Transient Contact

I am houseguest in a new mansion. It has the feel of a colonial track home, made to look authentic but you can tell it's an imitation, the old time feeling is just not captured.
This is my temporary home. I don’t know where I came from or where I am going, but there is a room with many beds, for transients like myself, and I am calling this home for the time being.
There has been an outdoor barbeque in the shade across the street from the house and I am the last person cleaning up and gathering the small amount of trash that remains.
There is the relaxed atmosphere of a summer party coming to a close, the air is still warm and there is no need to hurry. A small white pickup truck drives by me, I make eye contact with the young white man in the driver’s seat, his skin is tan from working or playing outdoors. We lock eyes and I smile as the car moves past me.
He is stunned by my smile, wanting to feel the emotion again, he stops the car and backs up, repeating the scenario, I smile again.
The realization hits me: I need to end contact with this man, we cannot take this flirtation any further. I turn my head and walk away to find the trash can, feeling his eyes follow me.

Father Talks

An arrangement of family members are crowded into a stark little room. Many are gathered seated around a folding table.
There are no pictures on the walls, and the only other furniture consists of a handful of folding chairs. There is an air of disposability to the space.
Despite this fact everyone is behaving as if they are in a cozy dining room. It seems to be a family reunion.
My cousin is a dashing young man with a head of shiny blond hair. He reminds me of a male version of myself, or a younger replication of my father. I feel very fond of him.
My father is trying to make a point and begins to relate his experience as a cast member of A Chorus Line. I had no idea my father had ever been involved in theater.
This comes as a shock and I am awed by the humility exemplified by my father in divulging this to us. He speaks uncertainly, struggling to tell us something real but locked into his habitual approach to communication.
My cousin is angered by the approach my father is taking, his need to make a point and the supposition that everyone should share his point of view. He completely misses what is really coming through because he reacts to the delivery.

Open and Exposed

My legs are spread wide open as I lay naked on a table.
I am docile, unsure how i got there or when i may leave.
There are two people crouching, kneeling close to my legs, they are peering inside. I recognize the dark haired woman, but the man at her side is a stranger to me.
A handful of small white stones that resemble pearls have just fallen out of my vagina. They bounce slighty and roll away. The couple have noticed the stones and are curious. With their eyes and body language, they communicate with each other: What were those little white things? Will she produce any more? They move even closer to my vagina and look, stopping just short of touching me.

Little Dorothy

I still want to tell him about my dream, but we leave the stone courtyard with the bench and its withered occupant: the eavesdropping old man.

My companion leads the way to the street. His black hair is blowing in the brisk breeze. I insist that I have more to tell him but he says he doesn’t want to hear anymore. The sky is overcast, the atmosphere cool and moist suggesting that we are near the sea. There are people out on the street busy with their own affairs. The have an idyllic old world look to them. It seems possible that they are Dutch. They wear funny shoes, white aprons and hats. My companion is walking quickly and it is difficult for me to catch up. He isn’t waiting for me and takes no notice when I fall behind. Frustrated I stop. He hurries along oblivious to my absence. I watch him for a moment, my own straw colored hair lashing my cheeks in the wind. Resigned I let go of my open umbrella and it tumbles down the street, blown in the same direction as my companion. I turn my back on them and begin to walk in the opposite direction.

Suddenly I hear tires screeching in the road behind me. I turn and see a little girl in a blue dress and white apron crumpled in the street. She lies unmoving at the nose of a big black automobile, a classic car with a shiny chrome bumper. A woman cries out,"It’s Dorothy! She’s dead!"The girl, blonde braids spilled about her crown, is indeed dead, but the woman must be mistaken.
I am Dorothy.

The Times They Are A'changing

I have been on a beach for years, spending the days playing soccer in a bikini. Each day bleeds into the next with the same activity. The light is both dark and light at the same time, existing someplace out of the normal day and night categories.
There has been a small tribe of hippies living on this beach, pursing happiness. Bob Dylan's The Times They Are A' Changin' starts playing over a loud speaker, and I kneel down, crying. In the middle of my tears, l look up and notice that one of the hippy girls has taken off her worn bikini and changed into some stylish black clothes, she is looking at me through a plate glass window, sorrowfully waving goodbye.
I continue to cry, knowing that one day I will do the same thing, I will leave, with hardly any words to the people who knew and loved me.

Never Fast Enough

There are people everywhere enjoying themselves. The tables are all covered with white or pink table cloths. I am removing the dirty white dishes that constantly pile upon the table tops. The crowd is feasting. Caterers in white dress shirts, black vests and bow ties bring out the elegant looking plates of food.
I , in uniform as well, clear away the unwanted remains. There is music and laughter, the tinkle of clinked stemware and the scrip scrape of knifes scratching plates. Little ribbon and pearl centerpieces adorn the tables. Round men in tuxedos bare toothy grins. Women in satin and taffeta don tight hair buns and white gloves.
I scramble to keep up with the pile up of dirty dinner ware. I carry a toppling stack back into a kitchen. Here I meet with an obstacle: an insurmountable mountain of plastic folding chairs bars me from the great stainless steal sink. I try to climb it balancing my unstable tower of dishes. I become stuck partway up, physically unable to cross the distance.
The dishwasher is a middle aged man wearing a huge white chefs hat, white pants, shirt, and apron. He has a clean looking mustache and glowers down on me while complaining boisterously about my incompetent handling of the situation. I know that in the dining room the situation must be getting out of hand.