"I AIN'T A FIDDLE"

     It was about four days after our men left.  Some of the girls found ways to come from Tennessee.  A woman who'd been all over the Country helping recruit all levels of "soldier" and apprentice came walking down the dirt path to camp.  She had the pail of "genitals" AKA gummy worms.  "That's my pay," she handed it to one of us.  "No one ever said we were ever gonna get rich."  She guffawed.  Shoulders sloped a bit.  "Don't eat all of those at once!" She said.  And gently clapped a hand on a jeaned knee.  She turned to go. 

     "Wait," one of us called. 

     Heads raised from an actual pile of lonesome and full faith and confidence in them, but 

     "Shouldn't we invite her?" 

     "To WHAT?"  One of us disgustedly threw down the dogleash pulling a branch with a stuck lure hanging on it. 

     "Looks like a sad tea party I attended once." 

     "It's sad alright, pathetic," she tossed the dogleash on top of a tent not finished being scrubbed on the picnic table and made like a soccer player kicking a half field goal, but brakef it into a gentle shove of sleeping legs.  One of us sat up like a wrapped mummy and closed eyes against the sunlight.  Looked at the bombshell, put together, slightly older woman, then shut them again.  A big burp.  "She the one who busted us?" 

     "We din't get busted.  Go back to sleep." 

     "You sure?" 

     "We din't do nothin' yet today.  Lay down." 

     "Just ignore Larry and Mo there," the lure-free'r extended a hand to shake.  "Not sure what we're shaking on," the guest said.  "Just a hello.  Welcome to home." 

     "Regular isle of misfits," a South of the Border blanket hurled.  

     "Would you like a cup of coffee or tea?" 

     "I would," one of us got up stretching and yawning.  Jeans, tank, and barefeet.  Tall.  "Nice to wake up not smelling chicken shit." 

  "Shut up.  If it ain't noon, I'm dead to the world." 

     "We're not the world idjiot." 

     "Where's Curly?" 

     "Gone off singing." 

     Dead to the world shot up.  "She did?" 

     "Oh yes," the blonde curly air guitared.

 

     "Dan threw open the door to a wet wind and a sea of slippery, icy English mud.  'Let's get to Group Ops,' he said. 'Briefing's in ten minutes.' 

     "'Jeez,' said Billy, pushing his way out past Henry.  'It musta poured last night.' 

     "'Isn't it always raining in England?' muttered Dan.  'Let's hope the weather officer knows what he's doing.' 

     "They all looked up at the black sky, trying to assess the clouds.  No stars visible and no sunrise yet.  The only lights were on the distant airfield.  Out there, the ground crews were loading bombs and fueling the aircraft.  If it wasn't mechanically perfect, a B-24 loaded with 2000 pounds of bombs and glutted with gasoline was a flying deathtrap. 'God bless the ground crew,' murmured Henry aloud, without thinking." 

           --excerpt, Under A War-Torn Sky by L.M. Elliott

Author's blog: https://lmelliott.com/lauras-blog

The little cigar box

  The little cigar box made its way through the remnant.  Inside was one scrap of paper that had written upon it the decided upon word.

  "Everybody's where they need to be," one girl had peeked, then looked at the ground as she passed the box.

             Lifework

    The Pastor that had come from another state stood still.  The young Officer's wives stayed sitting at a picnic table.  One Officer had stayed, but was standing near a middle-aged tree occupied by wood-boring beetles.  He'd be picked up.  "Like a vice," he described the state of his headache and the cranking sound of the beetle inside the tree.  "Oh, give this to them." He took a rolled up refrigerator To Do pad from his pants pocket.  And a hug.  "Will do.  Take care of you." 

     "Will do." 

     "It's like this every year," a Forest person was explaining to campers about the change of season. 

     "Yeah, but do you really know?" 

     A chuckle.  "Been doing this a long time.  In Montana." 

She put two fingers up

  in a tee like I had the cooties or something.  "A bunch of us have to get back, now." The kid behind me ducked like she'd thrown a dish.  

  "What were you listening to?" 

  "Nina Simone."  Me, afraid to let the silence linger.  Her, knowing a silence lingering gets filled with not just noise.  That's why I like her singing.  She's from these parts you know. 

  "No, I didn't know that."  

