Being with Georgette #16

The red kite rose above the crest of the bluff and quickly flew out of my view from the desk inside the sliding glass door of our hotel room. The kite’s tail remained suspended a moment, jangling its yellow and orange bow ties she had folded out of the stack of napkins from the continental breakfast bar.

My writing stopped of its own accord, and my crutches appeared in my hands, unbidden. However, dragging myself to the door and opening it took my own effort, and was my own achievement.

The air was stagnant, and the ocean but a flattened sheet of glass.

And yet the kite flew higher and higher.

I stopped short when the right crutch knocked chunks of sandstone over the edge of the bluff. Four seconds passed before they crashed against the rocks on the beach below.

She giggled like a school girl. 

Her long, flowing dress fluttered in the same non-existent breeze that lifted the kite.

She had powers beyond my comprehension.

* * *

Her dark, opaque eyes fixed on me with impenetrable mirth.

She spoke, but I heard nothing from that distance.

She spoke again, and I could almost read her lips.

She repeated herself, and I leaned forward. I leaned forward a little too far and tumbled into the blue sky, the sandy beach, blue sky, sandy beach, red kite, and beautiful woman.

I reached for the tail of the distant kite, wondering how long four seconds lasted when falling in a dream.

* * *

I was already sitting up when I awoke with a start. I held her night-time pony tail in my left hand, a finger looped in its yellow and orange bows.

Her dark, opaque eyes fixed on me with impenetrable mirth, and her lips moved silently. Then clearly and distinctly, but still from the depths of sleep, she said, “I know I’ve always been your other Georgette.”

I let go of her pony tail and said, “But I love you.”

“I know,” she said, “That’s what makes it okay.”

* * *

Unlike my original Georgette, my other Georgette only left me once, but that was for good–and there was nothing good about it. 

* * *

In the dark times after her disappearance, that dream of the kite recurred frequently: the only difference being that I always woke to an empty bed. She was no longer there to accuse me, but I did enough of that for myself.

Wherever I am when I find the sun sinking in the sky, I look for a red kite to suddenly draw me tumbling back into her opaque and impenetrable life. But the deepest part of me knows that won’t happen until I fall the full four seconds and wake up with a start in another kind of bed, where I can finally comprehend the full extent of her powers. And her judgment.

<< Story #15 | Index of Stories | Story #17 >>

Originally published April 18, 2021

More about the author, Rick Mallery.

Reading Ulysses in Montana #205

After her encounter with the roguish clown, Doris was both shaken and stirred.

Reckoning the fruits had it coming, the sizzle slathered all over the baton, but all that slathering was in vain, for Doris flipped the script each time the deacon turned on a dime upon the thirty-seventh step. Descending fifths could not account for the music in the spheres–or spears to hear Doris tell it all day long. Gambits succeeded four-to-one in the quiet conversations on moonlight flights of fancy. Forgotten harmonies resonated with the pilgrims pilgrimaging to the pilfered pilaf, one formerly owned by Edith. Now Doris holds those rights and uses them with as much splendor as the French could mustard.

Doris said oh really? Is that your professional opinion?

More about the author, Delving Yardbarker.

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Being with Georgette #15

 

Or I stare into the blank mirror, wondering what Georgette took of me this time.

And I gaze into the deep blue cloudless sky, wondering what she left of herself this time.

But I find only the vague reflection of my eyes staring back, wondering from the other side of the deep blue cloudless mirror.

Or I stand at the window, measuring the depth of the snow. Is it April or October? Winter’s belated farewell or early reckoning? The sun stares from the same spot in the same deep blue cloudless sky as the moment she had arrived. Was it October or April?

And I stand at the window, staring into the utterly empty living room full of her carefully (tediously) selected furniture and décor.

But I find only the vague reflection of my eyes staring back, straight into my deep blue cloudless eyes. Wondering from the other side of the utterly empty window. Searching for what she took of me. For what she left of herself.

This time.

<< Story #14 | Index of Stories | Story #16 >>

Originally published March 21, 2021

More about the author, Rick Mallery.

Reading Ulysses in Montana #93

Darling went to the flea market, but the only fleas she found were buried in the knap of the mutt she tripped over on her way out.

The tea market was a different story entirely; the tea market had no fleas, even on the mutt Darling tripped over on her way out. The tea market did have plenty of tea, though. The sea market had neither fleas nor teas, but it had plenty of water. The only problem was they demanded you buy the whole sea–no partials allowed. Darling had already too many seas stowed in her closet, so she had to pass on the seas. She did, however, take the mutt she tripped over on her way out. The mutt had neither fleas nor teas nor seas, but it did have love for Darling.

