Jefferson Davis » Short Stories

Redlight Antics

Jefferson Davis — Thu, 02 Jun 2011 01:32:32 +0000

A few days ago I entered a pact with K8 the Gr8. If one of us blogs, the other has to. It has worked out great and finally got me off my arse and got my fingers on the keyboard where they belong. I’m writing whatever comes to mind, ‘til I can sort out some short fiction that I’m working on.

This evening, I decided to go down to city centre to peruse the park and surroundings and hopefully get some pictures. I got more than I bargained for, but I like surprises. I was making my way through the exhaust fumes of the traffic, when out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of a redhead that that I know standing on the corner when I was about to turn.

I rolled down the window, leaned out, and said, “Hey Red, come here”.

She looked over while jabbering something inaudible on her mobile. She came running over with those beaming green eyes and her infamous strawberry golden ringlets flailing in the summer zephyr.

“What are you doing down here?” I asked whilst observing the man in a BMW convertible, grinning from ear to ear.

“I’m down here to meet some girlfriends for dinner”, she said whilst leaning into the truck.

“Can I come along?” I asked while watching her look at herself in the side mirror.

The light is about to turn green by this point.

“No”, she exclaims.

“Get your cute butt in here and you can hang out with me ‘til they get here.”

She hopped in the other side and I looked over at the guy in the BMW. He shook his head, and yelled, “Man, I ain’t never seen a white boy pick up a chick like that. You sure you’re not part brother?”

“Hey, I’m everyone’s brother”, I said, as I laughingly pulled away.

She hung out with me while I took pictures and told me about every minute of everyday I had missed. She talks 24/7!

The girls showed up and they went off to play. I love her to bits, but my patience for her antics is finite these days. Actually, she and Scarlet from a previous post are a lot alike. That’s what scares me! What can I say, I have a genetic predisposition for redheads.

Hey barkeep, tell us the story.

Jefferson Davis — Wed, 01 Jun 2011 03:39:57 +0000

In the previous post, I discussed a party I went to over the previous weekend. Believe it or not there was more to that party. The music may have slowed a bit, but it didn’t stop ‘til dawn.

I find myself behind the bar serving shots of Vodka, Whiskey, Scotch, and Bourbon. There were three or four men wobbling around, smoking cigarettes, and laughing. The atmosphere was one of a man cave. Smoke is so thick I can barely see to pour. And, the rolling stones are blaring through a myriad of speakers inside and outside on the deck. All of this is going on at about 3AM.

One of the blokes holds up his glass, and says, “Here, Here”.

“What are we celebrating?” Asks another whilst trying not to fall backwards.

“Your health”, says I.

Everyone busts into laughter, spilling expensive booze in the process.

“To America and Ireland, may they both shine brightly again(A mate that has researched his ancestors since I told him of my adventure researching mine.).”

“I’ll drink to that”, says I, whilst pouring myself a shot of Jameson.

One of the guys drunkenly spills his booze.

“Don’t worry about it. Not even the president can do it right”, says I whilst laughing.

“So JD, is it true that European women don’t shave?” One of them ask a bit arrogantly. You tell one person something in confidence and then everyone knows.

“Ah come on fellas. Go over and find out for yourselves.” Says I, trying to change the subject.

“Was she bare, bikini waxed, or natural?” One of them asks like a giddy school boy.

I looked around the room. There were no women in sight, so I said something inappropriate and all of the guys laughed. About that time I heard a shuffle behind me. It was a good friends wife whom I immensely respect. She didn’t say anything standing there with a handful of rubbish. She just gave me the look of disappointment that is worse than a stabbing.

“What would you expect me to say, you know what she did?” I pleadingly yell, trying to excuse my own ignorance.

“I’d expect you to tell them to mind their own damn business”, says she whilst going up the stairs. She has been a good friends throughout the years. Disappointing her is like disappointing my mother or an aunt.

“I’m proud of ya, JD”, says one of them whilst heading up the stairs to pass out.

That’s when I went and sat by the waters edge and listened to the serene rhythmic terpsichore of the water lapsing against shoreline.

Point of post: When it comes to your women, present or past, gents, keep your mouths shut. I know better but half drunkenly rambled on anyway. Me running my mouth was what started our demise in the first place.

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Scarlet Yarn

Jefferson Davis — Tue, 31 May 2011 04:03:33 +0000

“I don’t care if a guy has money”, says she, a scarlet temptress..

A friend and I laughed so hard we almost spilled our booze. The atmosphere transformed from one of laughter to one of insanity not long after that.

A person can observe more of the good and bad bits of humanity in an hour at a party than they can in a week on the streets. I attended a huge party this past weekend, celebrating Memorial Day. I laughed more in an hour than I probably have in a month. Watching people fall down in a drunken stupor is quite hilarious. I am old enough and wise enough to know my limits.

Parties evolve in layers. The first layer is one of welcoming each other to the party, finding the secret stash of booze and food. The second layer is one of happiness and hilarity when everyone starts loosening up and telling stories from the past. The third is one of hilarity and telling secrets that should not be told. The forth is a layer of watching the lightweights pass out in their own vomit and laughing about it. The fifth is one of seriousness and solidarity, when people really show their true colours.

I spent most of the evening talking to different people, trying to catch up on who was doing who. One woman with blonde hair glistening in the moonlight caught my eye as she approached the house from the dock sitting so elegantly in the still water.

“Please excuse my hair…It’s a mess”, she said with an enormous smile, as she bundled it into a ponytail.

“You look great anytime, girl”, I said while grinning from ear to ear. (Mind you, in the Southern US, we call a woman a girl until she’s old and wrinkled.)

She giggled and tried to cover her smile.

“I’m in my “”I don’t give a damn, I’m at the lake”” outfit”, I laughingly muttered whilst pointing at my torn denims and T-shirt.

She laughed again.

As I was about to say something quite cunning, Scarlet (That’s what I’ll call her.) poked me in the back.

“Hey, it’s your turn for shots, JD”, Scarlet said, as she weaved her drunken way back up the path.

“IS she…?”

“No, she’s dating a friend of mine”, I muttered with a bit of a jocular tone.

“Good thing it’s not you, she looks bossy”, said she with a big smile.

“Are you here with…?”

“I’m flying solo tonight, (Name withheld out of respect.)”, I said with a bigger smile.

About the time I was going to ask her if she wanted a drink, a few blokes came up from the dock.

One of them playfully grabbed her by the arm, and asked, “Who is this?”

“This is JD…We’ve known each other for ages”, she muttered with a bit of trepidation.

“Well, I better get up there before Scarlet comes back and drags me back”, I mumbled whilst making my way back up the path.

I turned around and she gave me that “save me from these idiots” look, but I was angry that she came with someone else so I continued up to the party. We crossed glances a few more times before she left with the idiots to go to yet another party.

A mate of mine kept pushing Scarlet to do more shots. I caught him throwing good Grey Goose into a flower pot while she wasn’t looking. I knew what he was up to, but I’d never do anything like that. Of course, I have values and morals that keep me from doing a lot of things. As much as I hate them sometimes, they do keep me out of trouble and out of the emergency room.

As the night grew longer, Scarlet slurred more and began saying things that a woman of any age should not say. I was not sober but far from drunk, so I did my best to keep her from doing something she’d regret. I went outside and told my friend, her boyfriend, that he needed to take her upstairs before she did something stupid. He enquired as to what we be so stupid. I didn’t have to say anything, nor would I. He went in and a few minutes later she was barfing and finally went to sleep. The ambiance was far from tranquil as I perused the yard, poking passed out people, trying to get them to go inside.

I sat in the darkness at the waters edge, enjoying the sweet sound of peace and the occasional splash of a bass breaking the waters still surface. I went to my beloved car and scribed two poems. Eventually, I passed out in the Beetle.

The next morning, I awoke to a crisp sunrise and people snoring. When Scarlet finally got up, I didn’t get a thank you, but I didn’t expect one. People rarely remember the stupid shite they do when they are legless. Sometimes I get sick and tired of being everyone’s big brother, but it does have its rewards.

It is not my intention to imply upon the reader that parties are bad or that drinking is bad. I had a blast and will do it again. But, there are some undertones that could use some discussion. I wish I could go into more detail about Scarlet and the other woman, but I do not betray peoples trust. And, no crimes were committed thanks to yours truly. Watch how much you drink and keep those you care about close to you. And, for the love of God, if you are crazy about someone, let them know. They may feel the same way. At least you’ll know one way or the other. Learn from me, a rover, and I’ll learn from you.

Daring Moonbeams

Jefferson Davis — Sun, 07 Mar 2010 05:34:58 +0000

I lay in a deep slumber after a week of travelling and an arduous workload.

buzz….Ring….buzz…Ring….Ring

I awake to a fuzzy and out of focus bedroom with moonlight still filtering through the curtains. An eerie tune pierces my subconscious, as I glance over to find my mobile vibrating across the bedside table. I go to grab it but my arms are not quite obeying my brain yet. Finally, I make more effort and am able to grab it. I gaze, vision still blurry, at the caller id and lay in shock for a moment.

It can’t be. What’s she doing calling me after all of this time?

In disbelief, I answer the incoming call.

“Hello”, I mumble in disbelief.

“Hello stranger”, a quirky feminine voice says.

“What time is it?” I demand while wiping sleepiness from my eyes.

“It’s time for you quit dreaming and talk to me. It’s 9A.M. and brilliant out.” She states in a chipper tone.