  "Why'd you come?"  Sponge-self feeling like a stamp licker, I blinked a few times to steady fluid.

  "There's a lot we can't talk about here." 

  Mmmmmmm-hmmmmm.

  "But, 

  "But what?  Spit it out.  We're all late." 

  "This is deep and I should just write a book like everybody else..." 

  We sat on the edge of a camp bed and looked at our hands.  Outside, voices.  The corklike quality of youth and vigor and uncertainty. 

  "I was there." 

  "Where?" 

  "In our Country.  When they,"

  "Who they?" 

  "The they, I don't like to call any people evil, but, so..." She got up and fiddled with a skeleton key in the thin door's lock.  "But, it was one of those times, when the bad guys," my eyes rambled on the floorboards.  "Did you know those motherf'ers hung the black flag in D.C. when everybody bailed?" 

  "No, I didn't." 

  "Did you know that it was no accident that, that a fire that burned up part of the Supreme Court building, didn't kill anyone that day." 

  "Why didn't it?" 

  "Because us Americans pulled ourselves together and at least stopped killing each other, mostly."  

  She looked at a spot on the wall where the sun had changed a square of paint coloring.  "There was something hanging there," she considered the fact of something missing. 

  "And, it was me." She looked at me kind of cocking her head.  "You?" 

  "I had your back.  Well, at least until you got blown backwards down the stairs." 

  "Stupid shoes." She said it, but then confessed she didn't know why she just said that, so determinedly.  "She doesn't always remember everything," the suit had warned.  "It's like clues.  We only get clues to the whole story..." 

  "As the stories get tangled and twisted and..." 

  "Layered up." 

  A soft knock.  Door wide open.  Here we go again. 

"How can they shut down the guv'mint?"

      "We are the government." 

     A senator's words hung in the air as water dripped off his chest-high boots.

     "I, I, am, I," a woman struggled to word the tornado of the present. 

     "Chased by drones?" 

     "What are those?" 

     Someone fumbled through a fishing bag and fished out diagrams. 

     "It's no time for (i)talking points(i)," a real military Officer held up both hands to ward off (i)coming any closer(i).  "We're not politicians," said the woman who'd helped get the mule back in its stall and who had a hand on the shoulder of the person in front of her.  "What's on fire?" Our Forest leader needed to know.  Directed to two people setting up a folding table.  (i)Records(i), the cammo-clad person shrugged as to (i)no good answers yet(i). 

     Years of conflict and resolution rolling through peoples' minds. 

     "Dig out your rolodex." An older woman pulled on the sleeve of a literary giant and (i)urged(i).

     "You ALL look like a (i)house of cards(i)!!!!" A man in a flak jacket and helmet came from back of the "entourage" of assistants and "concerned persons" of "the people" to say.  He tapped twice with a strong hand on some people, (i)first to go(i).  "From where?" Someone city-dressedbut bedraggled asked. 

     "Sir?" 

     "From where do we look like that metaphor?" 

     The man's helmet lowered like a knight's shoulder to be dubbed such.  "My sources are warning me: From Space, Sir."  A General issued the order: (i)Move this crowd(i).  A hesitant shock held people in place.  "NOW!" He barked.

      Before we really started talking over shared crab cakes and ice water Madeline was distracted.  "Do you smell that?" 

     "The crab cakes?" 

     She dialed into the restaurant and zero'd in on the source of the smell.  "I'll be right back," she said and wiped her mouth with the cloth napkin and tucked it under her plate.  Then she crossed the room and approached the piano. 

     A man was standing near the pianist, talking and smoking.  "Excuse me," Madeline said.  He didn't turn around or stop talking so she tapped him on the shoulder.  "Excuse me, but"

     "Ye-ass?" The man turned and asked.

     "But this is a no smoking zone." 

     "Oh it is?" The man took a drag and asked in a mouthful of smoke. 

     "Yes, since Thursday." 

     "Oh, I see." The man sucked hard at the cigarette. 

     "Look around.  No ashtrays.  Nobody else (i)smoking(i)." 

     "Well, I guess so," he said when he looked around.  "I'll see you there," he emphatically taped the top of the piano with an open hand like it was a baby's butt.  And left. 

     "Just a fan," the pianist said.