On her way home, Darling stopped at the me market, but all she found was me, so she told me to meet her and her mutt at home in one hour. I skipped over the me market mutt on my way out, and told Darling all about it an hour later.

I also gifted her the full box of fleas I had gathered all the livelong day.

More about the author, Delving Yardbarker.

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #320

Deflated mates littered the loitered sands of next door islands, surrounded by the lush lilt of tilted and tiled transcripts.

Ginger lifted a finger–not that one–and George entered the raffle for a basket of tawdry teapots. Would Ginger find it funny? Would George find it fitting? Falling away from the lighthearted silk ties that gag, Ginger said her sister Hyacinth would know what to do. George said his brother Anselm would also know what to do. They asked neither for they decided they would wing it all the way to the hills of Rightynow.

Beseeched and breached, the fort took down its ragged signs and put up congratulations for Ginger and George, beseeching and breaching broached topics of poached toast and peached eggs Ernie. Ginger said where is your transcript. George said it’s deflated. Ginger said check the littered sands. George said let’s look tomorrow, upheavals are best left to chance.

Ginger smiled and said only you would know!

More about the author, Delving Yardbarker.

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Being with Georgette #14

“Why didn’t you ever marry my mom?”

Monica had entered the kitchen with all the grace of a fifteen-year-old.

I dropped the plate into the sudsy water and looked out past Monica into the living room.

“It’s okay,” she said. “They went out to get their marriage license and watch a movie.”

I began washing the plate again.

“I never asked her,” I said.

“I’m asking why you never asked her. You’ve been friends since childhood.”

“We’ve been friends since the day we were born.”

“Mom said your mothers shared the same hospital room.”

“According to the story your grandma always told, Georgette and I shared the same incubator for a week.”

“How is that even possible?”

Reading Ulysses in Montana #616

Disturbing sounds haunted the hunted hunters in their secret huts. Scented strands of salamanders slithered up the sequence of upright staircases.

St. Pancras secreted other secret huts with other nuts and hunted hunters. Under the thrilling victory of defeat, the gambit paid off the debt and three others besides. Beside the river the giver gave the flattered crumpet a fifth of barley rye directly in the center of the livid discourse, only two more horses for sale and then the baby shoes. A gather of trumpets forgave the four givers their gift horses in the mouth of the bay leaves, Marvin. Martians frittered away the strumpets along Suvla Bay, too many years after a hill of churches left the carnival of asteroids and other heavenly bodies.

Bringing down the fancy end of carnival knowledge, earned at the university of life, no one could tell any more how many more songs of innocence would silence laughter before you finally learn to breathe. Breathe!

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Being with Georgette #13

I’ve not always welcomed Georgette back with open arms after her absences.

One night I opened the door to find Georgette standing on my porch dressed lightly in a skirt, blouse, windbreaker, and purple canvas shoes with two feet of snow in the yard behind her. A thumb was hooked under a strap of a backpack, the only physical baggage she had with her.

She fixed her black eyes on me, refusing–as always–to speak first. The moment froze as hard as that year’s winter.

“You always call ahead,” I said.

“I didn’t have time.”

“I don’t either.”

“You don’t what either?”

“Have time.” Her eyebrows furrowed before I added, “For you.”

“Why not?”

“You know why not.”

Georgette looked up the road into the darkness. She squeezed and opened the hand hanging at her side.

“Just give me a lift back to town then.”

***

The roads were newly iced over, so I drove slowly, making the silence all the longer, all the more palpable. Georgette sat small and distantly in the passenger’s seat; my other Georgette’s spare winter coat hung loosely over her shoulders. It was much too large for her which only increased the caricature of her smallness.

“Drop me at the motel at the edge of town. I can manage from there.”

I drove past the motel and took her to a nice hotel downtown.

“I can’t afford this place.”

“I’ll pay.”

***

“How many nights?” the clerk asked. He was tall, thin, and young, in an ill-fitting maroon uniform.

“One,” Georgette said.

“Double?”

“Single,” we said in unison.

While the clerk processed my payment, Georgette asked, “When is the shuttle to the airport?”

The clerk and I both stared at her. Him because he was slow to answer unexpected questions. Me because I knew she knew better.

The clerk said, “You have to take the bus up to the freeway and over to Northaven where you can catch the shuttle.”

Georgette nodded curtly.

I fought back an impulse to ask if she could afford the flight. I didn’t need to appear over-concerned, and she always visited me with an open return ticket. She would manage.

I handed Georgette a hundred dollar bill, and when she hesitated I said, “For the bus.”

She took it, and the clerk winked at me. 

***

I drove home even slower than I had driven to town. The silence grew still longer, but less palpable–more ethereal–as whorls of gritty snow danced briskly across the road.

