Semi-Daily Scribbles

Jo often walked along the tracks of an abandoned railway tunnel, its silence and dank darkness helped to put in order Jo's jumbled thoughts. One day, which had started out like so many other hazy beige days, Jo saw someone ahead of her on the tracks. She'd never been confronted with company before, so she approached with caution. As she got closer, Jo realized the person was a woman in layers of crinoline and lace. The lady leapt and pirouetted, oblivious to her audience of one. Then, after a polite curtsey to a rusted railroad spike, the mysterious dancer took off like a shot down the tunnel. Jo called after her:

"Where are you off to in such a rush?" The caw of a crow answered as Jo felt a tap-tap-tap on her shoulder. She nearly lost her balance as she spun around. The crinoline-clad woman stood with arms akimbo and looked Jo square in the eye.

"To the big silver orb in the sky. The train is due to pull out soon. There still may be room aboard if you are so inclined." Jo smiled, shrugged, and shook her head as the woman held out her hand. "Maybe next time?"

"Maybe, if there is a next time. Oh, and you're a really good dancer, by the way."

"How kind of you to say! I've only just begun lessons. My dream is to dance on stage someday. But don't you go and worry about time. It's always the right hour, once you've found a portal."

"Have I found one?"

"You have found the portal, my dear. I'm off, but we'll meet again. Ta!"

Jo had been in one blue funk before she stumbled upon her big discovery. It was right there in front of her and she never even noticed. She'd wandered up and down the line for so long, maybe the time was right for a change. Jo quickened her pace through the tunnel while the crow's cry intensified. Jo was distracted by the tumble and churn of the day's events. Not even the bright light that sliced the dark in two could break her concentration.

Gary's problem isn't intelligence. He's got more knowledge stuffed in his skull than is healthy, in my opinion. Poor guy stumbles over the simplest things though, like ordering lunch at the drive-thru, but he can take apart a computer or a tractor and put it back together better than new. Always knows how to spell things. All those big words. Man, don't get him going on science or philosophy unless you got lots of time to kill and headache tablets. Yeah Gary's a good guy, especially if you need something fixed. He won't take your money, but he'll want you to drive him to his doctor's appointment, or the store. Again with the easy stuff, the cereal aisle's a tough one for him. If you have to pull grocery duty, be patient and don't make any suggestions like 'Raisin Bran' or 'Cheerios.' Gets him nervous. Just have some words of encouragement ready, you know, inspirational stuff that'll uplift his spirits. I've been with the big guy when he's had a meltdown before. Wow. Oh, almost forgot. Make a note not to take him to Safeway. He's been told by the manager to never step foot in the place again. Ever.

A swishy-crinkle was underfoot. One of Claire's sneakers made a sound as she raced along the crowded sidewalk. She dodged tourists with baby strollers until she came up on Luke's. Claire turned into the cordoned off area in front of the restaurant and took a seat at a recently vacated table. Relieved to find her soles intact, Claire pulled a square piece of notepad paper off the bottom of her right shoe. Both sides were sticky, and Claire dipped her fingers in a full glass of water left by some under-hydrated diner. Neatly printed letters, only slightly smudged, filled the gummy note. Claire settled back and read softly out loud:

Why so dissatisfied? If I were to let go of your hand, would you still grasp at an ill-defined plan? From where I stand, the chase you've given to The More Of… The Better Than… has made you focus on a life of fear. Go ahead. Let the moment collapse in on itself. It's how joy is released. The gift of the unknown is what your heart desires.

Claire shook her head, as though a fly landed on her nose, and read the note again. She didn't know what it meant, but it sure as hell hit a nerve. Claire had been stuck in a loop of wanting/not wanting to ditch her job at the DMV. She used to be a People Person before she landed that gig. But now she was more than willing to renounce her affiliation with the human race. Claire didn't believe in luck, good or bad, but she couldn't shake the feeling the tenacious slip of paper was a sign. She picked up the note with a napkin (it was untouched, just like the water), folded the edges to form a little pouch, and slipped it in her backpack. As she headed into traffic, Claire's feet, along with the rest of her body, felt lighter as she made her way through the city.

Buzz is having a bad day. He's late again. Damn bus refuses to keep to a schedule. Few things annoy him more than inconsistent public transportation. And his job in retail. Buzz's back hurts, as if forks and knives jab and cut right through his muscles. He considers calling in sick but rent is due. He can't miss his standing appointment with mind-numbing piped music and rude ass shoppers. Buzz's rut runs deep. Buzz knows if he can just capture that old magic, people will turn out to hear him sing again. His fans love him. No reason they can't give him another chance. He's going to get the band back together as soon as he climbs out of the jaws of the big hairy monster that's got his number.

Charles did the best he could to wipe away the smeared edges of memories that would not dovetail. There were gaps and odd thoughts and dangling threads in the history Charles put down on paper every night, but he had to finish his story before the wispy imagery faded for good. Charles didn't care the family remembered his accident differently, but he did stop asking about Dana. In the version of events his family chose to believe, Charles wasn't married. The love of his life escaped harm because, apparently, Dana didn't exist. Charles collected more pieces each time he set his mind to work. The impressions that floated to the surface made Charles break out in a cold sweat, but he wrote despite the discomfort. Charles forged ahead to capture the truth as it emerged, gruesome, blood soaked, and familiar.