Gobbler Day and a Tale to tell

So, today is Thanksgiving (in the USA.) Happy Thanksgiving to everyone in the USA! For my readers who don’t live there or celebrate this type of holiday, then I will just say, “Have a wonderful Thursday!”

Now that I have taken care of this, on with the post. What? Yes, I live in the States. But I don’t really celebrate holidays or birthdays. My parents never made a big deal about such things except to complain about how much money is wasted. So I don’t have any personal emotional attachment in these festivities. Sure, I will always tell other people to enjoy themselves - and those are true sentiments that I give. Yet to me, holidays are just another day to do laundry.

And write. Let us never forget that I love to write. In fact, I love it so much that I will share another story with you. Do you want to know what the story is about? Well, I can’t give you an answer. I won’t know the storyline until I get toward the end. Recently, I discovered I work better this way. I used to kill a story with outlines and diagrams and bulleted lists. Letting a story take to root and then grow in whatever way it wants, it brings so much inner joy now. And I want to be happy today. I’ll save the tears for the rest of my lifetime.

A story (you can pick any title you want for it.)
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I hear it in the distance. A loud boom echoes off the cliff face behind me. The sky lights up, showing dark clouds disguised in the deep night. Metallic. The air has a metallic smell of new nails and fresh blood. I can taste it in layers over my tongue as the cold drops slide into my raspy throat. The rain tastes sweet. Yet I had hoped the clouds would wait before shedding off the excess pounds slowing them in their eastward course.

I grip the large square closer to my jacket. The canvas will not fit inside my polyester fabric. I already carry a second one in there to shield it from the rain. It is smaller and closer to my heart. In strokes of bright colors rest a field of wild poppies for my sweet Mabel. She will be so pleased. She might even consider postponing her engagement with Alexander. She might even come home with me.

I see her house in the distance. The trail winds between the canyon sides. My feet slide constantly on the mud waves. I slip. I trip. The wet dirt paints my large canvas in its earth tones. It does not matter anymore. My painted sunset has vanished. The rain has stripped the colors away.

The deck boards creak as I make my way toward the large window encompassing the entire south wall. A light shines on the other side of the room. The lamp is on inside Mabel’s bedroom. I see her walk into the kitchen with her robe open. The clock above the stove reads 6:25pm. She has her life on a schedule and Mabel’s routine demanded her to seek the steamy confines of a bath at 6:00 sharp. Her skin glows from the lotion and reflected light. From her textured shoulders to the round fullness of her chest and down . . . so far down to what all men desire, I gaze upon her bare skin. My mind and senses are set on fire despite the cold water streaking down. I burn inside. I burn for her.

The rap of my fingers against the glass startles my sweet Mabel. Her face squints at me before she shakes her head and struts forward. Oh, how wonderful my Mabel looks! Her supple legs and rocking of hips cause a tightness along my body. The large canvas is good cover as I lean it against my pants. She stops before the glass and places her fists on hips, waiting.

I unzip my jacket and take out the small painting. My hands press it against the window pane for her eyes to take in the glory that my love and skill have made for her.

My gorgeous Mabel leans forward with lips pursing. Her steamy body makes for hot breath breezed from beautiful lips. The heated air fogs the glass. Her fingertips illustrate the thoughts in her lusting heart as she steps to one side. The light from her bedroom illuminates her words.

srewolf ot cigrellA / Allergic to flowers.

My adoring Mabel turns around. She saunters back across the room. The robe fabric cups her backside in wonderful curves. I soak in the sight and admire the beauty only the heavens can create. Then my beauty disappears into her bedroom. The door shuts.

I bend down and lean the small painting against the window. I am running out of space. Twelve pictures take a residence there across the deck. Where will I place the other ones I shall make for my fickle Mabel?

A ladder. Tomorrow I will bring a ladder with me. She has a window where her bedroom lies. Two, I believe. I can place my paintings there.

The rain lightens. The other canvas comes with me from the deck to leave Mabel’s house behind. One hand holds it steady while the other skims over the mud, forming connecting lines to draw those sultry curves of the woman I love.

I will create a new painting tomorrow. Mabel will love it. She will postpone the wedding. She will run away with me.

My loving Mabel.
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