The Sky Inside Nina’s Heart

One of the men thanked the crowd for attending the performance and then announced that “We will leave now.” Of Native heritage, the three men beautifully portrayed the Nations through moving, haunting, and memorable melodies. The harmonics delicately although deeply touched the heart, mind and soul. Musically, the histories were spoken through various instruments such as, the whistle, shakers, flutes, and mouth harps accompanied by incredible background music; and then, from time to time, smoky words realized illusions.

With exception to the whistle, which was tin, every instrument consisted of a wooden, or, bone construction. Including one mouth harp, extending the entire body of its performer. Obviously, everyone enjoyed the performances. Powerful.

On that day and in addition to the pleasantry, the wonder, the kinship that I experienced, for, I, in part, am of Native heritage, always, something has lived with me.

A child of about three years old walked over to the group; the men busied by breaking down the equipment. Standing near the performer who thanked the crowd, the girl’s face glowed. “Hello,” she said, looking up at the big man. Turning to see her, “Hello, ‘Little One,’” the big man returning a smile. “I love you,” she said, beaming with a light that almost dulled the sunny day. Greatly pleased and surprised, he said, “You do?” Shaking her head “Yes” the girl walked closer to the man, while reaching out her tiny hand. Accepting the child’s soft, gentle hand, he searched the crowd, asking, “Where are your parents, Little One?”

Slightly turning and pointing, “My Mommy is right there,” she said. Meeting her mother’s glance, the man smiled, rocking his head hello. Mommy returns the gesture. Bending toward the child, the man asked, “And what is your name?” “Nina.”  “Tell me, Nina, what is your favorite thing about outside?” Looking upward, she points, saying, “The sky.” The glow inside Nina’s eyes and the smile on her pretty face increase, and the performer, says, “I am going to write a song that has your name in it, and it will be about all things living inside the sky, OK?” “OK,” she grins.

Mommy at Nina’s side: The man asks, “Mommy, may I contact you whenever the song is ready?” the man asks. Welcoming the consideration, and then smiling while extending her hand, “Thank you; and I am Laura.” Hello, Laura, I am Little Bear.”

Weeks later, as he sits thinking, Nina’s sweet face touches Bear. The grassy hillside feels soft and the man sometimes retires here, overnight. The river rushes with clean, clear water, and from time to time a big one leaps from the water and into the air. The trees seem to whisper old secrets; about lovers, tragedy and dreamers of long ago. Above him: The Sky Mother; watching, protecting and securing all things. Little Bear loves this spot, this place and this town; and he has lived here for his entire life. Both the his promise to and the child stay with Bear and this moment his face fills with light.

Slowly, a melody stirs him and he feels it. All in nature speak to the big man, and of course, inside his heart lives the sky. The melody for this theme is one of great joy; although embraced by a pleasant sadness. A melancholy blend but Bear knows this concoction well, too well. This type of melody mothers him, holds him, closely, and to its breasts.

After three days the lyrics are ready, but for the music Bear seeks the help of his fellow group members. The men produce a work that surprises even him, and then staring deeply into the pages, he utters, “This one is special.” Recalling that Nina had said that the sky lives inside her heart; this, Bear thinks, has a good feel to it. “The Sky Inside Nina’s Heart.” The men agree on the song title and then begin studio productions of the work.

One day, Nina’s Mommy receives a telephone call from Little Bear; and he invites her and Nina to the performance. “Nina and you will be up front, close to us and me, Ok?” “Great!” says Laura. “I’ll tell her, she’ll be sooo happy!” Oh, thank you, so much,  Bear!” “We’ll be there, can’t wait!”

Nina and her Mommy attend, and as promised are close to the performers, except and even to Mommy’s surprise, Little Bear introduces Nina to the crowd; telling it that she inspired the song. “The Sky Inside Nina’s Heart,” he says, “is forever dedicated to this special child.” Holding Nina in his arms, Bear says, “I love you, ‘Little One.’”  With a big hug, “I love you too.”

