Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous, By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams,– Richard iii


  1. Airship
  2. Elizabeth
  3. Evening
  4. Knee
  5. Tablecloth

The airship arrived from Tokyo forty-five minutes late

She swung her knee into Elizabeth’s crotch.

The evening air was thick with jasmine

Her knee peaked out from the hem of the dress.

The tablecloth hadn’t been changed in days.

Ju sat on the purple couch, coffee in hand, cell phone at the ready, watching travelers move through the baggage claim area, waiting for the airship, already forty-five minutes late from Tokyo.

A crowd had gather in the hall, as Susan screamed at her with, spit flying, arms waving, rage, and Elizabeth didn’t see a graceful, or peaceful way out of this mess.

So she took a deep breath from her diaphragm, held it, two, three, four, focused on a spot over Susan’s shoulder for just a moment and then swung her knee from her hip, pulling it to her chest, right through the opponent’s crotch.

Alysan had planted jasmine along the fence, nice touch that, and its scent filled the evening air as Ju listened to his daughter’s tale of “the fight”, and, yes, she was right, she did have the right to protect herself when she felt threatened and it wasn’t a fight, it was self-defense, and you can’t punish someone for defending themselves and it wasn’t excessive, just one kick, and she wasn’t some damsel that had to wait to be rescued, fuck that, oops, sorry daddy.

He hated it when he had to cede control, and she had him in an awkward position, her ground, her questions and that god damned knee peeking out from the hem of her dress.

The tablecloth hadn’t been change in couple of day, not even shaken out probably, toast crumbs, “don’t focus on the toast crumbs;” well, the positive, it was almost over, time to cut his losses and move on down the road. 


Sentences, sentences, sentences

Strong Rose Clever Beef Free Stride

It was now almost three hours after sunrise, as she stood at my office window looking to north, the fog almost dissipated but still substantial, hung just below the ridge; she strode across the room, pulled me from my chair, dragged me to the window and pointed, “that is exactly the color of the smoke that was in the his room last night.”

As the strong wind blew out of the south, the afternoon wind, strong enough to be annoying, drying, annoying, a wind to put you on edge, Ju ran to the dugout, long powerful strides, the strides of youth at its apex, not quite the strides of the mature male yet, but still beautiful, graceful, confident.

Static electricity pricked her finger as it jumped to the door knob, sometimes she was just too clever, and on a cool January night with the Santa Ana’s blowing and wives sitting at kitchen table watching the light reflect off chef’s knife, it didn’t pay to be clever.

As song says, freedom is having nothing left to lose, but as long she was cooking dinner when he came home in the evening, he would never be free and that was a good thing, all things considered.

Neither a friend nor a lover, she lived in limbo, a hot house rose, tender, beautiful.

Never ever, even if he’s a git

Me and Brigitte (Bardot)” by Brigit Kelly Young


Brigitte Bardot 1955

Image by dovima_is_devine_II via Flickr

When I met Brigitte Bardot she was twenty-six and firm as ice. She wore a gingham dress, navy blue and off-white, and it sashayed off her calves as she moved toward me to extend a tiny tanned hand with nails filed into ten sharp-edged squares. “Hello Brigitte,” I said. “I’m Brigit.” My nails were different lengths, some nibbled off.

“Brigit I am so beautiful,” she said right away. “It is not just the layout of my face,” she began, “but the way it pouts and slides like a serpent into the crotch of your pants.” Brigitte held a cigarette in one hand and swigged it like a Guinness, her head thrown slightly back. “It is the way I hold it. Like my face is the Sphinx of Egypt, hard in place, never letting loose for,” with her cigarette-free hand she flicked her honey hair beyond her shoulder and formed an angry smile, “even a moment.” She bowed her head. Hairs flitted off her lips as she spoke. “It is nice to meet with you.”

I think it’s from Mother Jones

Through a House on Fire