at one o'clock, although I usually came back in around five to see how the store looked and if I was well stocked on product. I gradually introduced bagels and bear claws and sold kaiser rolls to local restaurants. Things were good. My bread was consistent and my best seller was my pain de campagne, a standard white bread round. I always sold out of croissants and several customers expressed the desire for coffee and a public restroom. What I didn't want, especially on my campus location, was for students to camp out and not buy anything, but sip coffee like zombies, stinking up the joint with their bad hygiene.
But, in the end, I bought a few wooden chairs and tables and bought an espresso machine and attracted a whole new crowd and surprisingly, the students who passed long hours with us ended up bringing a lot of joy to the bakery now turned cafe.
Things were going great with Karey, but Darwin was graduating and moving to Florida. So, I interviewed countless pimply faced young adults and finally decided on Clement. Little did I know he would turn my world up-side down.
He was very punctual and quick. If there was a pause between clients and had nothing else to polish or clean, he'd poke his head into the back and observe my baking methods.
He was critical: "You don't even touch your bread?" "There's partially hydrogenated soybean oil in the muffin mix," "you're using low-quality flour," and "what's up with the artificial green dye #40 in your grasshopper toddy bread?"
What does he know? Boy was I glad when the door chimed and he went back out behind the counter.
But, he was saying things I already knew somewhere inside of myself. I knew I should be touching the bread and I knew I should be more familiar with the ingredients of my products and where they came from. So, I decided that he'd help me in developing a bakery that was in harmony with life.
"Clement, where do we start?"
He showed me a local mill that ground fresh, organically grown grains. He showed me how to make my own bread starter and taught me how to give the bread the proper time to repose between sensual kneadings by hand. We installed a wood-fire oven and we started donating the unsold bread to homeless shelters. The bread that was a result of all this extra conscientiousness was extraordinary. I won several "Croissant d'Or" awards and people with gluten and wheat allergies could easily digest my slow-method breads! I had to hire a new staff in charge of shipping our breads all over the country. I gave seminars and talks on bread making and bought farm land dedicated to my "Urban Kids with Green Thumbs" program.
And I fell in love with Clement. He was just one of those guys that draws people to him with his calm charisma and I don't know why, for I'm much older than he is, but he fell in love with me too. Even though I wake up early as he sleeps and he works late as I sleep, we still have our precious Sunday's to be together, unless, of course, we're behind on special orders...

Reader Bite! Read-Aloud!

Thanks again to LISNews for pointing me to an interesting article. This one from The New York Times explores the value of reading aloud. So, Ditalini Press members - what is the last thing you've read out loud?

Days

Monday: Carrier of haze. The general reinstatement of efforts toward mortal industry.
The ethers hold sway as a weight against renewed vigor and rest.
Dogmatic is a word I will describe this day.

Tuesday: My spirit has risen up and decided to become a contender to enter the
arena for the remaining work week. I will stifle my ambitions a couple notches
to conserve for the long haul of the next 72 hours.
Stoic is a word for Tuesday.

Wednesday: The mid-life of the mundane terrestrial existence. Woes can be fought and
negotiated here. Treaties signed and wounds wrapped.
Tumult is my word for Wednesday.

Thursday: A day to look long. Scan the horizon. Point out the clustered band of
barbarians to your generals and pursue them. Look up, stare at the
solar disk for a moment. Glance mercury if you are lucky.
Assurance is the word for Thursday.

Friday: Flatulence and rest.
Comatose.

Saturday: Saturn's glory. Vigor. Release. Expression.
Creation-Recreation is Saturdays lifeblood.

Sunday: Passive? I just have not figured this one out.
Gods day of rest? Why do I feel Amish on this day?
Repentant is the undertone of Sunday. Quiet is also dominant.
A good re-centering day.

Days of the Week

Monday: A mustard seed in winter soil.
Tuesday: Peasant carts on the daybreak horizon coming into town from the provinces.
Wednesday: Eating a meal knowing it ends with you washing all the dishes and heavy pots by hand, alone.
Thursday: Between the scholar and the sage.
Friday: Shut in a library thinking of pink neon signs reflected in rain lacquered sidewalks.
Saturday: Victorian wooden toys lying on hard wood floor, vibrating to the sound of lawnmowers.
Sunday: Feet propped up on a table, chamomile tea, sadness at twilight.

Pharonic Linage

I am Oba Omo. Frail son of King Orsuku, the Scorpion.
My great King has parted and crossed the void.
It is I, in his stead that must proceed forward.

I hold a court full of personal retainers.
All my wishes are tended.
What I inherated is a suffocating burden.
It is a weight of empty wisdom that folds over me.
Father was a powerful King. I am emulating his
stature. I have much to attain regarding my physical
strength alone. If I can stand to the toe of the Gods,
I too will fight the Apis Bull, bare to a loin cloth at the
abbey of Sakkara.