“Aaarrgghh….That means it is 4A.M. here”, I exclaim while trying to get my bearings.

“Early to bed, early to rise, right?”

“Auld Ben would be proud to know that his proverbs are still being reverberated around the globe”, I mutter whilst primping.

“I would hope so, yes.”

“I’m very glad to hear from you, but it’s early so what are you after?”

The silence and lulling buzz of thousands of miles of wires is deafening.

Don’t screw this up JD. She called for something.

“I’m sorry. It’s just early and you know how I am before dawn”, I utter in an apologetic fashion hoping to hear her beauteous vocalisations again.

“I called because….” Her voice broke while trying to tell me why she was calling.

“It’s alright. You can tell me.”

“I….. I had a dream about you last night. I dreamt that I was walking alone in a moony ancient misty woodland. instinctively, I walked between two rows of old oak trees. I searched through the hauntingly thick fog to no avail. I could only see the naked limbs of the trees stretching out and almost touching one another above my head. I peered through the bare branches to discover a clear yet starless night sky. Only a lone and focused moonbeam lit the path ahead of me….”

“Oh, this is getting good…” Says i with a wee bit of a humorous tone.

“Don’t interrupt. Anyway, as I was saying, I was following this moonbeam through an ancient woodland when a silhouette came into focus. I couldn’t tell who it was but I felt that I had to reach that person, so I walked faster being guided by the brilliant moonlight. The light stopped and shone on the person at the end of the forest. Suddenly I realised that it was you standing at a fork in the path spreading out in four directions. You motioned for me to come closer. My heart was racing, as I jumped into your warm embrace. You grabbed my hand and a brilliant white light flooded the dark forest with rays of a warm summers day. In an instance, we were standing atop a mountain overlooking a valley covered in wildflowers….”

“Wow”, I yell in awe of her incredible story.

“Almost finished so zip it. Anyhow, we ran through the wildflowers hand in hand laughing and….”

“What else did we do?”

“You took me to a clearing in the tall wildflowers where a cloth had been laid and food was waiting. We talked and laid there for hours and you promised to never leave me. We fell asleep in each others arms. I awoke to find myself back in the misty woodland. I searched and cried your name in that lonesome place for what seemed for an eternity. I woke up this morning screaming your name.” She cried, whilst trying to hold back her emotions.

“I bet yer husband didn’t like that?” I laughingly enquire.

“We…We are separated. I couldn’t care less what that gobshite thinks.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, I tried to make it work but we got married for all of the wrong reasons”, she answers, as her tears rush through the phone weakening my knees.

“I’m sorry. I know….”

“Dammit, it’s yer fault”, she exclaims whilst squalling.

“How is it my fault”, I demand in a serious tone.

“Because…Because, I still love you, Jefferson Day-vees.”

A great chill ran down my spine as a lone tear ran down my sleepy countenance. I had waited so long to hear those words from her.

“I have never stopped loving you, my dear”, Says I, as a warm surge of life leapt back into my body.

“Well then, come and see me, and let us see how it goes. I can’t the weight of being without you any longer.” She pleads whilst breaking down over the phone.

“I’ll be on the next plane out, so I should be there by tomorrow morning”, Says Iin a hurried manner.

“Call me back as soon as you get an arrival time and gate number. I’ll be there to pick you up. I love you.”

“I love you too. I’ll see you soon.”

The next thing I knew, I was packed and on a plane crossing the Atlantic. As the plane approached and crossed over the familiar rolling green hills, I couldn’t help but smile, knowing that she’d be in my arms in just under an hour. While looking out at the cloudless horizon, which was rare for this area around this time of year, I discovered a bright orb approaching our position at an incredible speed. It was flying towards the very window overlooking the left wing that I was facing.

Suddenly, I was blinded by the incredible radiance emanating from the orb.

I jumped from my seat screaming her name and realised seconds later that I was back in my bedroom alone. It took several minutes of head scratching to realise that the entire episode was just a mere dream and that I was back in the real world.

Exhausted and in disarray from such an eerie dream, I slowly looked out the window to see a bright and tepid Saturday morning. So, I got ready and went for a walk in the sunshine to clear my head.

Sometimes I wonder why we have such whacky dreams. Mind you, I had to fill in a few gaps where the woolgathering memory lapses. I’ve never been able to understand why I and others can remember our dreams and others can’t recall anything from a dream. I think our dreams are an effort of our subconscious enacting what we truly want. Some may dream of flying into space, while others may dream of changing something in their lives or hearing words they’ve wanted to hear but know they’ll never hear.

Dreamland is a mysterious place to visit but not a place to stay.

Campin’

Jefferson Davis — Sat, 22 Aug 2009 03:10:03 +0000

On the 13th of this month, Dr. Don, his three boys, and myself went on a camping trip up to the mountains. I had promised them a camping trip several months back and the start of school was near. So, we headed up the winding roads with camping gear and food.

I made the campsite arrangements over the phone. I asked the kind lady to give us a riverside site close to the trail entrance. I knew we’d be carrying a lot of gear up the rocky trail and wanted to make it as easy as possible on the lads.

We arrived and geared up. I carried 80lbs. worth of supplies in my backpack along with the tent and a lantern. After going about a mile up the trail, we collapsed at the first bivouac. It was number eight, so I left the kids and headed further up by myself to see what the next number was. The next one was number nine. I surmised that the lady put me at the other end of the trail which was another seven miles up a craggy path.

After talking to a few hikers, we decided to take number eight since no one was using it. After all, I paid for a full size site, so it was not like I would be cheating the park service out of any money.

The kids went fishing while I put up the tent. Dr. Don’s only duty was to bring dry wood. He brought WET wood. It took us about half an hour to get the fire roaring. He crashed in the tent, and I started unpacking supplies. The boys returned with a bucket full of wee trout for eating.

I decided to return to the truck to get some fuel for the lantern. I discovered the ranger looking at my truck, when I got to the parking lot. He asked what site we were on and I explained our wee dilemma. We went to the rangers station to see if anyone would be staying on #8 that night. Unfortunately, someone was supposed to be on that site that evening, so he checked to see if anything close was available.

Luckily, #9 was available, so I headed back up the trail with the bad news that we’d have to move. I told the lads that there was a much better site on the other side of the ridge and proceeded to pack up the tent and supplies.

Again, we headed up the rocky path to our new destination. We arrived and unpacked yet again. The youngsters played in the river, as I worked on yet another fire. Dr. Don took another nap! You would truly be amazed how quickly a fire can boost moral.

Dr. Don’s oldest son and myself worked on the fire for almost an hour before we got it roaring. The lads wanted to cook their fish over the fire. I laughed and told them how good they were going to taste when the guts exploded. So, I taught the boys how to clean fish. We cooked steaks, trout, and beans over the open flame. Protein is a must when out in the wilderness.

As darkness fell over the pine laden mountain range, the lads roasted marshmallows and told scary stories. I sat back and inhaled the crisp mountain air. There’s nothing better for what ails you than a bit of time with nature. It helps us appreciate what we have.

We all turned in quite early, exhausted from the trip. But, about midnight nature called and I had to oblige its beckoning. When I returned from the woodlands illuminated by a lantern, I discovered a figure sitting by the fire. Dr. Don’s eldest was up as well. He couldn’t sleep, so we decided to make a late night trip back to the truck to get more water for the morning.

Only illumined by the wee lantern, we found the trail brimming with life. We encountered field rats, eastern diamondback rattlesnakes, and king snakes. We were very wary of the diamondbacks! It would be unwise to leave one’s tent open at night. They like warm places.

The next morning we got up and made a unanimous decision to hike up to Rainbow Falls which is only about three more miles up the trail. However, it is one of the hardest trails to hike around due to the 2,000 foot ascent.

The boys were so excited and in such a hurry that we missed the turn off. We continued on Jone’s Gap Trail ‘til we reached Jone’s Gap Falls. We were content with that, so we settled down and let the boys play on the slippery rocks for about an hour. They climbed the rocks and slid down to the collecting poll at the bottom of the falls. I had a blast just watching them have so much fun.

We arrived back to our tent without any water. I have excellent water purification skills but did not want to take a chance on the lads getting sick. So, we packed up and headed home. The lot of us went home exhausted yet happy. The lads are still telling stories of our escapades in the woods, and I have a new appreciation for the loo!

P.S.: Like a true eejit, I left me camera at the door on my way out. All photos were taken with my phone. A bit crappy, but eh?

Martian Baby

Jefferson Davis — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 03:40:55 +0000

I had a dismaying yet hilarious dream the other night. For whatever reason, I have some of the most vivid dreams that I can recall on cue than most folks. It’s as though I have lived countless lives in one lifetime. My mother is a reincarnation nut. She consumes books on the subject, thus she enjoys interpreting all of me dreams.

Before I started counting sheep that night, I had been on the phone discussing subjects that shall not be disclosed on the blog. Sheep started hopping over the bed, so I drew closed my weary palpebras and travelled to that mythical place we call dreamland.

I awoke to a fiery woman screaming for me to get out of bed, for she had important news. So, she sat me down and told me that I was going to be a pops.

We went to the doctor to verify such a suggestion. She was indeed with child, so we started making preparations for the baby. I was a happy man, and so was my family. I had finally done something right, so to speak.

Eight months flew by with the snap of a finger and I found myself in the delivery room. The fiery woman in question had transformed from that of a slim recherché figure to that of a bus with long pinkish-red marks along the side to boot.