An old man wakes to find a strange woman seated near his bedside. His liver and he are dying. Something about the woman feels familiar, but Little Bear says nothing. Touching his hands, she says, “Hello, it has been a long time, Bear, do you remember me?” Nina was a teenager the last time they spoke, however, her eyes and voice, now, brighten his face. In a weakened voice, “‘Little One?’”

Leaning in and wrapping her arms around the dying man, “Yes.” “I am sorry…” Tears wetting her face. Bear feels her sadness and then, momentarily, joy energizes him. “You are a strange one, my child, for I have known no other sharing sadness and joy as I do but you.”

Something inside Nina’s eyes speaks to him; and the old man has known these feelings since she was a child, since they first met. As she aged: Bear began to see him in the child; however, and although he wanted to know, could never intrude in such a way. Inside him, believably, Nina is his daughter. His love for her could never exceed the love he knew from the fist day, none is greater. “My final moments smile because you are with me, “My” Daughter.” (Nina tears.)

Embracing tightly, closely, they share the song and as the melody warms them, Bear becomes cold. Singing, Nina buries her face inside his chest and then cries in a way only he could share.

Four years after Little Bear’s death, Nina’s Mom dies; and as a sorrowful daughter attends the hurtful tasks of inspecting and cleaning, she finds a document. Reading it, the startled woman learns that her Mom used an agency to assist with pregnancy; this is puzzling and the gasping woman sits, to catch her breath.

“Why?” she thinks, “would Mom do something like this, why?” The street address is local and the agency continues to operate. A few short rings and a woman answers the telephone. After a series of questions, finally, and although unusual, the person agrees to help with identification of the sperm donor. Within the week Nina receives a Certified Letter.

The sperm donor is a Mr. Nigel Clayton Leaks. Naturally, the name means nothing to Nina, after all, and all her life, she has known nothing of her true father. The document includes miscellaneous information, such as Race, Tribe, and Tribal Name. With big eyes and racing heart: Nina is incredulous of what she reads. The man is identified as Blackfeet and his tribal name is “Little Bear.”

“What?” “Little Bear?” Mom never told me…(Laura never knew the donor, the law restricted this information.) Of course, it could be any Little Bear but something inside her assures Nina of her thinking. She has things that Bear gave her and his DNA has to be on them. She would have the test done. Within the month proof arrives and (in fact) Little Bear was her biological father. Nina, although sad, feels elated because she loved Bear and who else would better be her Daddy. “Joy, sometimes, arrives in bundles of sadness.” Anxiously: She would change her surname.

Six months later: Nina drives to a town about ten miles south of her residence and then finds a quiet spot to relax, think. The news about Bear significantly changed her life; knowing the truth of whom she is and the totality of her ancestry, pleases her; her Mom always told Nina of their Seminole heritage and now she has more, much more. Spotting a good place to relax Nina safely parks the car, inside an elbow, and off the road. As the weary woman strolls across the highway, something about this place feels familiar.

Here: The rushing river, with clear and clean water, the whispering trees and above her, the Sky Mother; oh, and look, from time to time, a big one leaps out the water and into the air. Reclining, right there, on the soft grassy hillside, Nina thinks of Little Bear-“Daddy.” Sadly smiling, she hums “The Sky Inside Nina’s Heart.” Tired, worn and missing Mom and now, too, her Dad, she feels everything surrounding her. The affects of inspiration swelling her chest: briefly, the old woman energizes; and as the trees tickle her with tales of long ago, happily, and for the last time, Nina closes her eyes…incoherently, “My final moments smile… because… you are with me, my Father…”

Epilogue

The powers in Nature, truly, mystify: Without knowing: A father and daughter are united although for the while, truth remained hidden from them; yet, and before her death, a newly found truth connects a woman to her entire heritage.

This joy delivered by sadness is genetically and eternally shared with a Mom who the woman has ever known and a Dad found and then lost before she could know him; although, and for most of her life, she (has known and) loved him.

This tale forever lives as told to me by my mother; the melodies Nina heard that day and the song written for her wake, walk with and then lull me, to sleep. Nina died more than ten years ago; and proudly, I say, she was my grandmother.