I sleep restlessly, for there is urgency in my charge.
I know I will have little time for love in my reign as King.
My mother was Akiris, courier from the night sky, and
birthed my by the river, amid the reeds. The crickets and
frogs sang a cascade of sound as I arrived in this land.
Naked, from a zodiacal transit. The priests knew.

I am sprung from Sirius. I will offer corridors of
mystic pursuit into the faculties of man. The black land
of Egypt, a way station for galactic influences and culture.
Far am I, in truth, a ruler over this center of power.
There are factions invisible who are as giants.
Take caution here, a begger who's eyes lit with flame
may entice you to fits of ecstasy with one glance.

I have come to teach the Earth children something.
Even I yet do not realize what it will be.
The uncomfortable life I have chosen will
lead me on a endless quest.

It's Only Money

"Ms Petska, Ms Byrd, I brought you here today to discuss your Uncle Jim's will and the inheritance that you will both be receiving from it."

"Honestly, Mr Brandt, I didn't know Uncle Jim had included us in his will. This is a complete surprise to my sister and I. Right Beth?"

"Hell yes, Kit. I had no clue."

" The amount you will each receive is substantial, but there are some stipulations in the will regarding the release of these funds to you."

"What kind of stipulations?"

"Well, Ms Petska."

"Call me Kit, please."

"All right. As you know, Kit, your uncle was quite the entrepreneur. He believed in free enterprise and was able to amass this huge estate because of his success. He wants to pass this opportunity on to you, his nieces. Give you a chance to build a business of your own, with a little financial help from him. It's a great opportunity for both of you."

"That's wonderful. Don't you think Beth? Our own businesses. I could open the knitting shop I've always dreamed of."

"A business? But I already have a job. Why would I want a business?"

"Everyone wants a business of their own Beth."

"No, not everyone. I don't want one. I've never liked being in charge. I hate the pressure of being responsible for everything. I just want to put in my forty hours and go home. I want to travel and garden and feed the birds and squirrels in my back yard. Maybe volunteer more often. Couldn't I just do that with the money?"

"No, Ms Byrd. I'm afraid not. Your Uncle was very specific in his will regarding the use of your inheritance. Either you invest in a business of your own, or you get nothing."

"But why? Who says owning a business is more important than just living, just breathing every day? Why must everyone have a goal? Isn't being alive good enough?"

"Beth. You're being silly. Just take the money and we'll figure something out for you. You like to cook. You could open a restaurant."

"A restaurant? Are you kidding? I cook because it relaxes me. I volunteer at the soup kitchen because its fun and it feels good. What part of putting out cookie cutter meals for nameless, thankless people seems fun to you?"

"Come on Sis, be reasonable. There must be something you've always wanted to build, to achieve, to leave as a legacy. Like Uncle Jim did."

"Yeah. A family, a relationship, friends, and an appreciation for just breathing in and out every day. I've done that. I'm doing that. I want people to know that I loved them and that I gave everything I had to make life better for myself and for them. That's my legacy. A business is just money and I earn all I need at my job. I don't want the money Mr Brandt. Give it to my sister. Hell give it to whoever you'd like."

"But Ms Byrd, This is the chance of a lifetime and you're just throwing it away."

"That's your opinion. I've had a lifetime already and I don't need any more chances. I'm happy. Life is good. It's only money, only money."

Labels

I need ya'll to help me organize our posts. With each assignment we do, we need to put our names in the 'labels' area when we post. Use the name you go by here on Dit Press. I would be Katie Grace, Jeff would be Jeff Ircink, Garrett would be Parody, Marc would be Khaskoo, etc. .. Also, we need to put the TITLE of the assignment in the 'labels' area. Does everyone know how to create a label for a post? It's easy. There is a spot to type them in below the main body of every post you make.

And, when it's your turn to come up with an assignment, please give it a nice name. For instance, Eva's assignment was summed up as "An Inheritance" when she posted it. That would need to be our label when we all submit our posts. I will be going back into our archives to label all of the assignments that never got labeled. So, to make it easier I'd love for your participation from here on out. We HAVE to be consistent though, in spelling and hyphenation, etc...for instance Eva's new assignment needs to be named "An Inheritance". Not "an inheritance" or "An inheritance". Capitalization has to be watched.

Thanks!

Also, try to give your assignments nice titles. They need to be description and short. If you're not sure of what to 'name' yours, ask everyone else on Dit Press and we'll come up with the appropriate label.

Micro Week Of A Baby Boomer

This is based on my four, ten hour day work week. Monday being my extra day off.

Saturday: Yee Haw! I feel good! Watch the sun rise with my love.

Sunday: Yawn, stretch, coffee in bed. Sundays are gentle and sweet.

Monday: I love Mondays! M is for My day. Just me, some minor chores and whatever I want to do.

Tuesday: It's off to work I go, but I'm cool. I like my job.

Wednesday: Getting up at 5 am gets a little harder but coffee and a nice sunrise sets the mood.

