Semi-Daily Scribbles

It's difficult for Aunt June to concentrate. She has a hell of a time remembering where she's supposed to be. There is always a doctor's appointment, or a Thanksgiving dinner lurking around every corner. Aunt June often remarks how she feels like she's running in place, though she manages to make an appearance wherever her presence is needed. She is the only one who knows how to make the oyster stuffing. Thank God she remembered to come to the mansion today. Jenni and I can take care of just about everything else, even keeping this wily bunch of ours entertained. There's certainly enough wine to go around. No one can say we Stones don't know how to let our hair down, but sometimes the gloves come off, too. There are situations when the slightest vestige of civility is the only thing that keeps us from hurling crockery at each other. When things get dicey, Aunt June's fog lifts and she shifts into hyperaware mode. Up to her elbows in shells, her long salt-and-pepper hair slipping out of its topknot, she is wicked accurate when it comes to getting our attention with her pearl-handled knife.

Tough luck, Mr. Cluck. Respect was hard to get after you'd been violated with a bouquet garni. You arrived on a Sunday, cleaned and dressed, and no one cared about your cooped up life. All you ever wanted was to roam the range; have a roost to call your own. It is cruel that dreams are reserved for those who have willingly clipped their wings. The small minds gathered around the platter preferred to discuss scandals as they picked you apart. One hope after another was tossed aside until you were offered as a toy to the yapping menace beneath the table. Promise cut short. What a terrible waste. You, out of all the perma-pressed guests, should have been the very last creature to be called a chicken.

"It is the best way to get your name out there, you know." Jillian kept her focus on the white lumps bobbing in the saucepan. She attacked the stubborn clumps with a whisk, and fell under the spell of smoothening floury pan drippings.

"Careful. You're going to beat out all the flavor."

"Hmmm…what was that? Oh, another one of your silly remarks, eh? Don't worry. This gravy tastes more like turkey than the turkey. You left that bird in too long."

"I most certainly did not." Jillian increased her efforts to save the sauce. She pictured her glorious creation on display in Aunt June's Rosemont gravy boat. The kitchen flickered out of focus; a houseful of voices died away.

"Didn't you hear me?" Chills crawled across Jillian's skin as she turned her head to the left. Her sister was still there, wineglass in hand, eyes wide and milky.

"I heard you, Jenni. Loud and clear. It's ok. I don't mind dry meat. That's why I made gravy. We're a perfect pair, you and I." Jillian stiffened as her sister leaned in for a slimy kiss.

"We are perfect in every way, Jilly. Even a snail gets to his destination. Soon enough, our work will be noticed. Believe me, people won't forget your name."

"Our name. Stone women are resourceful, are we not?" Jillian applied more elbow grease to the gravy as laughter returned to the hot, enclosed kitchen.

Jane was proud of her hothouse secrets. Indiscretions were divided and fed. Poor judgment was hung from a hook to dry. Jane attended to her rogue's garden under glass, and kept a watchful eye over the first delicate stalks of suspicion. Subterfuge took years to cultivate, but Jane maintained a long list of satisfied customers. They favored Jane's chaos for its spicy scent of blood and chrysanthemum. If one chose to wear villainy upon her breast, a respectable lady placed an order with Jane well in advance of the need for a quick and tidy solution.

The experiment is to see if I can open my eyes. If I get the all clear, I try a pair of lungs on for size. Sometimes it takes a couple fittings, but eventually oxygen works its magic over my rusty core. A bit of oil in the joints keeps the grind to a minimum. Locomotion is next, in baby steps. Running is easy. To stand firm for a belief is much, much harder. Then the Big Scary comes on strong. The realization that I can do anything. That's some fierce and fearsome shit shined to a high gloss like a lollipop. The sky is the limit, and we're all in it to win it. I want a nice little cabin tucked away in my temporal lobe. Oh, and to fly. To fly and not need the crutch of wild blue air.

Len broke furniture to learn the mysteries of craftsmanship. TV how-to's didn't cut it. Diagrams made him see circles. Len reimagined many objects in his world because efficiency was the name of the game. For example, his pet project was a desk he could write on. Literally. Whatever he etched across the beech wood surface would be recorded by a precise, high-powered motion sensor. Every swipe of the thumb and poke of the pinky was captured and stored in the desk's memory. How to retrieve the input, however, was the tricky part which kept Len up at night. In the wee hours, when Len's awareness was at its sharpest and he couldn't think straight, Len saw life as a net. Constrictive, coarse, and intended to keep everyone in the same pen. Len wished he could stretch his legs and really get a feel for the universe. His most promising theories presented themselves after he'd smashed and refastened a refrigerator or step machine in the pre-dawn stillness. His agreement with failure was he wouldn't take it personally. Len would be the first to admit he was nothing more than a walking receptacle for improvement. Len was fine with failure. He even saw a simple beauty in stupidity. But Len could never swallow disappointment. Disappointment was bitter. It was the deep end from which Len swam hard every day to avoid.