(c) 2017 Delbert H. Rhodes

Ten O’Clock

1668308-1440x900-[DesktopNexus.com]

Delbert H. Rhodes

Years later, the memories hang on but why? Yesterday is gone and suffrage is a benefit to no one; and yet no matter how she tries her ex’s memory haunts her, permits her little peace. An American woman whose Dutch parents emigrated Nederland to immigrate America, Story Vanderbloren was conceived in Amsterdam and born in Minnesota. Raised and cherished by a loving family, after high school she leaves to study Archeology; and it is soon after completing her P. H. D. that someone special enters her life.

At the age of twelve and while talking with Mommy, the girl asks about her first name and why she has it. “The tale of your conception, and delivery and love that you brought to us is a wonderfully, glorious story; and so, your Dad and I agreed that no other name could suit you.”

Tall, blond, blue, and curvy and intelligently beautiful, Story has traded French Fries for Fish and Chips. Her life, and new profession are better, much better and she prefers positive to negative distractions.

Time, and terms must meet the mind and hers struggles for clarity, to think clearly about things that matter most, that matter now.

London Towne is lovely and especially at night, the lights, the shoppes, Libraries, the Trem, the people and glory of the new world surrounding her. I digress: The “Trem” (silent e, long m: pronounced trm) is the local high-speed monorail, it is an excellent and wonderful ride.

Of the resources available in the city, its Libraries contain ancestral files, these halls of antiquity are some of the finest in the world, invaluable to her research.

Today Story walks the sidewalk in Belcher Street and then something wonderful meets her, rounding the corner to Tolstoy it occurs that the smells come from Le Patisserie, a shoppe two stores away. In America, “Le Patisserie” would be The Bakery. Entering, she sees not only beauty but something sweetly agonizing.

Unbelievably well organized, the cakes, pastries, cookies and other delicacies appear to await the photographer rather than customer. “I Love this place!” She visits no less than once weekly.

Oh, my, and Story simply adores her new life, except for one small thing…memories. If she could remove only a portion of them then everything would be happier. Although never easy she perseveres, surrender to the toils of yesterday is not optional.

“Sto-V,” the nickname given to her by her colleagues, is a Research Writer and she works diligently to uncover facts, truths to prove her premises. Sometimes she disproves them and this too is okay, a foot in the right direction. Disproof proves something, a person of critical thinking works either way, both are beneficial, worthy.

She loves it whenever waking to new questions. Life is strange, often placing answers before us that either incomprehensibly or, sensibly, we fail to recognize and may even refuse to acknowledge.

Yes, but since Story’s youth she has been a dreamer and the truth in dreams is less fuzzy than people make it; a superb analogy, she thinks, is the innocence of children which acts expansively, making anything, everything possible. As such, unlearning adult fears, permitting the mind to freely think, she believes, provides greater opportunities in life.

Opportunity: Story’s middle name.

As a researcher she is deeply busied by events of humankind, she has developed a premise that though not popular may one day prove man’s existence. No, not actually his place here but the reason he is here. Story believes that it has less to do with either the egg or the chicken and more to do with the bearer, the creator of them. She must somehow make sense of it. She will make sense of it.

This woman strongly feels reason to be both parent, and plan of humankind and whether Celestial, Natural, or, neither, she struggles to find the clues, the pathways leading to proof. Thirty four-years old and after five years of research, she uncovers only uncertainties; definitive evidence eludes her. Still, she persists and to the end would not falter. Either Story proves or disproves her theory, a dedicated Scientist, she tirelessly works long hours and so far, without rewards. “One day.”

Reason.

The word flutters about her head like a lacy butterfly with little care. Tomorrow a business meeting about Policy and then Story attends the Theater, she sits front row center stage. “Les Miserable,” her favorite play is in town and she simply must see it; “Front Row Center Stage, Exciting!”

In many ways, her life resembles the theme and as the tale unfolds, like a looking-glass much of Story’s life unveils. She realizes that this too must be dealt, it has to one day (all) end. How the end plays out is the question and one the woman, right now, cares to ignore. Somehow, and even this moment, Darren speaks to her and as much as she should not, she listens…

“I told you, it wasn’t like that,” Darren stammers, staring out the window.