     Madeline came back to the table and put her napkin back on her lap and explained how she hated that people smoke.  Because people die from smoking.  And they'd worked really hard to get the restaurant to agree to no smoking.  Later in the night she had a visit from the chef who went and got the GM who crossed his arms and said, "No, we really haven't lost all our customers," as Madeline considered the bill and tip.

     She reported to me that she was receiving "strange reports" from down South where we'd all been.  I slurped my water to get down a bite of crab cake and think to myself, "Hmmmm...what should I say or not say?" And kept drinking the water as she started peppering me with questions.

    "It saddens me," she said as I stabbed at a crab cake with a three-tyned fork.  "It does?" 

     "And," 

     "Yes?" 

     "Do you know where the mule is?" 

     "I did." I stuffed most of the crabcake into my mouth and chewed real slow.

     "Did?"  She folded her napkin slow and tucked it under the plate again.  "They're moving it around.  Like a lot of things.  Drugs and women and children, weapons, and, and," she was waving a man in a suit over to the table, "And even our Nationsl Guard!" 

     Both people looked at me out of a quick greeting embrace.

"They have sports, we have school."

     "Here are your shoes Madeline.  At least, that's the bag that was in the backseat."  She came out of the restroom tucking her slippery shirt back into a skirt.  "I think I'll leave my sneakers on." No one said anything.  "Keep up with our youth!"  A finger point into a sweater vest.  "We do still have Academia in common, correct?" 

     "Yes m'am," he looked out the window at the City. 

     "Can you imagine if nations talked to each other like that?" Still processing going for Victory "like hogs at a feed."  

     "Well, to be fair," my mind struggled with exhaustion, "In the bitter end, the ticket's whole and most people stormed off (i)to heal(i).  That's what my own Daddy said to Mom's (i)the truth will set you free(i).  Daddy said, "Let the healing begin." People plucked hot dogs from the grill left behind by a couple with ten years of stuff they haven't seen in ten years." 

     "I want to hear about everything, but we should eat.  Then people who need to sleep, can." 

    "What do you make of this Mr. W?" He jumped at my loud, interruptive entry, and his pen slid and "now it looks like I've flubbed.  Which I have not." 

     "Yep, it looks like you did, so I guess you did.  Of course, you can blame it on me." 

     The Pastor's face frowned a little.  "What are you asking about?" 

     It was a passage in Ezekial.  Chapter 12ish.  He read it.  He blinked it into the dense prophecy stuff he was studying and writing about in a stare over the kitchen table.  "It's not the same as worshipping false gods.  More like," he thought.  "Like God saying that because Israel is the Promised Land and where things will culminate (i)in the end times(i) some of the Jews were feeling entitled." 

     "What's that?" 

     "I just learned the concept myself." 

     I let that justify, (i)can't explain right now(i).  He frowned.  A lot on the plate.  "All right, so what I mean it as is," the Eight Day clock hit high noon.

     "Being ingrates?" 

     "Hmmmm.  Sort of, or like taking God's previous promise to them for granted.  Kind of assuming exceptionalism." 

     "Like lawyers and politician's (i)above the law(i)." 

     He put his glasses back on and didn't want to confirm that analogy.  I pressed on.  "Mr. W., We've got a problem." 

     "More than one looking at all these thunders-to-come." 

     "We're training people up to fight evil and a real enemy.  One of my friends just went over to and came back from the Middle East.  But we are becoming very violent." 

     "What did you hear?" 

     "Somebody's grandmother Linda Mac-Manned her husband." 

     "Not familiar with that phrase." 

     "She clocked him or cleaned his clock or, she punched him!" 

     "Really?" 

     "Nobody's sure if it's Alzheimer's or just fed up." 

     "I'll ask my wife to look into that.  Make a note on this one." He handed me one of eight writing pads.  "One for each thunder," he winked. 

     "That's not funny." 

     "Wasn't meant to be." 

     "Seriously though.  My reading is telling me, God's Word is no peace and that's in part because people took the gift of Israel and being chosen or blessed for granted." 

     "That's a good start.  Maybe you should write a book.  Your own book." 

     "Too many prophets not enough days left until (i)the end(i)." 

     "About that," he took his glasses back off.  "The End?" 

     "I know you signed up to do a reading at Church and I appreciate that, but I'm worried about that too." 

     "I've practically memorized it." 

