Romance Fiction posted November 4, 2016


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short story

Glorious Blues

by michaelcahill

Rhapsody in Blue Contest Winner 































 
You might say a bar of this nature could not house a dream of any consequence. But you would say that of any broken-down dreamer too. What if you could use your finger tips to rearrange the stars. Would you? Would you sit there at your table in the corner and check out the legs on that sweet lady who just walked through the saloon's swingin' doors?
 
Stardust shimmers at her ankles capturing your gaze. Like a miniature slow-moving tornado, it circles as your eyes are drawn upward on an endless journey. Her skirt is like the ocean caressing the beach, so inviting as it sifts through the sand and sneaks up onto the shore and back out again.

Helena did not possess pretense. The salted breeze that jetted over the waves seeking only to embrace the shore found a home within her. She was permanently arrived from afar and exotic. The plainest guise could not hide the ancient secrets hidden within. But one had to look with clear eyes to see. Clear eyes hunger or else they are sated and closed.
 
They say that adventure is innate within our souls. They say the desire to explore new things stirs a yearning within us and brings life into even the most morose of existences.
 
Troy ponders a ceiling fan pausing its motion ... stopping it, sending it backwards, then forwards, all the while plotting his potential future, a future once as bleak as the bottom of his empty glass. But now, a shock of black hair dances on shoulders without the slightest chance he could ever get near to let the softness brush his cheeks. The possibility begins as a tone trilling low, blending into a solid note, squeezing and sliding forward and up to the highest pitch where it releases in song.
 
Oh, my, the melody of possibility she has brought into the bleakness of despair.
 
The barkeep breaks the mood for the time being.
 
"Ladies and others! I direct your attestation elsewhere. Envy and jealousy have entered into an arm wrestling match center stage for your shock and edification."
 
In the middle of the room screams and laughter and wild innuendos fill the air. Two combatants with broken arms strain against each other with all their might. Neither moves, for there is no force in either limb. Despite the pain, neither will yield.

The crowd is inspired, and the battle begins. Those who one would dare call stereotypical shout out there monotone admonitions.
 
"I'm the toughest grunt for the hunt. Down I lay the gauntlet to all who would challenge."
 
"Ha. I've imbibed and my bib is soiled. I accept your challenge and crawl to battle!"
 
"Hit it, maestro!" 
 
The forest teems with the emergence of intellect as the fledging primates discover the opposability of thumb and forefinger. The pinching motion leads to harassment and those who would not demure swim to an island forever off limits to Oscar Meyer and his motley crew. The concept of cross-dressing averts certain extinction and the impressionist era of artistic expression flourishes. Angles of view remain an underground pursuit of the informed to this very day.
 
As the brawl ensues she smiles. She knows me wise to observe and save my energy.
 
As we swim naked in the nectar of a cocktail for two the ice slowly melts and we consume the olive together.
 
Envy and jealousy continue to scream out and the brawl continues in an even more amusing fashion. Gravity ceases and flight finally comes to mankind. There will never be proof enough to satisfy the scientific community and their worship of fact. Though the catatonic remain unmoved from their slumber, they are certainly on board with discovery and join in spirit.
 
We sit at our table now, our legs gently touching and our arms and hands occasionally encountering each other with purpose. Sparks fly from every encounter and flames engulf our thoughts even as every cool aspect of our being comes to the rescue.
 
"I fancy me a vagabond sailor. Tell me a tale of the tall seas if you please."
 
"It was a gale with hail and the wind of doom caused gloom as the sea swept my crew to their tomb. Alone with the monsters of the deep found me dreaming of you and this moment. Would they show me sympathy or would their own hideousness compel them to deny me this one wondrous epiphany of joy? Even a monster understands destiny. With the certainty of defeat staring them in their hideous faces they chose the abyss preferable to battle with my desire for you. They found wisdom somehow within the chaos of their own cataclysm."
 


within the cave
wonders astound
hope abounds
a treacherous egress
foreshadows uncertainty
risk for love
or settle for serenity

 

Together we escape the malaise of the corner watering hole. We leave envy, jealousy and the general desperation of loneliness behind. We make no promises and offer no futures for each other. We individually promise ourselves to extend kindness and comfort, even joy and pleasure if possible. We secretly decide to indulge the other. We make a pact with our better selves to be wonderful for the sake of it.

Coming upon a cave both foreboding and inviting, we enter. Circumnavigation seeking treasure is purpose enough. The treasure is already secure. But it must be shared and enjoyed for it to have value.
 
"I just want to touch every one of these. It's all so exotic, isn't it?" Helena runs her hand over the many stalactites and stalagmites that protruded everywhere. They are all covered in a viscous thick oil that is both bitter and sweet to the taste.
 
"Yes, I've never seen or tasted the like of it. Intoxicating." Troy slowly laps the slow dripping liquid seeming to ooze from every poor of the cave.
 
They begin to dance, tightly embraced in the semi-darkness. As much light emanates from their own heat as does from the long forgotten entrance. Though every protrusion has a firmness to it, all is soft to the touch and before long they discover reckless abandon in their dance. A slow waltz gives way to a tango, and then to free style expression. Neither notices an occasional bump or scrape. They give themselves to the wonders of exploration, the thrill of discovery.
 
Before long Helena inhales and Troy exhales. All colour but blue begins to vanish. They become softer and softer, and the knowledge of their own limbs and bodies obscures. One hand is the same as the other. Soon they are liquid, two blue rivers flowing through each other. Then, dozens of the deepest blue streams mingling. "We are blue! We are blue!" They both exclaim as the streams continue to flow together. Finally, the cave fills with their echoed screams of ecstasy, "I am blue, I am blue", spoken in one voice.
 
Helena blinks as the sun peeks in through the closed curtains like a curious child on Christmas eve. The evening floods back to her as the scents from their efforts flood her nostrils. She breathes in deeply and hugs her pillow. It smells like them. And now, the wonderful scent of bacon intrudes. She grabs his shirt from the floor and fixes one button in the middle as she follows that mouthwatering scent.
 
Troy stands in front of the stove in his boxer shorts intent over several pans and pots. A light is on in the oven and the coffee pot is full. The table features place settings for two. He turns and gasps slightly at the sight of her.
 
Her hair is disheveled and her makeup still a mess from their evening together. She is gorgeous to him, so much more so than he remembered.
 
"Seinfeld reruns for breakfast? It's like you can read my mind." She smiles as their eyes meet and both relive and acknowledge their glorious night together.
 
"I see you are an art aficionado, as am I. I love your poster. Words to live by, yes?"
 
Troy looks at the inscription below the late Autumn scene. It reads:

 

"the seasons are never as warm
without winter’s cold ..."

 

He smiles as their eyes meet. "Yes, I am certainly hoping so."
 
 
 



 


Rhapsody in Blue
Contest Winner




"the seasons are never as warm
without winter's cold ..."
From the gorgeous poem, Snowy Rumours by gloria ...
The inspiration for this piece. Read it: CLICK HERE

The only time I have ever quoted anyone in one of my pieces.
What can I say. The perfect words.

Attestation: The act of showing or evidence showing that something is true.





Pays one point and 2 member cents.


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