“You are lying!” Story stabs the air with her finger, trying to see his eyes. “And witnesses tell me that you and your girlfriend were there at ten o’clock. They are credible, I trust them, they saw you and I believe them!”

“Ten o’clock?” He says, looking directly at her. “I don’t know about witnesses but ten o’clock has always been ‘my’ witness. I was not there, I love ‘you!'”

He just kept repeating it over and over again but what exactly did he mean, what does “it” mean? “Ten O’Clock?” Of the many things said that last night the time frame lingers in her mind, she is oblivious to its meaning and is without useable clues to make sense of it. Surely, if truly she wanted to she could find the evidence: the missing pieces to the puzzle; but, is the responsibility hers?

“As far as I am concerned, those words, like time on a clock, have freed me of abuse; and true, he neither hit, pushed nor physically injured me but daily reduced me mentally and emotionally. The scars, though invisible, are more devastating and destructive than any black eye or, broken jaw. I am ‘free!'”

Story loves her new life and refuses to surrender it; and admittedly, Darren and she should have ended years ago but love strangely partners with reason.

Reason, the term strongly affects her and she knows that it plays, in large parts, a very important role in her life. Darren at one time was her life and without him she sometimes feels lonely. Loneliness has a way of prevailing truth and like a catapult propels Story forward. Now, here in wonderful London Towne Happiness and She stroll hand in hand; a ringless marriage to her work and life.

Once more and as usual dreaming offers more pieces to the puzzle; and waking, Story smiles. She stretches as the feelings in her dream embrace her with clarity. Lazily, she slumps into the bathroom for a Lady’s Moment and then to the Kitchen for some Chocolate Tea, “Chocotea,” she calls it. Blended with Cocoa and any Tea of choice, she favors Green Tea, her concoction is refreshing, tasty and medicinally healthy. Cocoa is a good thing.

As her dream and the phrase “A Loving Plot” touch her, Story permits a childlike innocence to control her; for, “Puty,” her laptop, seems to ask that she pen the dream, now, before its memories leave her. “Ok, ‘Ok,’ I’m coming.” Careful not to spill her Chocotea, slowly, Story crosses to her desk. Moments later, done, she has written something new and powerful. A wonderful addition to her poem book.

Filled with feelings and honesty, the poem exemplifies the lady’s suffrage; and understandably, truly, she admonishes and  admires it. Actually, why would Story not love it, for, from her heart, and inside every verse is her freedom and her life.

…..

A Loving Plot

You think I love you
Please tell me why
Should I think of you
Better to cry

Challenge I must
The surging seas
The damning rock slides
Inside your knees

Scale I the towers
The tallest skies
Or smallest flowers
Your floral eyes

Want that I want you
Your tender kiss
A bee its honey
Want me you this

Sometimes I wonder
Why loved you, I
And then the thunder
Love’s alibi

Sweetly, you scorn
Oh, yes, I know
So dark your sunshine
A summer snow

Tarnished my teardrops
Torn is my soul
Autumn to Springtime
A Winter cold

Scripted, our tale
A loving plot
“To have to hold?”
I think, have not

…..

…Outside, darkness smothers the sky; inside and deliciously, Chocotea creams her, the woman smiles…

She Fills Me

Delbert H. Rhodes

1235188-1440x900-[DesktopNexus.com]The morning sweetly touches her and he smiles. Yes, today marks the thirtieth year of their lives together; and although some roads were curvy and at times bumpy, they always led home. Grief, disappointments and dissatisfaction are mere memories and his affections for his wife are powerful. Sleeping, Dina’s beauty astounds her husband and he unconditionally loves her. A susurrating wind displaces the curtains, causing light to spray the room, shadows artistically line Dina’s face. Her delicate skin and classic features are simply breathtaking.

The years have neither erased her youth nor the tenderness in her cheeks, the teasing softness pursing her lips. Gently, Arty presses Dina’s mouth with his, sensuously, she surrenders, even in sleep her husband and she sweetly connect. Cheek to cheek, she swoons as her lover recites a phrase from her favorite poem, he found it about two years after they married. Dina loves it, and hearing it pleases her as much as reading it pleases him.