The last I had seen of Georgette she was helping the clerk up off the floor and inspecting the sudden redness and swelling around the eye that had winked at me. I’m no different than you. I too abhor violence–except when it’s strictly necessary. Or when it’s useful. Or when it just plain makes me feel better.

Georgette had stiffened her back against me, and I didn’t wait around for elaborate editorials on her part.

***

Six years passed before Georgette stood on my porch again. The summer sunshine was more suitable to her light outfit of skirt, blouse, windbreaker, and purple canvas shoes, but she also had more baggage.

She had taken the time to call ahead, and I had the time to let her in, because by then she was my last remaining Georgette.

<< Story #12 | Index of Stories| Story #14 >>

Originally published December 7, 2020

More about the author, Rick Mallery.

Reading Ulysses in Montana #262

Earnestly the stippled candlestick stuck the stippled butter dish with an earnest corn cob pin stuck in the stippled end of the cob.

Fobs of withered steel gloated at the sundown of the moon across the distant horizon no one had yet forgotten. Soggy sloggers gave shoddy shodders a lift to the height of pleasure unseen since the third-to-last total eclipse of the International Space Station Zebra. Stripes stripped down to their birthday suits to celebrate the lost pudding of the land of the lost. Sigmund the fleamonster forgave and forsake at one blow those responsible below the Maginot Line. Tasting the wasting of the frommagio gleefully, Ginger said I’m still here; don’t pretend you have forgotten me in the land of the lost.

Ginger was a little too stippled by the corn cob pin stuck in her bonnet, but earnest candlesticks dreamed until their dreams came true.

More about the author, Delving Yardbarker.

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Being with Georgette #12

When I finished preparing dinner, Georgette had disappeared. She wasn’t in the house. She wasn’t in her garden.

She knew her fish was almost ready, so I had no idea why I finally found her in the middle of the canola field across the highway holding a beach ball.

***

At golden hour, the yellow canola blossoms glow with an ethereal radiance. I had told Georgette the night before that the effect was due to over-saturation of yellow sunlight on the blossoms. Many colorful things look magical when over-saturated.

Georgette had said, “It’s more magical if you don’t explain it.”

I did not say out loud that it’s even more magical when you understand it because you also understand how it connects to other magical things in the universe. I did not say it because she had already stopped listening to me before I could begin saying it.

That was last night. Now Georgette stands among the glowing yellow blossoms that climb to her waist. Georgette herself glows with an ethereal radiance, but not due to over-saturation. Her dark hair and dark green dress contrasts with the glowing yellow blossoms around her. Her ethereal radiance comes from within.

***

I crossed the highway and waved to Georgette from the edge of the field.

Georgette waved the beach ball over her head.

I shouted that her fish was getting cold, but she just waved the beach ball over her head again.

I stepped into the field. The canola stems and blossoms parted easily, but the leafy green plants on the ground grabbed at my feet.

When I was halfway to Georgette, I shouted again that her fish was getting cold.

Georgette turned her back to me and threw the ball as high as she could, letting it fall between us.

I approached the ball, picked it up, and took it to Georgette.

I said, “Your fish–“

“I heard you the first time,” Georgette snapped. She snatched the ball from my hands and ran away giggling.

I ran after her, and when I grabbed her arm, we fell to the ground in a clumsy embrace. What followed was even more clumsy, and perfectly silly, but suitable for the moment in a grown-up kind of way.

***

I said, “Your fish is probably frozen again by now.”

Georgette straightened her dress, still glowing with her ethereal radiance.

She said, “You’re the one who’s over-saturated.”

I said, “Why did you come out here when you knew dinner was almost ready.

She said, “All you think about is food.”

I said, “I think of other things too.”

“Not as much as you used to,” she said. “Even at sunset.”

***

The sun had set, but dusk falls slowly here in the weeks after the summer solstice.

As we crossed the highway to my front yard, I said, “Now what will we have for dinner?”

“You’ll think of something.”

Then Georgette stopped me and flung her arms around me. She whispered as though her life depended on it, “Go back and get the beach ball. I’ll make you an omelet.”

“Why do we need the ball?”

Georgette smiled and said, “Monica is pregnant.”

***

I took my time finding the beach ball.

When I finally returned to the house, Georgette said, “Your omelet is cold.”

She took the beach ball and cradled it like it was her first grandchild.

I said, “But it’s not over-saturated.”

“And it never will be, ” she said. Then she smiled at the beach ball and said, “And it’s even more magical because you also understand how it connects to other magical things in the universe.”

<< Story #11 | Index of Stories| Story #13 >>

Originally published July 17, 2020

More about the author, Rick Mallery.