The Hollowness ( Sunday Muse #252)

The hollowness of long ago, vacates this day, falling away in your shadow, in the best of ways. You have come, conquering those concrete demons, replacing them with a rare joy that seems to wrap itself around my being inside and out. Like a clock, broken, abandoned and collecting dust within an ancient shop your healing touch rewinds me, soothing the parts back into a viable working spoke in this collection of time we share. Now, when my eyes find me closed, and my spirit chained to the past, you cause them to rise vapor-like in the desert, leaving me smiling and understanding, that ancient past is gone, buried deep in the ground where it shall never again rise.  

 

Another winter of content (Sunday Muse #251)

 

The snow, falls soft and steady outside, accumulating as abstracted outlines upon the structures of the yard. Bushes become frosted reminders of springs needed pruning while the cars change shapes, becoming large irregularly shaped snowmen.  The quietness hides the impending screams of the yearly cabin fever building with each flake, each so different, yet with the same goal of settling, resting briefly before turning into the water that will rush to the sea. I envision the wildflowers these frozen droplets shall fuel one day, but until then, I shiver and add another lifesaving piece of wood to the fire. My only goal now is to survive, to stay warm and to record the emotions of the storm as it rises up within me knowing I won't hear any knocks upon this frozen door. Trapped here is nothing new, each winter brings its best to remove me from the breath seeking segment of society, but I fight, to stay above the now cold ground and to find my voice on the blank pages of the glowing screen. I smile, smug in my battle plan, yet unaware of the snows attempts to break the branches of the many trees lining this lane, hoping to snap the lifeline wires that bring me everything. It is in that reminder I grow, as the house stops offering me a bountiful bonanza and morphs into a needy underfed infant crying incessantly. Its then that I can hear the snow laughing in the gentle gravity fed dance that still seeks to quiet my restless writing.     

Truman and Sara (Sunday Muse 250)

 

Truman really was unremarkable in every way. Large glasses framing his thin face and even thinner hair, and a simple black hat and bow tie allowed him to fly under society’s radar for his entire life. His days, spent alone in old book shops often wiping the dust from their weathered jackets, covering the fading verbiage, long forgotten, even by those who crafted such fine pieces of assembled words. His pleasure was not so much in the absorption of those words, but in the reading of any odd notes addressed to the last owner of such bindings. He really didn’t understand his habit, but it drove every second of his free time. A few books had piqued his interest over the years, a couple of well-placed words and once, a poem that seemed so familiar to him, as if taken from his own thoughts, but nothing, like today’s visit would bring.

 

Ammos and Dunn’s fine and rare books was where he ducked in at lunch that day. Skipping past the regular genres his mood was a bit darker, passing the horror and doom and gloom he stopped at a peculiar looking binding. Judging it, he pulled it towards him and felt a slight electrical current in his fingertips. Hesitating to some extent, he removed it, opening it. His eyes grew wide as he ran his finger across the picture discovered inside and then, he dropped the book.

 

Years have passed, Truman now spends his days tending to his own rare bookstore, quite large even by a larger cities’ standards, Truman and Sara’s rare books is a destination in itself on this usually quiet island, now crawling with summer tourists. His looks haven’t much changed but, his energy has, it fills any room he enters.  That would be especially true in Sara’s case as she finds him quite addictive. Her days are enchanted for lack of a better word, and no one seems to notice her vocabulary is odd in the sense of it being more appropriate for the 1800’s than present day. Most pass it off as the learned education of a true book worm rather than that of a person who is actually from 1823.

 

You see, back on the day Truman that found that strange book, something happened that even I can’t fully explain. Inside was a picture, old, tattered and fading but enough remained that one could see it was a woman standing, holding Trumans picture. He didn’t recognize it but when he ran his finger across it to clear off the dust the woman in the picture moved. Her face became clear, and he could hear the sounds of the city street behind her. Truman cleared his throat and spoke meekly, “Hello?” Sara had blushed and said, “Hello Truman, I’ve been waiting for you my love”.

 

From the little I know, Sara instructed Truman to rub the photo again which rumor has it caused Sara to appear in person. Months passed and Sara told him things that couldn’t be possible but held no other explanation than what she'd given. She had been looking for him since his death in 1821 in London. The little she had in her pockets had been the gold coins, now old and rare which brought them the funds they needed to start the store and fill it with more rare books, each placed upon the shelfs after being inspected by a much grateful Truman.