Leaning, Arty strains to retrieve a folder; ever careful to never wrinkle its contents. Resting the poem inside his lap, the happy “Prince” snuggles sleeping beauty; and then accompanied by the lute in his heart, a poetic serenade:

—————————————-

She Fills Me

A woman’s love soft and tender
To her passions I surrender
Watching her move I’m mystified
My heart and eyes open wide

With morning light she wakes me
In dark of night she shakes me
Because of her I’m surely blessed
For all to give I’d give the rest

Her fleeting glance I adore
A somber smile I hurt for more
Her eyes and lips mine to kiss
Without her soul lost is this

The very blood of my life
Flowing to every part
With all there is I love her so
She feeds my hungry heart

Everyday she fills me
Emotionally she thrills me

No sweeter wind to calm the storm
Inside her arms I’m safe and warm
To lose her love I’m lost you see
She is always there for me

—————————————–

“I love you, ‘so’ much.”

Copyright © 2007-2015 Delbert H. Rhodes

My House

934405-1440x900-[DesktopNexus.com]The years passed quickly and this moment a man reflects. He thinks of his life, he remembers the things that he wished, and hoped for and as always, the memories of his old house please him. In childhood, the man lived in the country and near a surging river, he loved the house, and the lands and nature.

The thing that the boy loved more was returning home each day, running and smiling he would call out, “Hello!”

One day in fourth grade he met a pretty girl and the two became good friends. Holly and “Monte” as she called him, often chatted as he looked over his shoulder at her. The girl’s pretty eyes, and smile and that wrinkling thing she did with her nose excited him. Infrequently, they played together at home but their times in school were most memorable. -Because of Holly the school day felt extra special.

Near the end of the fifth grade, Holly told Monte that she was moving away. Added to his love of the old house, and the lands and nature Holly’s memories warm him.

Those were decades ago, and today Monte operates a successful Manhattan restaurant. Commemorating the old house the restaurant is “My House.”

Attracting the eyes, a beautifully framed poem prominently rests on a wall.

——————————————————————————————————————–

My House

This is my house
Oh, please come see
I’ve lived here forever
Ever since I was three

 My toys in this closet
My playpen this floor
Teasing my sister
A spanking for sure

I love dunking cookies
Eat more than three
Need a quick boost?
Have one it’s free

 Kris Kringle’s my buddy
He peeks in my room
A jolly old man
My favorite cartoon

Up early for school
A cheerful day’s end
A few blocks away
My colorful friend

A fun day of learning
You know how it goes
Behind me sits Holly
She wrinkles her nose

On the corner my house
It is never alone
I call out, “Hello!”
It welcomes me home
© 2004 D. H. Rhodes

I Write About You

1343536-1440x900-[DesktopNexus.com]Love touches in many ways, sometimes it flows, brushing the heart as would winds whoosing the fields; and then other times, it is harsh, and cold and hurtful. Nevertheless, if love is true then lovers overcome; and suffrage is sweet and sour, an untethered force, driving them together while ripping them apart. Other than life, the greatest gift is love; and absolutely, it is worth and worthy of sharing.

Love doomed to failure once touched me; alas, its tenderness offered no meaningful relationship. Truth, at times, a talon of hardships, aids to clear the mind; and whether the heart aches or, eventually hurts, still, the risk, the dare, the adventure into peril is exciting. She was most beautiful  and one of the best loves of my life.

For her, I penned and presented four poems; “I Write About You” is without membership to the group. This poem occurred subsequent to our end, yet speaks to her memory. Uncertainty prevails; but whatever the truth,  the woman greatly impressed me.
-Writer.

—————————————————————————————–

I Write About You

I’ve always wanted to write a song
I never knew what words I should use
I know very little about life
But I know something about the blues

They say when writing a song
You must always have a good hook
Maybe I’ll happen into a Library
Sit and stare at a good book

Mumbling through the words
No fancy phrase comes to mind
Well just a few more pages
Perhaps, just a little more time

The Library walls whisper my name
And still I’m sitting here
Like so many others before me came
I’m Mach Five going nowhere

Bookshelves echo tinkering mites

Tirelessly meeting the task
I’d question my reasons
For trying too hard
But there is no one to ask

So, I grumble my way out the door
Agonizing from disappointment
Like a spider’s endearing medicinal sting
What foolish fly would want it?

