Your soul doesn’t need but one visit.
Your soul doesn’t need but one visit.
She trampled and ran along feeling tall ferns; green and narrow at the tops, sending her palms into realization of being. She smiled as she ran. Her mother asked that she not run to the brook, but that’s where she was going and where she was now. “Go on little thought and be what you were before.” She said to the babbling water. A frog hopped near and asked, “What was it, it was not now, before?” She picked a yellow flower, placed it near the frog to enjoy, turned and said her hello while walking away.
“Content isn’t a thing it’s a place. We try and build this life to disallow the cracking of the not doing what we know we want to do and what would be best to have done. We look back and scratch our memories to clarify where we lost our contentedness and allow our minds to flex into the finding of that place. And the building begins again.” The frog hopped so nicely forward, “Do you understand?” the frog asked. The child ran her fingers along the long grass growing beautifully in the field; watching the sunlight flicker from the tops of each blade, not trading tomorrow for the sunlight of today. “I think I know the place.” She smiled and thanked the frog without thanking the frog at all.
He was small. Especially for his age. His stomach hurt. He thought it was his fault. Whenever he ate, he was in pain. He’d cry and ask to not eat more. The woods were dark. The boy loved the woods at night. If he listened he could hear ants crawling on a leaf. Sometimes, the moon would show the way for him, other times he couldn’t see at all. It didn’t matter. When his stomach hurt he thought strange things and never told anyone. The moon was bright. So bright it lit his brook and he could see his reflection. He wanted to know about death and life but there wasn’t anyone to ask. So he asked a large rock, ‘What do you think about dying?’ The rock took a long, long time to reply. ‘If I were to kill a man I’d do it calmly. I would kill him nicely so he might die well. Men have forgotten to die well and I’d like them to remember.’
copyright 2016 -M. Taggart
We watch the father watching the girl. He didn’t think he was seen. His eyes traveled her body and was certainly seen. The father turned to his wife who turned away. She asked their son if he’d like go for a walk. The beach was busy. The boy said yes and forever I go.
Sometimes we leave and don’t come back. And when others want to talk with us. It’s like this because. Stamping stamps on while another takes shape. Hello to them and to you. After all, there hadn’t been just one. A young girl walks firmly while watching her footsteps. Each landed nicely placed within the field’s dust. She wanted to know from the spider which angle it liked to build and the spider replied,’From the best.’
The bus was crowded and I didn’t have time. You crowded me further with your pink eye. You told me that you could change your eye color at will. I didn’t believe you. I watched from the bus window as you walked to your door. Your house was dark. The steps were old and wooden. Your house had broken walls. Now you’re gone and I still don’t know if you changed your eye color.
The music Stopped-
Though it Hadn’t Been Playing
We move on
Goose shit was everywhere. When looking down, at your feet, you saw shit. If you looked to your left, shit. Right, shit. Alright, that’s complete exaggeration and a lie, but, now we all know I’m talking about a lot of shit. The rest of this story is true.
We were at our parents’ friend’s home; it was a farm. Fences; wooden fences with lots of barbed wire to keep animals tucked inside the property. We kids, liked to play next to the large oak tree with the tire swing.
I was six. My brother was eight and a half. The tire swing was wide open and we weren’t about to let the opportunity slide on by. Our parents were inside, doing things, and laughing far too loud for the jokes that were being shared. Our parents’ friends had two girls. Both were near our age.
The oak tree wasn’t far from the house. Sitting on top of a small hill, overlooking the property, there it hung. The swing of all tires swings.
The one small issue, between us and the tire swing, was the geese.
I know we all see them flying South, or North, apparently never being able to make up their minds; proving they’re not consistent within the walls of their own skulls.
Anyways, to the swing we mother-fucking-go!
My brother and I charge the hill. Well, we didn’t exactly charge it, I certainly didn’t. He may have. He was much bigger. It’s possible that in my head, I charged the fuck out of that hill, but in all honesty, I probably waddled a bit and barely make it to the tire swing. Walking in goose shit.
Which, made me easy prey, for the asshole Geese.
They watched, with dick head eyes, and we took notice, but not to a great degree. My brother was nice enough to let me jump on the swing first. I was in tire swing heaven. I’d like to say he even pushed me, but that, I don’t remember.
So there I was, swinging, things are great. Ice cream great. I can see the house, down below, and the fences that line the property. I can see horses and a few sheep. I’m not sure how my parents know these people, but I don’t care because I’m on a tire swing and I’m a six year old.
My brother said it was his turn, so I jumped off, slid a bit, and came to a stop. I turn to look back at him and I see an asshole running at me. I don’t wait to see how fast it might catch me, I turn and run. I’m running, with everything I’ve got, which was a far cry better than my charge up the hill, but it wasn’t enough. I know a monster bird is behind me, I can hear it, I can even smell it. I slip, fall, and slide in goose shit. Probably from this very bird. It’s laughing at me. No, not really, I’m not sure if birds can laugh.
The large man of prey is nearly upon me, it’s biting and flicking it’s wings. No joke, I get bit. The asshole nipped me and I slid further down the shit hill. My jeans are a waste. Even at six I realize I should probably not continue wearing these. My face was now sliding down the hill, I was tasting it. It wasn’t good.
My face looked like that of a war-time Marine. As though I had meant this to have happened.
I was bit again and now the large bird was tearing into me, stabbing at me with it’s beak. I cried out.
I saw my big brother snap that asshole by its long neck, wringing the beast slightly, and tossing it out and away from me. The bird let lose a vocal note that’s not always witnessed coming from a goose and then I watched my brother chase it, further, away from me.
He saved me. I wasn’t the last time.
Yes, I had to go inside and cry-explain myself to my laughing parents and yes I had to take off my shit jeans and replace them with girl jeans. Yes. That all happened. To this day I’m still ashamed to tell people that I wore girl jeans. It just wasn’t right. But, my brother saving me was.
True occurrence- my childhood. Thank you Big Brother.