She grabbed me by the hand and squeezed harder and harder with every contraction. The doctor told me look because the baby was crowning. While still under the clutches of her grip, I glanced down discovering the utter destruction that is child birth and cringed, almost passing out.

In that brief second, I noticed something weird besides the budging and ripping of skin and flesh. There were two green antennae pushing through to the outside world.

Seconds passed as she made the final push. I heard a great cry from beyond the belly, and the doctor said, “Look Dad”.

He proudly held up the radiantly green baby, pointing at the ten fingers and toes and wiggling antennae.

“Beep…Beep” Said the baby, as the two short antennae atop his head darted from side to side and an ominous grin overtook his wee green countenance.

With my mouth agape, I screamed, “That’s not my baby”.

The fiery woman squeezed my hand immensely harder, and exclaimed, “He’s yours”.

“There ain’t no way that martian is any of my genes”, I yelled whilst trying to get away from her death grip.

I ran out of the hospital with an enraged woman and crawling baby Martian following close behind.

Beep…Beep

So, it’s your turn to analyse one of my whacky dreams. God help you.

Ever dream of martians?

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A flash of broken Mirrors

Jefferson Davis — Sun, 21 Jun 2009 04:42:54 +0000

Wednesday afternoon I was in city centre doing a quick walkabout to stretch my legs. As I sauntered past the white collar littered promenade at lunchtime, a crowd of suits sped past me. One of them pushed me and my camera gear up against a brick building facade.

Normally, I would have brushed him off as an eejit and went on my way. But, I had something eating at my gut, so this little incident sent me slightly over the edge. I have nothing against people in suits. I have a lot of suits. I enjoy looking professional, but being that I’m a country boy, I am much more comfortable in denims and a t-shirt.

“What is your problem?”

He turned around, looked at me, whispered something to a cohort, laughed, and continued on his way.

Just the mere mannerisms and holier than though attitude infuriated me further, so I bit my bottom lip and lectured, “Between me and my family, we pay over a ****** ******* dollars to this state alone every year, so as long as I’m following the laws and mores of our wee society, I’ll walk where, when, and how I want…I’d be more careful of who I knock over, if I were you”.

“Oh Yeah?” He enquired whilst cockily crossing his arms and snickering with his twenty something pals.

“Yeah”, I boldly stated.

“Who’s your father then, tough guy?”

““*** Davis.”

“The *** Davis?”

“The one and only”, I answered whilst sighing.

“You’re kidding me, right?” He jokingly asked whilst destroying a piece of gum.

“No.”

“*** Davis has no son…he has three girls. I know him. My firm, *********, does work for him”, he laughingly hollered as a crowd gathered.

“He has six children, whether you know it or not”, I muttered while turning to walk away.

“If I were you, I’d be more careful about lying to make yourself feel big", the chump yelled whilst pushing his comrades forward.

The English lady from the coffee house that I was standing in front of patted me on the back and told me not to mind him. I had a café noir fuelled walk and went home.

Later that night, I was sitting here at my desk fuming about what the bloke said. As hard as it was to swallow, it was almost the truth. I had not talked to him in months. We had a wee bit of a falling out over a wee money issue. I had called his phone on numerous occasions and left messages trying to rectify the situation, but to no avail.

I went to the kitchen cupboards to fetch some Earl Grey and there peering out of the dark recess was a brand new bottle of a precious beverage from Ireland. I grabbed one of my grandfathers favourite glasses and the green bottle. Humour flowed from a TV show I rarely miss loosely based on the FDNY as well as the bottle.

A crack of thunder rattled the windows, as I searched the darkness for the incoming light show. The rain had lightly been pelting against the office window all night. While trying to grab a ciggy and a light, I stumbled a bit not realising how much I had consumed.

I stood at the back door and gazed out into the blackness of the garden. While smoking that one ciggy, a thought popped into my bevvied head. So, I grabbed my keys and phone and headed out the door.

I ran from one wet street to another until I approached the main thoroughfare. Soaked from head to toe, I stopped and gawped at the quarter moon peering through a gap in the heavy mist. I gazed at the moon, while standing on that sidewalk, enquiring as to why things are the way they are. Then, a suburban whizzed by covering me in road muck.

So, I decided to run to the 24hr bistro, encountering heavy raindrop laden puddles, like broken mirrors illuminated by lightning strikes along my path. When I got to the bistro, one of the waitresses that I know offered me a towel to dry off and brought me a cup of coffee. She asked if I was alright, and of course, I said I was fine. She knew better because I never show up in the middle of the night. She told me to call Red, an off and on again petite amie.

12:30AM Ring…ring…ring…ring

“Hello”, she whispered.

“Hey”, I hollered in a half inebriated manner.

“What time is it?” She pleaded as the ruffling of covers and feathers could be heard over the phone.

“It’s 12:30. I’m at the bistro. I need you to pick me up so we can talk.”

“Are you kiddin’ me?” She enquired with a bit of disdain in her tone.

“No.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Only slightly”, I uttered whilst trying not to laugh.

Click

I reasoned that she was mad at me for waking her up, so I finished my coffee. The kind waitress offered to call me a cab, but I benignantly refused. I took my time walking home. The thunderous storm had passed and a murkiness thick enough to cut through with one’s body had settled in its place.

It was around 1:30 in the morning, when I turned onto my street. I sneakingly walked past the other houses, hoping not to wake my ever alert grandmother that lives two houses down.

By the time I approached my front yard, the audaciousness and silliness had wavered. I discovered a glint of something on my front stoop. Scared, I drew closer. A figure came into view through the vapours. I got closer and realised it was…

It was her. She walked up to me shivering, her countenance filled with rage and worry.

Slap

“Don’t you ever scare me like that again”, she whispered in my ear.

I had never been prouder than at that moment. It was not my intention to worry her or anyone else, but it was nice to know that she cares.

For Her:

Freckles is a savage word.

How about dapples of lust,

Honey sisters,

Blunders of the Sun,

Love in lace,

Damsel’s shivers,

Silent baubles,

Caramel kisses,

Blotch of arcs,

Or a serene flock?

To Pops: Happy Fathers Day, dude! You’ll always be my pops, and I hope to make you proud one day. A little bit of time is all I’m asking for.

P.S.: Drinking and smoking are not things that I condone or would suggest that anyone start. I don’t have an addictive personality, so I can get away with the occasional drink or gasper.

P.P.S.: Most of us have father issues in one form or another. Our fathers are our fathers no matter what. Tis best to love them, because we never know when we or them may not wake up one morning.

Honour thy Father and thy Mother.

Thanks Gramps

Jefferson Davis — Thu, 14 May 2009 03:05:42 +0000

As the sound of splintering white oak limbs reverberated across the large ravine, I thought of my grandfather. If it were not for him, I wouldn’t have known what to use to shelter myself from the horrendous rainstorm that blew out of nowhere deep in the wilderness trails of Caesar’s Head State Park. I would not have known how to get safe drinking water, when my water reserves ran out. And, I certainly would not know how to track, kill, and clean deer or bears, if such an extreme were necessary.

Saturday morning I decided to go hiking by me self. It is irritating when someone offers to join me, yet he or she only has a two or three hour window in which to hike. That is utterly useless. When I go hiking, I hike for at least four hours. I go on wild walkabouts simply for the journey. The constantly changing elevation and terrain is better than any tread climber. The scenery isn’t bad either.

On a usual trip, I see snakes (this time too), wild boars, bears, wildflowers, and of course, huge squirrels. It is indeed a treat to hike through the mountainous terrain that is my home.

Grandfather and I spent every summer of my youth camping, fishing, and hiking. He taught me everything I know about how to survive in the wild. He spent ages teaching me which wild berries are edible along with how to clean animals. I didn’t always enjoy it, but sitting here today, I am very grateful that he passed it on to me.

His parents died in a car wreck, when he was seven. His mothers family on the Cherokee reservation took him in and raised him ‘til he was thirteen. The elders of the tribe treated him as one of their own, even though his father was ‘white’. He was taught all of the traditions that were still being passed down through the generations at that time. Sadly, most of these teachings are fading away with the memory of the trail of tears.

Gramps was on his on from his teens until he met my grandmother at a dance in 1949. They were head over heels for each other from that point forward and married in ‘50. Both had jet black hair yet managed to have three blonde haired, blue-eyed children.

Everyone called him Abe, because he was a spitting image of Abraham Lincoln. I don’t know if he fashioned his beard like Lincoln’s on purpose, but he definitely got a kick out of the remarks. At 6’5”, he had the stature of a giant and the posture of a titan. Throughout his life, he had five heart attacks. I never heard the man whine or whimper once in the seventeen years that I knew him.

When I was a wee lad, he would take me bowling. This happened quite frequently, since I was sick a lot and unable to go to school. On one occasion, a drunk started mocking me because of the way I talked. He made the mistake of calling me retarded. Gramps hit him so hard and fast that the man slid halfway down the alley.

He taught me a lot about life, but the most important one of all was to keep going down that wacky, and sometimes wicked, trail we call life no matter how arduous it may become. So, I kept going down that lengthy trail soaked from head to toe and already exhausted. Five miles later, a few blisters and bruises, and wrecked knees I emerged victoriously. Fifteen miles through some of the toughest mountainous terrain the Southern United States can provide.