Thursday: I hate Thursdays! That's my hit the wall day. ARRGGHH ten hours is a lifetime.

Friday: Filled with hope and anticipation, I plow through the day. After work I hurry to be with my Sweetie and then usually fall asleep by seven. I'm too old for this shit.

Philip's Mill

The paperclip sat by Philip’s side. Silent and motionless much like his mind. He stroked the computer keys with his fingers and gazed at the computer screen in front of him. Much of his life had become regimented and he wasn’t sure how long it had been exactly since his last stroke. The mornings saw him grind his coffee first thing, which he'd subsequently brew after a few pull-ups on the front porch and a short shower. Doctor Wells recommended Philip keep a diet free of caffeine, but Philip saw no other reason to get up in the morning than to smell and taste the varied flavors of his favorite brew. His bathroom walls stood out in a bright yellow, and Phil enjoyed speaking to them as if they were an entity that imbued a sweet summer joy that the rest of his apartment lacked. Now and then Philip considered his successful writing career as a youth, and how he might write and be published again somehow. These thoughts were always singled out as the kind that were dangerous and destructive to his mental health, by his friends, doctor, and family. But something inside Philip, this particular afternoon, had changed. He no longer wanted to fear the disappointment he felt would come with trying to write. So he didn’t want to try, he just wanted to write and accept the limitations of his poor memory and slowed cognitive function.

“Dear Sandra”

He began to write.

“I miss you, and I want you to come home. I’m feeling more like myself than ever and I really miss you. If you’d consider seeing me again I can assure you that I will let you speak and I won’t cut you off.

All my love,
Bill”

He began to tense up, feeling a new kind of uneasiness in his stomach.

I hate writing.

He stood and walked into the kitchen, slowly to enjoy the giant red rug under his toes. He felt misdirected. Philip was a sorrowful man. He took a banana from the counter and began to peel it as he headed back toward the computer chair. He sat and erased the last line.

Sandra and Bill had been apart for more than two years. Bill’s letters always went unread and Sandra had been in three relationships since they parted. She never thought about Bill and even went so far as to consider that he had never existed in the first place. Bill deemed Sandra a goddess, however, and realized that his only place in life was beside her.

Philip arranged his feet under his butt, to sit more closely to the screen. He felt drawn into his story already, which went far beyond his comprehension. He was surprised at his ability to find the keys and type steadily and without error.

“The mill where we first met is still standing.”

Philip pictured Bill in his mind.

... a bald man with a long mouth, hairy arms and plenty of pounds around the waist. Bill wanted to meet Sandra again, at the mill outside of town, to revisit the early days of their short-lived romance. The circumstances in which Bill and Sandra met were highly improbable, and for that very reason they had jumped into a series of escapades together which treaded upon both of their moral codes; but religious precedence went by the wayside as soon as they felt the magnetism of love. Sandra saw Bill as a gift to her for reaching out to her family again, in hopes of healing deep personal wounds. Bill saw Sandra as a reason to live and become a better man. They lived not far from each other in Malchese, New Hampshire when life granted them the unlikely meeting. Sandra was driving toward her father’s home one evening and discovered a new route to take. When she pulled off to the side of the road to get a better look at a bird that had been injured, she noticed a small sign in the field next to her.

“Old Mill 5 Miles”

She got back in the car and drove in the direction of the faded arrow. Bill was already at the Mill, scouting out the area for mushrooms, which he was never successful in finding. Sandra however, found a cluster near a pile of hay on the west side of the mill creek, and laughed heartily when she realized the stranger on the other side of the meadow had the intentions of finding that same cluster, but was carrying an empty bag. Bill made his way toward her without notice. His body led by his downturned head, eye-grazing the landscape.

“Hello there.” Sandra said, startling him.

“Why hello.” He chuckled and then quickly gained composure. It didn’t take long for his eyes to adjust to the light and take in Sandra’s fine figure. “Nice day.”

“For mushroom hunting, oh yes, perfect.” She raised up her arms declaring her skill in finding the fungal wonders.

“No way, and I’ve been looking for how long?” Bill held the clear freezer bag he carried up to his face, and peered through it meeting Sandra’s smiling eyes. He felt instantly enamored and yet perplexed by this woman. “You’ve been here before.”

“Just discovered it! When was this place built?”

They both looked toward the high gray stones where the sun was meeting the roof of the mill.

“It is old. I used to come here when I was a child, when the wheel was working. It’s a haunting thing to be here again.”

“I’m Sandra. What’s your name.”

“Bill. Bill Phillips.”

They took eachother by the hand and shared a beautiful Morel salad that evening ...

Philip stretched his arms out to his sides. He took a deep breath and caught the end of a yawn. His coffee was tasting a little cold now after having written for a half an hour, but it tasted better than ever. Bill and Sandra. Philip and Bill and Sandra. There was a new reason for Phil to get up in the morning, and it was something that could last, if he let it. All it would take is his computer chair and a mind to let the world around him surrender to the things inside.