Chasing the Jester’s piper-less flute
To an unknown distant place
The more I think about writing a song
The more I can see your face

A lovely sight if ever I’ve seen
As I pledge to shoulder the fight
I sell my soul to diamond dark eyes
In a lost and nothing night

A quest for unyielding passionate thirst
Consumes my weary mind
Suddenly, the words for which I search
Are no longer hard to find

For when I want to write a song
And find it difficult to do
I think of someone oh so special
Then… I write about you

© 1999 D. H. Rhodes

“Watchful Flies”

flyDoris’ day terribly ends. Trace, her love of many years, abandons her.  Sleep frustrates the tormented woman. Finally, her convoluted dreams soothe the hurt in Doris’ heart. Upon its walls, a strange poem offers peace:

 

 

Where go I
to find a place,
someplace, I need
to hide

What must I do
to hide my face
dare I, my faceless
pride

A quiet peaceful
loneliness, you
seek me, go away

They  hurt me so
my painful knees, I
broke them yesterday

This plate of food,
how do I eat, its taste
I cannot stand

My throat a web
of spider claws, I
feel its clammy hands

Upon a tomb my
name I read, written
by my fears

A dusty grotesque Eulogy
of wretched morbid
tears

Turn from me,
oh, do not stay, leave
me to my thoughts

To understand this
mind in me and why
to me it talks

The  warmth of you
I cannot feel
your searing cold
I dread

Dare risk I
the bold in you, melt,
should I instead

Inside my heart a
darkness looms, dare
I love you so

A tapestry of watchful flies
warning, “No,”
“please, no!”

The fate of love never risk
its ending is foretold;
watchful flies never bate,
thy youth is much too old.

Copyright © 2014 Delbert H. Rhodes

“Someone He Loved”

Vintage-Printable-Botanical-Rose-GraphicsFairy-sm-664x1024Ninety years since his birth and the old man thinks of his life. In many ways, living blemished his heart; still, he holds no malice. His body, once strong and powerful, is broken and tired. Years ago, vessels burst inside his eyes, he sees only shadows. The old man hears acutely; and his ability to identify voices, quite good.

The hands remain strong and powerful, able to give a hardy handshake or delicately caress a flower. The knees, sickened by osteoarthritis, are puffy and inflamed; his health declining, life ebbs away. Awakening him, soft hands touch his face, a kiss to his cheek.

“It’s been a long time, Xavier.” “I heard of your illness and wanted to visit you.” The woman’s tone, her touch, her closeness seems as memorable curiosity. “I am married now, and have four children.” “Do you remember me?” Xavier’s brow bends, “Who are you, how do I know you?” “I see only shadows.” Leaning closer, the woman says, “We once worked together, a long time ago.” “When…where?”

Xavier hears nothing and then recognizable words. Written about thirty years ago, the words and phrases, the metaphors, the style, his; a poem written for someone special, someone he loved.-“D’na?” “Is it really you?”

Although from the shadows, her eyes touch him; her smile warms him-the ravages of death nearby-holding him, shielding him from fate, D’na’s tears slide down Xavier’s cheek. “Yes, yes.” “I have missed you, D.” “I have missed you terribly.” For long moments they tremble.

“I’m sorry, Zavier.” “I should have talked more about it.” “That was a long time ago, and I never blamed you. We loved each other, things and people got in the way. Sometimes, even loving is too difficult.” “I know,” she sadly agrees, “you’re right.”

“Tell me about your children.” The weary man reclines, her lovely voice relaxes him. D’na returns to the beginning, her life and family clearly before him. She speaks of marriage, husband, job, pregnancy and excitement; but, does she truly know happiness. D’na sketches the faces of her children and a mother’s impregnable love-somehow, Xavier stares beyond the shadows, blue eyes, greying blond hair, lithe, and a lovely face-and her hands, Xavier always loved her hands-gorgeous. Customarily, D’na’s hands rest inside his, sweetly, she leans forward.