Survivor Tip: If you are in need of water and it happens to be raining (lucky you/me), simply ring out your clothes. I got enough water out of my t-shirt and a few leaves to almost fill up the water bottle. I could have used water from the rivers and streams that surround the trails, but I would have had to set up camp, start a fire, and boil the water. Because of pollution and disease, the water in the rivers and streams is not safe to drink unless boiled. You’re not supposed to drink from rivers right after it rains anyway due to the animal faeces that washes off the banks.

How ‘bout some pictures?

Lottery

Jefferson Davis — Wed, 26 Nov 2008 04:44:18 +0000

I had the wildest dream last night. I dreamt that I won the lottery. It was a magnificent dream.

Just as I left the petrol station with my ticket, I heard the numbers over the radio of a passing car and realised that I had won fifty million dollars. I leapt in the air, and yelled, “YeeHaaw”.

I ran inside, knocking people over on my way to the clerk, and slammed my ticket down on the counter, demanding my cashola. The clerk called the officials and the local news media. People swarmed around me, as I kept a tight grip on the ticket like a child to a bottle.

The state lottery officials arrived and validated the ticket. They shook my hand and offered their felicitations.

We were directed outside where hundreds of people had gathered. The media van strobe lights were beaming into my retinas, as I ran outside. The clickety-clack of camera shutters reverberated through the station, as I stood in awe of the mass of people here to see little ol’ me.

“What do you plan on doing with the money?” A reporter from a fox affiliate pleaded, whilst ramming her mic in my face.

A great silence swept over the crowd awaiting my response.

“I will give a large sum to charity, and go make things right with an ex.. And, I’ll deposit the rest of my money in the Bank of England.”

A great gasp echoed through the crowd from right to left. People stood still, with their mouths agape.

“I’m just kidding…the Bank of Ireland”, I laughing muttered, as I took in the seriousness of the matter.

I had to go to the Supreme Court to get my money. By then a quarter of it had been sucked up by blood sucking lawyers.

I put my money in an international bank just to spite the haters. I picked up Dr. Don, Brian F., and we headed for Dublin.

The last thing I remember was buying everyone in the Temple Bar district a round of drinks.

What would you do, if you won the lottery?

I’d try to make a difference in this whacky world. Of course, I’d have to have Guinness and Bulmers air shipped to me wherever I would be.

I’d have to by the Playboy mansion for weekend excursions.

I could ramble on about lost love and how much I wish I could rewind the clock, but I’m not going to. It’s not over ‘til it’s over.

Never underestimate a Davis.

P.S.: I sincerely apologise for not being around to pester the lot of you lately.

Tempestuous Wake

Jefferson Davis — Sat, 01 Nov 2008 05:21:26 +0000

It was a particularly warm and stormy Allhallows Eve on that fateful night. A storm was building round the ridges of the mountains that encircled the house. Flaming orange streaks ripped across the steel grey horizon to the west.

Grandpa sat in his rocking chair next to the oil fired stove in the corner. Unswayed by the roar thundering down the cotton hills, he sipped a cup of coffee and read the paper.

Nanna, on the other hand, gazed intently out at the lightning dancing around the pine trees. She and I sat on the couch under the south facing window and watched the dark clouds spill over the mountain tops and down to the valley below.

She turned to me with those beady green eyes and elevated eyebrows, and asked, “Would you like me to tell you scary story?”.

“He’ll have nightmares”, grandpa said, as he lit a cigar.

“No I won’t”, I muttered as the wind whooshed ‘round the house.

“Wuuuuhhhhhh”, he whispered while making spooky noises across the room.

“Behave Dee”, Nanna hollered whilst smiling at him.

“Are you ready?” She enquired, as she looked out at the closing storm.

“I’m ready”, I whispered while sitting Indian style.

“I grew up in a log cabin up high in the mountains….”

“What were the logs made of?” I asked with great enthusiasm.

“Let me finish”, she muttered as the wind picked up outside.

“How many rooms did it have?”

“Let me finish, please”, she stated, as she and grandpa laughed.

“Sorry…”

“Anyway, I grew up in a small log cabin with eight brothers and sisters. All of us slept in one bed, except for Frank. We called him stinky. He had a cot to himself. Momma and daddy slept in the main quarters next to the kitchen. It was a small place for so many kids….”

“When does it get scary?”

Grandpa laughed so hard that he almost spit out his cigar.

Nanna patted me on the head, and said, “Hush".

“One evening in the fall, Carey, the eldest sister, and I went down to the creek to fill four pails with water, as we did almost every evening when the boys had been out working. We had supper that night without a care in the world. Dad played the harmonica and mother played the dulcimer by the fire, as us kids sat in awe of them…”

“What happened next?” I demanded as a loud crack of thunder rumbled through the house.

“The next morning I went to wake Sarah to feed the animals and collect eggs for breakfast. I found her side of the bed was soaked with sweat. She was burning up with fever and uttering nonsense. We sent Frank on horseback to Dr. Billings house a few miles away.”

“What happened to your sister?”

Grandpa laughed again and went to the kitchen.

“Boy”

“By the time he got there….”

“Who?”

“The doctor…zip it!”

“When he arrived, we were all gathered around Carey. Mother was praying and reading passages from the family bible, while I and the other sister kept cool rags on her forehead. We had seen it before. I once had nine siblings, but Daniel died of a the same fate”, she mumbled, as she got up to light another candle.

Nanna ran through the house closing windows, forgetting the one where we sat. She and papa came back from the kitchen, he with a glass of milk and her with a ball of yarn and needle.

“All of the kids, including myself, huddled around the kitchen table praying and holding back our tears. We feared the worse for good reason. We had already lost a brother.

A great chill went down my spine, as I heard mother scream to the top of her lungs. Dr. Billings shortly followed by dad came down the ladder. I had never seen my father that way. He had no expression on his face. It was as though there was no soul in his body. Frank and the four other boys followed him outside. Sarah, the youngest of the bunch, and myself went up to find mother cradling Carey in her arms.

Mother rocked back and forth all night with Carey, stroking her hair and singing to her. The next morning we discovered Carey dead in mothers sleeping arms.”

“What did she die of?”

“Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever…Damn ticks!”

“Me and mother dressed her in her favourite dress that father had purchased for her while on a trip to Raleigh. All of our friends and neighbours showed up that afternoon at the church for the wake.”

“You didn’t wait three days?” I asked with curiosity

“We didn’t embalm people on those day, so the faster the better.”

“Oh!”

“That night, mother woke up screaming. None of us could sleep, so she told us about her nightmare. She had dreamed that Carey wasn’t dead and that she was still alive. Mother demanded that we go dig her up right then in the dead of night.

Daddy cracked open a bottle of moonshine and paced back and forth in the tiny kitchen. She became increasingly excited and pleaded with us to dig her up. Father tried to calm her down but to no avail.

At daybreak the next morning, I awoke still sitting at the kitchen table. Mother and father were gone. Fearful of what I might see, I ran to the church. Just as I approached the church, I heard mother wailing. I turned the corner of the church to discover the preacher and my parents crying and leaning over the freshly dug up casket.

As I ran towards them, the preacher screamed and motioned for me to stop. I kept runnin’…”

“Was she still alive?” I pleaded, as my eyes grew to the size of the oatmeal pie that grandfather was devouring.

“What I…what I saw has stayed with me all of my life”, she said, as she gulped and turned to the light show outside.

“Father turned with rivulets of tears streaming down his cheeks and cried for me to stop. I didn’t. I discovered my beautiful sister in shambles. We had buried her alive.”

“Oh God”, I yelled as a limb on the pine tree outside the window splintered and broke.

“Her long elegant fingers had been whittled to nubs, and all of her hair had been ripped out. Small gashes and blood covered her face and arms. I turned away from the horrific sight to find the top of the casket. On the underside of it a message was inscribed”, she muttered, as her voice shook with fear.

“What did it say?” I demanded, as my eyes twitched.

“It said, “”I curse all that put me in this box for all eternity and wish you all a happy Allhallows Eve””, she whispered whilst cackling like an evil witch.

“Aaarrgghhh”, I yelled!

“She really did have a sister that was buried alive”, grandpa muttered whilst lighting another cigar.

At that moment, lightning struck a tree in the yard, setting it ablaze. Grandpa fought the wind and hail long enough to put out the fire.

He ran back inside, and yelled, “A tornado is a comin’”.

We huddled together in the bathroom until the tornado passed. It skipped over his house and ravaged several homes a few streets over. I never forgot that night, nor did I quit asking about the girl in the coffin. He swore it was true, but she never would confirm it.

Pet Peeve

Jefferson Davis — Sun, 24 Aug 2008 04:08:48 +0000

This afternoon I took my daily walk, as I always do. After a few times around the block, I discovered a older gentleman going door to door with pamphlets. I watched as he knocked on the doors and either handed the flyer to a neighbour or left it inside the door.

He encountered me whilst coming back towards the road. He slowly made his way to me, while wiping the sweat off his brow.

“Hello, may I hand you a pamphlet?” He cheerfully asked, as I greeted him and shook his hand.

“What is this about, sir?” I asked whilst trying to scan the bleached out paper in the mid day sun.

“We’re trying to get the real facts out about what President Bush and John McCain have accomplished while in office”, he answered, as he smiled and continued forward.

“Ah, may I ask if you work for the McCain campaign?”

He stopped in his tracks, turned around, and replied, “No, I volunteer with a local Baptist association”.