     "Oh you have?! You'll do fine then I'm sure."  But his brow furrowed.  "Something besides messing it up?" 

     "It's new material for lots of folks." 

     "And it matters (i)how(i) people learn about such big stuff?" 

     "I think it does." 

     "Well, if you think so then..." 

     The clock ticking was making me feel sleepy.  "It's the same with the war stuff, I think." 

     "Hmmmm?" He'd put his pen to paper again.

     "I'm glad, (i)you've got this(i) Mr. W." 

     And I was.  The vibe of one in a high energy current can be extreme.

      (i)Just about(i) turned into did and done.

     "Not gonna lie, I beat the fuck out of her."  That was pretty much the whole statement.  (i)Case closed(i).

     The loss of momentum left a bunch of people with an on-steroids attitude and no focus.  That was why an advertising person was like, "Hell yeah, I let them watch sports." 

     "Because they have nothing better to do?" 

     "No.  Because if they don't get their downtime and have something to talk about that proves they have something in common, it'll be (i)bullshit(i) all down the line."  

     An actor visiting parents was staring.  He'd come prepared to decline eating someone else's meal, but be unrelentless about TV/Radio.  "If they'd justa played my song man," was the sorrowful (i)told you so(i) to an older generation having to bail out, resus-i-tate, and otherwise forestall losing their own children to " the madness".  "Were you at that fight?" A girl Detective water-coolered in the host's kitchen.  "Whhhhooooo-we," he kinda shook his head vaguely (he'd been sleeping), "Some nasty bruising."  He inadvertantly lightly touched his own ribs.  "They're calling it, air quote, 'male machismo,'". 

     "Do you feel bullied by my relatives?" A dusky-voiced Latino asked. 

     "Not exactly.  I feel like the Jews are messing us up." 

     "Said the generic US citizen?" 

     "Pretty much.  Like everybody else.  You have 2.5 children and ten seconds to respond no matter the topic." 

     It had almost been a loss of momentum.  A few weeks of PT for a man who'd been on the threshold of retiring had us hunting for ways to ease the burden of stress on middle age bodies.  A different saw, better ladder.  "It's got to be adapted," a lifer-buddy barked about the cable TV wires.  Standing on the ground us Carpenters finished and saved sips of coffee and ice, looked at the mess of wire spine, (i)a blotch on precision(i)?  "Mebbe," the man spit.  A tug on a baseball cap and hiding eyes from.  A support person, woman, moved in closer. "Na-ah," she flicked his cap up in a "I'ah, I'm gonna love you," kinda way.  "No secrets.  We don't hide from each other." 

     "Okay." The gentle giant looked at his feet.  A nose-bleeding concussion was still fresh in our minds.  The young person talked through (i)crisis in the field, here(i) with engaging "jokes" and multi-disciplinary scramble.  After the Emergency Services were (i)on the way(i) the same support person had dug through a musician's purse and dug out little packs of pepper.  She put it on the running mental list of (i)things to talk about(i) at whichever campfire her "tired ass landed at" as the sun sank low. 

     "Thank God you all are here," the young person was about to crumble into viscous-disturbing crying relief of stress.  She held eye contact and called for more "funnies". 

     "Or a good story," she moved her finger in front of eyes.  "Fluke we were, are here." Mostly middle-age but serviceable Americans kicked at mulch and oil in dirt on the off-road.  "You gotta do better than that," she called over her shoulder.  "What? No pay, no gab?!" 

     A man with a beard in a braid said, "The traveling Pastor's back overtah Rugby."  A shock tremor passed through the young person's body.  "Come help me steady and watch the nostrils."  

     "Am I gonna die?"  

     "Now, son, there ain't never a time fir that kind of talking 'cuz if you can ask, you're (i)probably gonna make it(i)." 

     "Darn."  

     "Let's do this," an off-duty EMperson had pulled a roll-on luggage from a car.  He flipped open a knife to quipping (i)that's not a knife, that's a knife(i) and blessed and volunteered the baggage.  "If we can get this handle out, it'll serve as a back brace type apparatus." 

     (i)Shit(i) "I just got that one." 

     It was spared by the no sirens, lights on Ambulance switchbacking down 

     (i)inside(i) the scene.

Mary Gauthier's "Bullet Holes In The Sky"