Still, Zavier’s kiss electrifies the woman-his lifeless body collapses in her arms-even after thirty years, she could not talk more about it; she could not tell him about Bobby.
Copyright©2014 Delbert H. Rhodes

Anna: The Passionate Tomb

fragmentation rouge
ARE YOU HERE?

By Delbert H. Rhodes

 Staring into her eyes, Tony feels wounded by her sorrows. Anna is hurt because she cares for Tony, and though he has produced creative works inspired by others and especially women he has written nothing because of her. Tony aches for Anna, she is special to him and he loves her. Attempting to quell Anna’s anguish, he speaks while holding her hand.

“There is reason that I have not written because of you. My feelings for you are so delicate; they are powerful. I fear that if I were to produce works inspired by you my passions would entomb me. Then for the life of me what could I do.” Her heart pounding Anna begins to tear. She intently listens as Tony continues.

“My dear Anna, you are young, and beautiful and I am much older; your life, your friends are strange worlds to me. We are too different; I could not relate.” (Tony withdraws from his desire to hold Anna.) “You have a boyfriend; you love him. I am alone and I love you. The circle suffers fragmentation, too many obstacles to a meaningful connection. Anna, what should I do? Should I expect you to leave your boyfriend, to surrender all that you are to him, giving up everything you have with him? Am I the fool to dare such thoughts? No, Anna. Yes, sweet woman, I want you; but what should I do and what would become of me?”

Tony’s pleas deeply affect Anna, yet his words ring with sincerity, truth. These last moments, and although all Tony has said she feels and truly knows, still, Anna must honestly acknowledge her passions for Tony. For seven years, she has loved her boyfriend and engagement soon follows. Oh, what should she do? Her eyes welling with torrents the distraught woman says nothing, she sadly turns, and then walks away.

Copyright © 2012 Delbert H. Rhodes

Something about You: The Peeping Eye

Spying on My Neighbour??!

By Delbert H. Rhodes

Lightly kissing Ja’nia’s ear, Troy says, “You have something I want, so you should be wary of me.” Enjoying his kiss, sweetly, Ja’nia asks, “What do I have that you want?” His lips tenderly brushing her ear, “Beautiful eyes an alluring smile candy lips and luscious hips.”

Smiling and trying to catch her breath, Ja’nia pushes away from Troy, but remains within his reach. Continuing the flirt, “And is that all?” Then deliciously staring into her eyes, Troy says, “You.” “I want all of you.”

Ja’nia’s entire body teems with desire, but she cannot appear easy. No woman with self-respect allows any man to ‘have’ her too quickly; to treat her as some baited fish dangling from his wormy hook. Even if it, and all of it, is absolutely true-and regarding Ja’nia’s feelings for Troy, it is.

Stepping farther away from Troy and looking out the windows, Ja’nia skillfully probes him. She needs to be sure of this man’s feelings for her. True and though Ja’nia has known Troy since they were children, and has loved him ever since, still, she must know. Oh, yes, Ja’nia realizes the lust of it all, and God knows she too lusts for Troy. For as long as she can remember it has always been this way. Troy has been the object of her affections, and her love…for years.

“Tell me something about you that nobody else knows.” Smiling, but quizzically distracted, Troy moves closer to Ja’nia, “Something nobody knows?”

Seconds begin to feel heavy; still, the two individuals seem transfixed in time. Ja’nia, patiently waiting, as Troy, thinking, tends to be somewhere else.

Turning to look out at the distant trees, Troy relishes the cohesion between the trees and the landscape. Strangely, and this has never occurred before now, Ja’nia’s question offers Troy something he has always been without, actually, something that he has avoided, the opportunity to love someone else.

strange days

Right now, Ja’nia is disappointed. Enough time has elapsed, and her question remains unanswered. She wonders whether she should never have asked it. Just as Ja’nia turns to walk away, Troy takes her hand. Once more, he tenderly brushes her cheek with his, and then softly, he whispers, “Sometimes I dream about a twin brother.”

Ja’nia is amazed about what Troy has told her, searching his face, she is certain that the tale is no lie. She asks, “What twin brother?” “When did you have a twin brother?” Troy explains that it is a dream, but often he wonders whether he had a twin before birth.