“Well, thank you, sir…Try to stay cool in this heat…”, I responded whilst making my way towards the house.

I came in the house and laid the paper down on the desk. I got busy doing chores and didn’t get around to reading it until about three hours ago.

It gave legitimate facts about Bush, but what got me was the wording. It used the words (if you want to call them that) Ya, Y’all, Darn, and Dang throughout it.

It’s as if whoever wrote it was cogitating, “Welp, them Southerners will never understand real statistics or logical wording, so I’ll just dumb it down for them”.

Southern Americans inside the United States have the stigma of being stupid and uncivilised. Unfortunately due to circumstances that I could write a thousand words about, a large portion of Southern people are illiterate. That does not mean that we are all eejits! I rail against such notions.

I’m not mad at the man that handed me the flyer, for he was just trying to do his part for the community. He has a right to his views as do I to mine.

It is insulting to me and every other civilised Southern American. Give me facts. Give me the hard core statistics. I’d much rather spend an hour going through a well formed report, than I had getting red faced over a thirty second scribble!

There’s one more wee thing that is bugging me. What is a religious organisation doing dabbling in politics?

P.S.: I let my Uncle look it over. As soon as I get it back, I’ll put it in this post.

Sentimental Bugger, I am

Jefferson Davis — Tue, 15 Jul 2008 05:57:56 +0000

Last night I got my hands on a new leaked song by Lily Allen. It brought back memories of a lass that I haven’t heard from in quite some time.

It was over a year ago now. We were moving fast. I was scared. I want and wanted kids at the time, but the very fact that she brought having kids up after two weeks, scared me to bits. She took a house key one morning, leaving me to dream about her. When I asked her about it, she played it off. We didn’t have a lot in common except for the need for someone. We were just playing, so to speak.

The next evening at around nine, she texted me saying that she’d be at my house in around thirty minutes. So, I decided to play a little trick on her. I cut off all the lights in the house except for the one in the den, and I turned down the tele. I quietly listened for her to drive up. I was scheming up a trick, when the headlights of her car blinded me through the office window. Knowing that she had a key, I ran into the den and laid down on the sofa and pretended to be sleeping.

The clatter of her high heels echoed through the house, as she made her way up the steps. Moments later, her keys jingled a rhythmic tune, as she fought with the door. I smilingly laid there not making a sound. Seconds later her keys crashed against the slate steps. She banged against the door, and screamed, “Jefferson, let me in”. I laughed.

After wrangling around with the keys in the dark for a minute, she finally made it through the entry way. She came bursting through the den out of breath. I peered through the slit of my eye to discover her angry countenance transform to one of warmth. She quietly laid down her pocket book on the end table and came and kneeled down beside me. I was fighting with all my might not to laugh.

She put her hand on my chest and whispered, “Wake up”.

I couldn’t hold it in any longer, so I yelled, “Boo”!

She was a bit taken aback for a second but proceeded to grab my shirt, and demanded, “You fucker, you were awake the whol’ timee, weren’t ya”?.

We rolled off the sofa and onto the floor whilst laughing uncontrollably.

We laughed a lot.

A few days later, I mucked that all up. I learned a valuable lesson though!

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Can’t get it Up

Jefferson Davis — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 17:45:34 +0000

“What’s wrong?” She asks in a agitated tone.

“I can’t”, says I desperately.

“You can’t what?” She demands whilst staring at me.

“I can’t get it up”, says I in a pouty voice.

“You’re useless”, she says while turning away from me.

“What do you expect? You invite me over here, fill me with booze, and then expect…”

“I expect you to perform”, she yells, as she half nakedly stomps out of the room and down the hallway.

A few minutes later:

“Okay, I’m feeling better…let me have another go, please”, pleads I with desperation.

“Last chance”, says she in a seductive tone.

“You know I’m mad about you, right?”

“Just get on with it”, says she hastily.

“Bam, daddy’s back”, screams I while a familiar tune chimes in the background.

"Yes”, she hollers as Welcome to Windows flashes across the screen.

“Don’t ever call me for IT support again”, says I whilst gathering my gear.

“I’ll call you whatever I want".”

“What will you call me?”

“Bastard for starters.”

“And?”

“Shut up.”

“Make me”, I answer in a playful tone.

“Just shut up’”, she laughingly whispers.

———————————————

Yet another day in the life of Jefferson Davis. Did I have you going?

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Step Out

Jefferson Davis — Fri, 02 May 2008 03:32:08 +0000

Not long after the birds awoke chirping this morning, I took my nephew to school. On my way home, I was jamming to some regular pop channel on Sirius Satelite Radio. They have over 150 channels of music and talk radio. I like to listen to BBC and the World Radio Network, but sometimes I just want to jam to some cool tunes.

I decided to take the “Curvy” road home. I was having a blast taking each winding curve with ferocity. As I conquered the last turn, I accelerated with the beat of the music. A speed limit sign of 35mph blurred by, as I glanced down at the speedometer. I looked back up to find blue lights flashing in my rear view mirror. It was the “law”, and she was pulling me over.

So, I pulled over and a really cute deputy got out of her patrol car and walked towards me. I was extremely nervous. I’ve never been pulled over for speeding, even though I do it all the time. Stupid, I am. What can I say? I like speed! I’m a freaking Davis! My family has a long history with racing automobiles. The only reason I have never raced is because I can only see out of the one eye, so that puts me at a disadvantage.

She walked up to my window with her strawberry blonde locks fluttering in the wind, and asked, “Do you know that you were doing 44mph in a 35mph zone?”

“No Ma’am”, I answered whilst handing her my license and registration.

“Ah, your name is Jefferson Davis…that’s cool”, she muttered, as she looked through my paperwork.

“Some people don’t think so.”

“I imagine Rev. Wright would have a field day with you, wouldn’t he”, she laughingly enquired whilst handing me back my info.

“He…He’d have me strung up, drawn, and quartered while screaming, “”down with the white man””, I answered, as I started laughing uncontrollably.

“You’re from Greenville?”

“Yes, I was bringing my nephew to school, since his mother was sick”, I replied.

“Aww..That’s sweet”

“Thanks.”

“You’re not married?”

“Nope”

“What a shame…All right, since you are such a nice Uncle I’m going to let you off with a warning”, she said while handing me the warning ticket.

“Thank you very much.”

“You can thank me by not speeding”, she playfully replied while going back to her patrol car.

So, I have made it home in one piece once again.

The straight up non PC version of this story:

Okay, like, I was speeding down the road jamming out to some super cool tunes by Third Eye Blind, when a totally smoking hot babe pulled me over. I couldn’t help but slobber all over my work shirt as she leaned over into the truck with her headlights beaming into my eyes. I was like a poor unsuspecting deer just standing in the middle of the road gazing into those beautiful lights!

She really screwed with my head. I almost had about ten wrecks on the way home just thinking about that strawberry blonde hair, green eyes, and well, diddies.

You asked for it! A non-PC post! You women rule the world! Do you even realize that??? I don’t think some of you do!

So, seeing as how I’m really good with curves and speeding, can I have an honorary license in Ireland and the UK? I drive on the left side of the road already!

Warning: Never ever listen to this song while under the influence of alcohol! It’ll screw with your head!

Do You Smile when You Sleep?

Jefferson Davis — Tue, 08 Apr 2008 03:57:09 +0000

Monday, I went for a job interview that altered my life as so many things do change our lives. Below, you’ll find the gist of the conversation that left me smiling from ear to ear.

I ambled into an office to meet the interviewer. The room was devoid of any knick knacks that would make a place homely. He greeted me with a firm handshake and motioned for me to sit in a bland steel chair. After sitting down in the frigid chair across from him with an island of industrial black cracklin’ steel between us, I handed him my resume.

His eyes skimmed the first page, then, he proceeded to put on his glasses and flip to the next page. After a very intense minute of peering through my work record with a blank countenance, he said, “Oh, this is interesting”.

“What’s that, sir?” I pleaded, whilst reaching over the enormous desk.

“It says here that you are a photographer and poet”, he answered, as his eyes journeyed from the paper to me.

“That is correct, sir.”

“You?”

“Yes Sir”, I exclaimed with sincerity.

“Published?” He enquired, whilst grasping a pen from the middle desk drawer.

“A few of my photos are in the process of being published locally and a few of my poems have been copyrighted”, I replied.

“Well, this has no relevance to the job we discussed….”

“Indeed.”

“I’m just curious…”

“Curiosity killed the cat…”

“Are you calling me a cat?” He asked, whilst leaning back in his black leather pleated chair.

“I don’t know, am I?” I demanded whist roaring with laughter.

“Speaking of curiosity, what’s that there that you’re holdin’?” He inquisitively asked whilst leaning over the desk.

“Ah, that’s my portfolio.”

“Portfolio?”

“My best poems, photos, and drawings”, I responded, as I nervously handed it to him.

His eyes lit up like a chubby kids on a hot summer day, when he or she hears the tasty tune of an ice cream truck.

His eyes weaved from line to line only stopping to glance at me, as he flipped the pages.

His complexion transformed from a pale white to a lively red, as his eyebrows twitched up and down with every stanza.

After a few minutes of intense studying he leapt from his chair, and muttered, “I’ll be right back”.

I glanced around the room to discover a few empty frames and an oil painting of a lovely amber and jade colour leaning up against the wall.

He and his lovely wife rushed through the office door expelling a cool scent of spring from outside.

