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You write stuff like....
PHANTASMAGORIA GADGETICA PART 1
By Ray Jones (joneScientific)
Not rain.
Just
Slow
Listless
Drizzle.
Not dark.
But the lights of the neon signs
And
The shop windows
Seems tired.
Job’s done for the day.
Back home, books
And magazines
Wait on the table
To be read.
On another table,
Blank sheets of paper.
Waiting for lines
And light
And shadows.
And dreams of her.
But tonight, the rooms are
Too quiet.
Too empty.
Walk down by the riverwalk.
There, people walk past.
Couples, on the other side of the zero point
On the graph.
Small groups of young men swagger,
Displaying for small groups of young women.
The latter giggle.
Or roll their eyes.
They all pass out of sight.
Sometimes, a disheveled mutterer
Drifts by.
Ghosts, too, maybe…..
Light drizzle.
Not rain.
A few people sit at tables
Under awnings
And drink coffee
Or beer.
Or expensive water.
Just over there, in concrete banks, is the river.
Lights from the restaurants
The stands
The shops and lampposts
Fall on the river.
Something down there, in the dark and the wet,,
Grabs the lights
Tears them to pieces
Throws the shreds back up to the surface.
Like confetti.
Back at home,
With infinite patience,
Empty
Silent
Rooms
Wait.
Light drizzle.
Catches in one’s hair.
Tickles one’s face.
Speckles the glasses.
Pause under a street lamp.
Wipe away said speckles.
Replace the glasses.
Now a shape stands
Just at the periphery of vision.
Short.
Anonymous.
In a dark gray raincoat.
With the big hood pulled up over it’s head.
Walk on.
In the drizzle.
The figure walks beside.
Silent.
Hips sway beneath the plastic sheet.
Glance to the side.
Hard to be sure in the glare from shop lights
But
The nose protruding out from under the hood seems
Strangely
Pink…
Another block down, the huge old tree rises up to nearly fill
The space between the buildings.
Its roots have pushed askew some of the great stone blocks
Which make the base of the stone bridge over the river there.
Just down from there is the window of the bookstore. Above the bookstore,
A hotel towers up.
Past even the top of the great tree.
Stop in front of the bookstore window.
The figure stops beside you.
Turn to look in the window.
Can’t be sure – the face is turned toward you and the hood
Of the raincoat is in the way.
Your skin goes goosebumps.
Your heart squirms in your chest.
Nothing to do but turn and look.
Her smile! Those big blue eyes –deep as space
And glowing with intelligence and good humor!
It’s her!
Impossible, of course. No way.
Her delicate little muzzle. Pink nose…
Her grin shows just a little of the incisors behind her lips.
Of course it’s her.
This mystic night…
Cool….
Drizzle…
Lights and shadows,
Full of magick.
Of course it’s her.
“Golly! Aren’t you going to invite a girl to a cup of coffee?”
You should be flustered, sure, but…
You’ve dreamed of her
Thought of her
So long.
So long, that you’ve grown comfortable with her.
“Of course, sure!”
“How about the shop a couple of blocks down?
“The bakery? They have the best pastries to go with coffee.”
“You know that place? It’s one of the best.”
“I know. I’ve gone there with you before.”
“Uh, before?”
“I’ve walked this riverwalk with you on other nights.
“When we were both lonesome.
“I felt better walking with you, even if you couldn’t see me.
“And I know you felt better too.
She held out her hand.
Three fingers and a thumb.
Small, but strong.
Warm in your hand, against the drizzle and the night.
The bored and sleepy clerk hands over the coffee, and the pastries
Wrapped in wax paper.
Rings up the purchase.
Did he even notice that your companion wasn’t human?
Apparently, nobody else seems surprised.
Doesn’t auger well for your sanity, does it?
Past caring about that now.
Pull out her chair.
She seats herself.
She pulls up the back of her raincoat and her tail curls out from underneath.
You can see she’s barefoot.