She laid my portfolio down on the frigid desk with sharp corners, and demanded, “You drew these drawings, took these photos, and wrote these poems?”

“Yes Ma’am”

With enlarged eyes and mouth agape, she turned back around and whispered something to her husband before leaving the room.

Mr. McMurray (that’s what we’ll call him) sat back down, pulled himself up to the desk, and asked, “Why do you want to work for me?”.

“Because I need a job, sir.”

“Bullshit”, he yelled, as he leapt from his chair.

“I’m sorry…”

“Do you even realise what kind of potential you have?”

“Yes Sir.”

“I don’t think you do, because if you did, you sure as hell wouldn’t be wanting to waste you life away working a mundane job for me”, he said, as he reached in his dress shirt pocket and pulled out a card.

I wanted to smile but didn’t want to blow any chances I might have, so I just stood there with a black look.

While scribbling on the business card, he muttered, “Here is a number to a friend of mine at the local paper…He owes me a favour…You should get in contact with him ASAP”.

“You are an unpolished gem my boy, and you don’t even realise it…My God man…You should be having exhibitions in New York, not here, asking me for a job”, he hollered, whilst handing me back my portfolio.

“Really?”

“Jaysus boy, be confident about your work…You have more potential than half the monkeys out here having exhibitions and getting paid millions because someone made a face at them when they were children.”

“Thank you, sir”, I yelled, whilst saluting him.

“I’ll pass your info along to my brother”, he said, as he patted me on the back and lead me out the door.

“Your brother?”

“He’s a senior professor at MICA (Maryland Institute College of Art) in Baltimore.”

I stopped dead in my tracks, and mumbled, “Brilliant – My cousin attended MICA”.

“Then you know of its history.”

“Yes Sir.”

“I’ll send him your info and get the ball rollin’ for ya.”

“I can’t thank you enough, sir.”

“Sure you can…When you get famous throw a little fame my way.”

“Will do”, I replied, as we both laughed and shook hands.

I left his office with a feeling of euphoria that I’ve not felt in quite some time. I woke up this morning knowing that something fantastic would happen, and it did. Still, I feel that something even more grand is just around the corner. I can feel it in my bones.

I’m just a mere humble country boy. I don’t mean to toot my own horn but somebody’s got too!

I don’t mean to sound vain, but I am anything but a plain ‘Merkan white boy.

There is a multitude of people that can draw better, take photos better, and write poetry better than me. But, none of them, none, can do it quite like me.

Crikey, if I’d told him my life story, I might still be there or on a plane for New York or Baltimore!!! Mr. McMurray is an extremely down to earth fellow but worth millions and smart as a whip!

Welp, it has been a long a glorious day!

I’m totally psyched people!!

I’m going down to the local paper tomorrow and demand that they give me a job! I’ve got other plans if they don’t so know worries. Anyway, I may find work across the Atlantic. You never know ’bout me.

Have a grand week all…

P.S.: I smile, when I sleep. At least, that’s what I’ve been told.

P.P.S.: Planning this trip is driving me nuts!

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Dead Man Walking Redux

Jefferson Davis — Fri, 01 Feb 2008 14:45:38 +0000

After an incident in the bistro last night that I’ve mentioned on several occasions, I just had to repost this story. I’ve been rewriting some of my stories anyhow, so this is as good excuse as any to repost them. It is not a hundred percent accurate, but like most of my short stories, it parallels my own life. Ah, I love frequenting the Bistro! I’ll have another story up by this evening. Have a grand weekend all….

Redheaded Waitress

Dead Man Walking (Original)

Dead Man Walking Segment 2

Three Words

beep..itie..beep….beep..itie..beep…

“What in the bloody hell is that?” I asked, as I briefly darted my eyes away from the road and on to the seat beside me.

beep…beep

“Oh, I’ve got a text message…Oh shit, I best watch the road”, I cogitated, as I sat back up straight.

After pulling into an empty parking lot, I opened my phone, and read, “Sean, do you want to meet me for lunch…Abigail”.

Immediately, I dialed her number.

Ring…Ring

“I see that ya got my message”, she said, whilst snickering.

“Where are you?”

“I’m wherever you want me to be”, she replied, as she burst into laughter.

“You are just wrong for that, girl. I’m in the parking lot of that little bistro, I was telling you about”, I muttered, whilst trying not to laugh.

“Okay, I’ll meet you there…It’s on Benson St, right?”

“Yeah, I’ll see you in a few”, I answered, as I pulled up in front of the bistro.

Whilst pulling up beside my truck, she stuck her tongue out, and gave me a curious wink. She leapt out of her car, slammed the door, ran up to me, and sprang into my arms. As we fell to the cold and crude excuse for a sidewalk, I cried, “Are you crazy?”

“Just about you”, she answered, as she peeled me off the walkway.

As we passed through the front door, I realized that Maolisa was working. Sitting in a booth, opposite of the counter, I saw her slamming plates and dishes around, as if she were in the middle of a tornado.

While searching the rectangular room, with a counter erupting out of the centre, I saw Maolisa staring at me, with angry ripples bulging from her forehead. Her exquisite soul glimmers through the jealousy that has stolen her beauty. While turning back to Abigail, I noticed a man in the corner, adorning a moth-eaten trench coat and a sin-laden spirit.

In a moment, the waitress walked over and asked, “What can we get yall”?

“Oh, I think I’ll have the Chef Salad and coffee, how about you, Abigail?”

“Emm…Give me a sec”, she replied, as she scanned the menu, and continued to play footsy under the table.

“Whoooff…Damn girl, wait ‘till later”, I whispered, whilst grabbing her shoe and moving it away from my legs.

“I cannot believe that he brought another woman in here”, Maolisa mumbled, whilst pointing at me.

“While you’re looking at the menu, I’m gonna run to the restroom”, I uttered, as I stood up and treaded towards the bathrooms.

As soon as I entered the back-room, where the bathrooms were, Maolisa busted through the staff door, ran up, and struck me with her right open-hand. Then, she proceeded to push me through the men’s bathroom door.

After forcibly slamming me up against the wall, she gazed into my eyes for a brief second, turned away, and began weeping. Laying my hand on her frail chin, I lifted her eyes to mine, and said, “I’m sorry”, as rivulets of mascara stained tears began to pool around her lips.

Suddenly, she began hitting me in the chest. I grabbed her hands, and struggled to hold her tight.

“Let me go”, she exclaimed, as she struggled to loosen from my clench.

“Not until you calm down a bit”, I replied, as I pulled her closer.

“How dare you bring another woman in here, after all that we have done and said to each other”, she cried, as I let her go.

“How dare me…How dare you! You are a married woman! Don’t talk to me about morals”, I answered, as I stepped away from her.

“Oh, what a short memory you have. I don’t suppose you remember the other day and the subsequent night?”

########

I had been visiting frequently, just so I could lay my eyes on her. I’d enter, sit down across from Uncle Elethan, and give her a wink. I was aware of her being married, but had never met the lucky bastard.

It was the middle of February, or was it the end of February, when we had our intimate encounter?

Anyway, I entered the bistro, sat down in a booth by myself; she approached me and asked, “What can I get for you?”

“I think you know what I want”, I replied, whilst grinning from ear to ear.

“Okay, two eggs over medium, country ham, grits, and me on a platter”, she mumbled, as she giggled and swayed her hips back and forth.

“You’ve got it”, I answered, as I sipped my coffee.

After eating, I asked, “Why don’t you come sit for a spell”?

“Can’t do that, I’m afraid”, she replied, whilst smiling and filling out my ticket.

She handed me the ticket, winked, and walked away. It was then that I knew I was in for trouble. The trouble I had never had the pleasure of being in. I flipped the ticket over, and it said, “Meet me in the back, I need to talk to you”.

Therefore, I jumped up from where I sat, and headed towards the bathrooms. As I passed through the door, she leapt out of the darkness, and whispered, “My husband gives me no attention…I’m gonna leave him”, as she started running her hands round my waist.

“Oh”, I mumbled, whilst in a passionate and juicy osculation.

Before I knew it, we were fondling and necking each other. Wet tongues were filling empty voids, hands moving in unison, setting into motion a fire that had burned within both of us for a long-time. Heated panting and gentle stroking aroused veiled erotic zones.

“Why did we wait so long?” She enquired, as her voice shook, from the flood of desire.

“You’re married for one thing”, I responded, whilst gasping, from her hands running down into my shorts.

“Maolisa”, echoed through the walls of the bathroom.

“I must go, but I’ll stop by your place later”, she muttered, as she pulled out of a delicate embrace.

Her long flowing blonde hair fell along her face, hiding her wondrous eyes, as she tucked my shirt back in and smiled. Eyes that are as captivating as the stars themselves. I had got lost within the void. She was so desperate for love and attention. That is all that she wanted in life, to be loved.

What happened that afternoon and the following evening fell back on my shoulders, as if a gavel had slammed against the judge’s podium, and my fate was set in print.

##########

So, on with the story, yeah?

Back to the future, or is it the present?

“No, I could never forget what happened between us. There is something special between us. We….are soul mates, Maolisa”, I answered, while shuddering with emotion.

She wrapped her little arms around me, and began to squall. Tears poured from her eyes, like a flood ravaging everything in its path. Those tears, cause by my desire. She had everything to lose, and I only had something to gain, her.

“Ssshhh…It’s going to be all right”, I whispered, as I ran my hands through her hair.

“I’m so tired of fighting. You are all that I think about, and my husband says….says…I’m…I’m ugly”, she mouthed, whilst wiping her tears on my shirt.

“I’ve got to get back out there, before Abigail suspects something. Why don’t you stop by the house, so we can talk”, I muttered, as I rubbed her back in a circular motion.

She bowed her head, and released her grasp. She glanced at me with a gleaming look of desperation. Those recherché aqua blue eyes, riddled with red blotches that I caused, blinded me like headlights to a deer.

I passed through the bathroom door, and discovered Abigail standing at the counter, holding a bowl of chilli in her hand. Holding the bowl over her head, she walked over, flipped it upside-down on my head, and said, “You fucked up boy! You’ll never get a piece of ass like this again”.

She stumped out, so as I was about to follow her, Maolisa caught my hand, pulled me close, and began kissing me in front of everyone, including Abigail, which was looking through the window.

“I’ve got to go”, I cried, whilst breaking from her clutches.

“You’ve got pieces of chilli all in your hair”, she uttered, whilst laughing and cleaning the muck out of my hair, with a damp towel the other server had given her.

“Oh yeah, this is real funny”, I cried, as I realised that all eyes were on me.

“Meet me here, tomorrow at lunch”, she muttered, whilst playing with the innards of my pants pocket.

“Be careful, Sean…It’s okay, they won’t say anything”, she whispered, as she gave me a parting kiss.

“I love you”, she screamed, as she waved at me. This is my perplexity folks. Is it real, or is it fiction? Well, I can say, is that it’s partly true, and I’m in some serious trouble.

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Quirky Sam

Jefferson Davis — Tue, 29 Jan 2008 17:32:16 +0000

That much beloved extraterrestrial Hen, Atyllah from Novapulse, has beaked me for a meme. Instead of giving you all and Atyllah useless material about myself, I figured I’d tell you ’bout Sam.

Sam is a longtime friend/foe. He is a devilish little squirrel that is overflowing with high jinx. Why, just the other day he caused a major kerfuffle on my street.

He was bumbling about on my gable roof, when he accidentally knocked one of his treasured pine cones off the ménage. It sailed through the air, like a missile without an objective, weaving and bobbing through the January current. Finally, it landed in the drive and bounced out into the street, stopping in the centre of the roadway.

What did he do?

His beady eyes jounced with exhilaration of the chase, as he gleamed at the pine cone twinkling against the asphalt. Silently, he scurried across the roof and leapt to an adjacent pine tree. While flying through the air, wiggled his tail, missed the landing, and fell through the bleached and bare branches.

After plopping to the ground on his back, he shook his head and careened across the parched and crumbly leaves of Autumn. At the roads edge, he cautiously gazed to the left and right, and excitedly skipped out into the street.

Sam clutched the cone with all of his might, sniffing and preening it as if it were his offspring. He danced a victory saltation round it, not minding the car motoring around the corner or the missus screeching for him to come home.

He looked up at the four tires and glistening metal reeling towards him, glared at the cone held tightly in his grip, eyeballed his matron, and with a brilliant countenance he aligned himself with the tires.

Standing with his tail upright, he snarled at his missus and smirked at the glimmering object flying towards him.

Little did he know that the bloke driving the car was a tree hugger, and that he would rather die than harm a squirrel. The bloke/neighbour came to a screeching halt in the ditch to the left of Sam. The man jumped out of his car holding his head with one hand and dialling the police with the other.

Lindy, the missus, vexedly chirped from the confines of their home/trunk. Sam, never letting go of the strobile he laboured for, smiled at her, and limped home.

Sam doesn’t get to come out and play much since that happened. She only sends him out to forage, but he always gets into some sort of tsuris.

Rules of meme are as follows:

* link to the person who tagged you
* post the rules on your blog
* share six non-important things/ habits/ quirks about yourself
* tag at least 3 people at the end of the post and link to their blogs
* let each person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog

Quirks

1. Sam has one foot bigger than the other, which is a real pain when he tries to scurry long distances. When he wears shoes, he has to buy the size that fits his right foot instead of both. But, he only wears such virile things, when he and the uxor go out. Squirrels wear shoes? Hmm…

2. He is a kind of mixed breed with spots to boot. Heck, his family is from all over these woodlands. They came here from different cultures, yet they get along for the most part. Of course, I did happen to see one of his cousins splattered out across the pavement the other day. Perhaps that is why he has disappeared.

3. He doesn’t really care for tourist. He jaunts all over the world, wreaking havoc where ever he goes, but don’t come in his yard. He may not be armed with a gun, but he’s got an absolute ton of nuts to throw at you.

4. Don’t tell him I told you so, but he screeches and squeals with an atrocious accent that irritates the heck out of his relatives in the northland.

5. Sam is a bit of a joker. He likes to do silly things to make people laugh. Life is too short to not be happy, says he. I reckon I’ve seen him cut cartwheels and purposely fall out of his tree a hundred times just to make his wife laugh.

6. He doesn’t like to see female squirrels cry. I watched him beat the hell out of a cat one day, just because it was mocking Lindy’s tail. Sam has a wee bit of a temper and won’t think twice about beating the pooh out of another male rodent, when he is being an arse to his mate for no reason.

Sam is a cool gnawer. I just wish he could keep his mind off the ladies…and food!

Now, who do I tag with this? This was too easy, so I’d like for those that get tagged to create a fictional character for the meme, if you all have time of course.

Brian F. (It’ll probably be about killing things.)

K8 the Gr8 (I’m curious as to what character she’d pick.)

Grannymar (Hmm..I wonder what Grannymar will say?)

The lot of you are more than welcome to do this, just let me know in the comments. Thanks.

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The Arcanum of Flames (Fire Healer Redux)

Jefferson Davis — Fri, 04 Jan 2008 06:11:21 +0000

“Son, your Great-Aunt is on her deathbed…we must go now.”

“What’s wrong with Aunt Eilwen?”

“We can’t discuss it now, get your book bag, and meet me in the truck”, he replied, whilst running for the exit.

After running the sheets of rain and knee deep mud puddles, I leapt into the pickup and asked, “Is she going to be ok?”

“No son, she is dying of old age, and there is nothing we can do about it”, dad replied, whilst buckling our seatbelts.

While driving round hairpin turns, he glanced at me, and said, “Sean, what your Aunt will tell you, will follow you throughout life’s journey. She has a magnificent, life altering, arcanum to give you that will change you forev….”

“…What are you talking about, dad? You are scaring me”, I pleaded, as tears welled up in my innocent eyes.

“Our family, my mother’s family, were witches and even warlocks in the old country; in fact, they were good witches, witches that cured illnesses, brought rain to the crops, and the like. Our family has passed ancient books of potions and incantations down through the generations. We have the special ability to heal burns. My grandmother passed it to me, but I cannot pass it to you. It can only be passed from male to female or vice versa”, he replied, while gazing through the sheets of water pelting on the windscreen.

When we finally arrived at her house, several relatives were huddled under the awning of the front stoop, smoking. We passed through the front entrance and were met by one of Eilwen’s daughters, Margery. She was crying, dabbing the tears away with an old handkerchief that had been dampened by the ashy drops of agony that murked her rosy complexion.

“Diarmad, bring Sean, Eilwen’s about to fade away”, Margery demanded, as she stomped down the hallway.

Diarmad, my second cousin, had been at University in Glasgow, when she received the call to come home. She marched back and forth between the kitchen and den carrying trays of food to the crowd strangers that carried on as though no one was dying a few metres away. When Aunt Margery called a second time, she laid down the tray of food, winked at me with a slight smirk, and started marching me down the hallway.

As she rushed me through the entrance of the bedroom, where my aunt was lying, she slowed to a gracious pace and held me with a tight grip. The room was devoid of light, except for the little candles strewn throughout the room. Only the occasional patter of sleet against the windowsills could be heard through the darkness.

“Aunt Eilwen, I have little Sean with me. I just know he’ll be more powerful than his grandfather”, she uttered, as she began to run her fingers through damp strands of hair falling along my brow.

“His father says that he’s doing really well in school”, Diarmad mumbled, while trying to crack a smile.

“All right then, Diarmad and Margery, go associate with the others, while me and Sean talk”, Aunt Eilwen cried, as she waved her frail and thin hand in the air.

“Sean, you have a great gift, you’ve seen life and death in such a finite time”, she whispered, as she gasped for breath.

“Please don’t go…I love you Auntie”, I cried, as I fell to my knees and buried my face in the bed sheets.

“Don’t worry, I’m going to a better place. I have to explain something to you, and I want you to pay attention”, she answered, while running her fragile fingers through my hair.

Sobbingly, I answered, “Yes Ma’am”.

“Margery, bring me the tea”, she screamed, as she grabbed her chest, heaved and coughed.

As I gazed into the eyes of Aunt Eilwen, she smiled and waved her hand across my head, uttering some incoherent spell. Suddenly, I heard a great thumping sound, increasing in volume with each shuttering thump. Aunt Margery entered and sat a tea tray beside the bed, with a kettle between two teacups. She also brought in a ceramic bowl filled with olive oil.

Margery glanced at Aunt Eilwen, and enquired, “Will that be all?”

“Yes…yes, that’ll be all for now. Now, leave us be”, Eilwen replied, as she shooed her away.

“Sean, this tea is spicy, but I want you to drink it, as I tell you about our family”, Eilwen uttered, as she slowly rose to a sitting position and poured the hot tea.