“Are you cold?” You ask.
“No, I’m fine. My feet you mean? It’s okay – I’m made for this. I’m comfortable.”
Meanwhile, she’s pulled back the hood of her raincoat.
It’s her.
The vast mane of golden hair, hemmed in on top by her big ears and her goggles
And below by her raincoat.
No one seems to care.
She sips her coffee. She nibbles her pastry – full of strawberry filling.
“This was the first meal we shared together – do you remember?
“You read that story years ago – a silly fantasy about a human rescuing me from a plane
Crash. Nursing me back to health in a warm box. First time I looked over the edge of the
box
And saw him, he was drinking coffee and eating pastry. When he saw me awake, he
offered me
A piece. I climbed out of the box with it and gestured for some coffee in a soft-drink cap I
picked up.
“We’ve been together, ever since you read that.”
She licked some icing from her lips.
Not one of those gross, overdone things in comedies.
Just the least flash of pink.
A delicate and restrained gesture.
“Gadget?”
She smiles. Her muzzle wrinkles slightly.
“I … I don’t want to lose this moment, but – you can’t be real.”
Your voice cracks with sadness.
“Look outside. Look at the darkness. Is darkness real? It’s not something.
It’s the absence of something – light. How can darkness be real if it’s the lack of something
That is real – light? Eventually, you will have to go back home. Your rooms are silent and
empty.
Silence is absence of sound – emptiness the absence of feeling and joy. How can those
things
Be real? But do you doubt that they’re real?”
She takes another sip of her coffee.
Softly: “Do you want me to be real, metaphysical contradictions and all?”
“Yes!”
Her eyes seem to grow more moist.
“Thank you!
“Sometimes,
I get…
…lonely.”
“Lonely? – what about the boys?”
“Oh, despite all the fanfictions, there isn’t anything there. Dale’s pretty much taken
With Foxglove. And, to be honest, Chip’s not my type. He’s too controlling, honestly.
And I can’t hold a conversation with him – one sentence about RNA riboswitches,
Organic semiconductors, or computer algorithms and he’s changing the subject.
There might have been something with Sparky, but … well … when I’m walking with
You, or posing for your drawings I feel … natural … like I’m at home.
“I think we need each other. And your donut’s going to get stale!”
Before, the drizzle was sad.
Melancholy.
But now,
Her hand is in yours as you walk.
Now the drizzle
Is something to cherish – to celebrate!
It wraps the two of you, almost pushing you together.
You come to the big stone stairs that lead up to the street.
Traffic noises filter down – a faint but discordant jangle.
Intrusions from a less happy world.
Gently, your companion pulls you to the side of the big block,
Topped with a stone sphere, that guards the bottom steps.
“I can’t go up with you just yet. Soon, but not yet – no, don’t ask,
There’s no explaining it. Just promise me – please – promise me?
Promise you’ll keep me in your heart?”
“I promise!”
She leans back against the stone. Her eyes are half closed and her mouth
…
Her mouth half open.
Lean forward – afraid – needful – shaking….
Her muzzle is quite small but she still has to tilt her head up, and you have to
Turn yours to the side before your lips can come together.
Trembling
With passion, you kiss.
You’re close to panic – should you press harder? – show her more passion?
Should you kiss lightly – respectfully – not risk turning her off by being too aggressive?
Her eyes are closed.
You press your cheek to hers.
The drizzle falls softly and slowly all around you.
You are alone.
But not really.
Promises have been made.
And you mean to keep yours!
The riverwalk to your back, you start up the old stone stairs….
And it makes you feel good to the very core of your soul that you wrote something like that!!!
_________________ It is a mighty poor excuse for a drawing that is just lines on paper...
You can fool some of the people all of the time. You can fool all of the people some of the time. This is usually sufficient.
"I want to be remembered as 'that stubborn old man who just wouldn't die'." --- Grandpa Pickles
A: "Do you believe in free will?" B: "Do I have a choice?"
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