“What’s in it?”

“Oh, Barberry Root, Cloves, Dandelion leaves, and …Oh, it’s not important, you’ll learn about all of that later, if your mother doesn’t step in”, she responded as she smiled at me.

After taking a few sips of the herbal tea, my heart started thumping at such an accelerated rhythmical rate that I couldn’t comprehend anything she said. A few moments later, a young woman, glowing from the top of her fiery red crown to her bare feet, materialised. I stood in awe, as she dusted my head with a glistening powder. Seconds later, she vaporised, extinguishing all the candles, except one on Aunt Eilwen’s antique bedside table.

“Now, you must say a few words with me and promise not to ever utter these words again, unless within the coven”, she cried, as she laid a herb in my palm and poured the oil that Margery had brought in with the tea, onto my hand.

She gently crushed the herbs in my hand, with a wooden mortar that had been passed down from generation to generation. As she rubbed the herbs and oil together in my hand, I felt a fiery tingling sensation run up my right arm and over my shoulders and down my left arm, ending at the tip of my digits.

Tingling from head to toe, I repeated the last few phrases with zeal and delight. Margery cracked open the door, and screamed, “Eilwen, the sun just came out. I can’t believe my eyes. It has been raining for days and the weather-forecaster predicted it to be pissing down for several more days, yet the sun is out and the sky is clear”.

“I know, I did it for Sean. My last request has been granted, so I will be going soon”, Aunt Eilwen replied, while smiling and grooming me.

“I don’t want you to go”, I said, as Margery exited the room.

“I’ve had a full life, and I’ve fulfilled every dream I ever had, so I can go rest”, she whispered, as she kissed me on the forehead.

“I’ll miss you”, I cried.

“Don’t worry; I’ll be watching if you need me. It’s your choice now, the power you have, and the greater power you can have through practice can do good or evil. “Go tell your father to come and see me”, she uttered, as she hugged me one last time and fell back against the fluffy pillows.

I wiped my tears with my coat sleeve, as I waved goodbye for the last time. When I reached the living room where father was laughing and drinking a cocktail, I yanked on his coattail and screamed, “Dad, Auntie wants to speak to you”.

Later that evening, he came back to the kitchen, where everyone had gathered, and said, “She has passed on”, as he struggled to inhale the tears back into his soul, a talent that I would hope to learn later in life.

After speaking to everyone that evening, we drove home. Not a word was uttered that night, just an occasional stare or glimpse. As we approached our house, he whispered, “What your Aunt gave you was special, and you must use it for good. Also, your mother must never find out, for she would surely kill me in my sleep”.

From that night forward, Dad and I never spoke of what happened while in the company of others. Secretly, I studied and have occasionally been called upon to heal burn victims. Great Aunt Eilwen’s presence has been felt ever since that day. In fact, I’ve seen the angelic woman that appeared to me that afternoon observing me from a distance.

Aquene and the CottonTail

Jefferson Davis — Wed, 21 Nov 2007 02:23:45 +0000

O’ Tay, I’m in a really good mood this evening. As I write this, I can’t help but gaze out the window pane at the myriad of colours cascading off the brittle limbs of the oak tree in my cartilage. The grandeur of nature beckons me, like the innocuous whitetail deer that stood within lunging distance of me the other day at my mother’s house. She stood amongst parched fescue with ears erect, only halting her gaze on me, to munch on grasses. I observed her shadow cast a silhouette against the Eastern Cottontail Rabbit playfully pouncing across the seckel sunset dabbled meadow.

Sitting on a hilltop, I watched the doe observe me and glint at the ever-approaching rabbit. The rabbit, only stopping to view the deer and me, faded behind the grasses. Only its beady – swallowing black eyes could be seen though the filaments of fescue and alfalfa.

The deer rose from her grazing stance, because of the crepitation coming from the woods. She glanced at me with her ears twitching back and forth, I reverberated a lull sense of safety. She, with a dark golden winter coat, cautiously returned to browsing and sniffing the ground at her hooves.

Suddenly, the rabbit in the lower part of the pasture leaped through the air to the shelter of the woodlands a few feet away. But, it crouched just at the edge of the forest, ever vigilant of its surroundings.

A few moments later, the smell of dung drifted across my nose and the crunching of footsteps lightly patting across the grasslands. Quietly, I turned around to discover a family member kneeled about three feet diagonally behind me. He was fully adorned in camouflage regalia, and holding a Benelli R1 rifle. He leaned over, and whispered, “Shhhhhh”.

I, knowing the ending fate of this doe I now call Aquene, glared and squinted at her as if to warn the poor animal. Nevertheless, just as she rose to turn, a blasting crack resonated across the valley, as a light thump surd through the grasses and her glorious shadow melted into a bleak November night.

The rabbit sprang out of the woods, bounced up the hill, looked down at the lifeless Aquene, glowered at me for what seemed like an eternity, and sprang into the darkness. The man, with smoke still emitting from the moonlit muzzle of his rifle, leapt to his feat, screamed a tribal beat of victory, and called for an ATV to pick up him and the Queen of the spruce pine trees.

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High Museum: Part One

Jefferson Davis — Sun, 18 Nov 2007 03:13:12 +0000

Yesterday, I went with the Art Club down to the High Museum in Atlanta, Georgia. On the way down, I sat in the window seat on the bus and a pretentious – egotist bloke sat beside me. He blabbered on about different pieces we were going to be observing and buttered up one of the instructors in the seat directly in front of us, while I mutely sat and read the New Yorker. It was a pleasant trip filled with laughter.

After we arrived, all of us entered the Louvre section of the museum. We were all captivated and awe struck by “The Tiber” and other gorgeous sculptures and pieces from France, Roma, Greece, Egypt, Pompeii, Herculaneum, and Babylon. Chills rained down my back, while gazing at clay tablets over four thousand years old. I pondered about the people that crafted the pieces and the lives they lived.

The “Winged Victory of Samothrace” bewitched my spirit. The implied motion – how the fabric of the garment flows over the body of Nike, the goddess of Victory. And, most importantly, the story behind the sculpture. Most of the students put on headphones, which told them about each sculpture, piece, or painting, but I chose to read the plaques and interpret everything in my own way. That is what I love the most about art and literary works. We can each interpret a novel or a painting differently.

Another sculpture that called to me was “Crouching Aphrodite”, from the Roman Imperial period. I kneeled down beside it and glared into her face – a countenance weighed with thought. Sculptures from the Hellenistic period have always captured my imagination, while paintings from the Romanesque era enchant my intellect. Of course, I love all art, regardless of when it was created. However, pop art unnerves me a bit.

Go boil some water for a cuppa because this is long, or you can enjoy the pictures below. I have to write a paper about my visit, so this is good practice…

After exiting the Louvre hall, we entered the contemporary hall. Hanging on the first wall, adjacent to the entrance, were a few silhouette images – black cutouts against a white background – in a row, by Kara Walker. Some of her drawings are quite compelling, but her cutouts are an atrocity. She depicts scenes of slaves in the pre civil war south, being brutalised by their respective owners. She shows white men raping slaves (young men and women) and white women pillaging the wombs of female slaves. She does this to push society’s buttons. That is how she has made a name for herself! It’s not by the quality or composition of the artwork, but the horror it projects. Look, every society at one point, has been enslaved by a more powerful civilisation, so I say, get over it! Did I say I didn’t like her?

Anyway, back to the artsy Californian that I sat beside on the bus. Whilst standing in front of Kara Walker’s pieces, he said, “Isn’t she fantastic”, with hyper glee.

“Yes, she is”, I replied, as glared at the horrific scenes.

“I love how she uses these slavery images”, he uttered, while making hand gestures at the particular way she depicted blood gushing.

I don’t like her, but I was trying to hold back my judgements and be nice to the guy. Heck, I might have learned something from him.

“Yeah, there was about an eight page write up about her in the New Yorker two months ago.

He stopped dead in his tracks, dropped his jaw, and enquired, “You…read the New Yorker?”

“Indeed”, I answered, with a laughing smirk.

He stepped back, put his arms to the side, and muttered, “You must have borrowed it from someone, right?”

“I have a subscription to that along with New York Times, New York Review of Books, and Contemporary Poetry Review”, I muttered, as I tried not to laugh.

“You?”

“Tis true”

“….I never would have thought it, just being honest and all”, he mumbled, as he crossed his arms.

“Ehhmm…Yeah, I’m a photographer, aspiring poet, ~~amateur author~~ (I have much to learn), professional skirt chaser, and I dab in watercolours and pastels from time to time”, while glinting at the young female art student beside me.

He fell back on his heels, and cried, “Wow, that is totally cool…I never would have thunk it…Dude, I’m like…totally blown away. Do you have any of your poetry with you or some photographs?”

There’s no need to go any further into the discussion. He asked if I did architecture, nature, surreal, abstract, impressionistic, or portraits. I gave him my flickr address and the blog address. So, if you are reading this, sir, I’m not trying to imply that you are an idiot or a jerk, just a Californian. Nah, most Californians are cool. Dude is smart. He went to the Art Institute of Chicago. We are all taught at an early age how to view the world, but it is up to us as adults to be open minded and nonjudgmental.

I’ll pick up with part two of The High Museum in a day or two. I have a lot of reading to do.

Kewl…862 words in thirty minutes of casual maundering.

P.S.: The last image is a one of my abstract paintings contorted in photoshop.

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