Still shocked by the story, Ja’nia offers support; she notices that Troy’s manner has become quite serious. This is something of great importance to him, and Ja’nia is satisfied, she feels secure that Troy truly loves her. She is happy.

Yes, Troy loves Ja’nia; however, he also has another love, a great love. A tale he would never share with Ja’nia or anyone else; that is, until the final moment has arrived. You see, Troy is a “Peeper.”

The high tech unsavory habit began because of his military involvements. A military lifer, Troy is Special Forces. He uses ultra-secret technologies to do his job his job is killing.

Troy remains on active duty and deploys whenever receiving the call. Missions take him anywhere in the country and the world. His kills are top secret and have the highest security clearances. Even the Country’s President cannot access the intelligence, and knows nothing of the personnel. Troy is a trained killer and the best.

The Lieutenant Colonel has led many men into harm’s way and with zero loses. Naturally, death ever awaits everyone, especially those facing it daily. This soldier loves his country; he loves his job, TROY LOVES KILLING. Lately, he has developed an even deeper love; one that takes him into the far reaches of the Internet.

Thanks to the military, Troy’s laptop, home computer and smartphone host speciliaized software. Directly accessing a military satellite, the Eye, the technology affords bird’s eye view, and worldwide. Yes, and not only site locations, but and like Supey, the Eye can see through walls, yes, and even Kryptonite.

The advanced technology exceeds the stuff the forces use in the field. The Infrared Sector has severe options attached. These and other capabilities make one man almost invincible. He has as much and more resources than an entire field battalion.

Consider: you are a little lovely taking a steamy, bath, shower or maybe even relaxing in the hot tub. The Eye sees you…ALL OF YOU.

Why would a highly ranked military type reduce to low-life behavior? Excitement. The desire to crack another unopened shell, and simply for the thrill. Unfortunately, the thrill got too hot, and the zealous military man is a bit too involved.

Initially, peeping into the private lives of others was distraction, fun, but then Troy became obsessed; he could not wait to do it again, and again. Now the man’s passions consume him.

Yes, and from time to time, the Peeper encounters a screened vision that drives him, and Troy just loves taking a ride. He enjoys going over the wall, and is hungry for the other side.

Whenever his appetite triggers, a visit is in order. Correct, an onsite visit occurs. Before he comes face to face with a sweetie Troy does a little reconnaissance. He uses the Internet for initial intelligence, and then tours the neighborhood.

Next, and even when someone is at home, the commando pops in for a closer look. While on point, the soldier familiarizes himself with the properties. The Eye has already provided the intelligence, but Troy likes firsthand knowledge. Two months ago a kill occurred. The woman decided to struggle just a little too much and then screamed. Instantly, and like the swift kiss of sharpened steel, Troy snapped the woman’s neck.

First, the feeling disturbed him, after all, the man never intended more than tasting her; but, and almost immediately, his sensors rang off the charts. His feelings overwhelmed him; it was more exciting than killing in the field. EXCITING! Troy could hardly wait for the next time. Strategy: Target. Intelligence. Engagement. KILL.

Tonight: Troy has a date to keep, and he anticipates a fun time.

(Ja’nia cannot know.)

Copyright © 2012 Delbert H. Rhodes

His Silent Tears: A Sign of Tenderness

An unconscious Pina Menichelli at the start of...

By Delbert H. Rhodes

 

Five years have passed since the accident and Vera remains comatose. The medical opinion of her doctors is that she would not regain consciousness. The doctors have done all they could, they can do no more; with two exceptions, all doctors suggest terminating life support. Ty loves his wife more than he loves anything else and refuses to give up; he believes that Vera will return to him.

Her loving husband never misses a day. Ty is a banker and quite busy but his wife is never second. Aiding Vera’s recovery, he always brings something to read to her. His favorite is a poetic piece that he wrote for his wife when they were dating.

Whenever reading the poem, the hurting man surrenders to his tears. Ty is never the crybaby type but any man loving his wife, or anyone, must show (at least) a tiny sign of tenderness. Besides, he too enjoys the poem, and it reminds him of the early days, the days when nothing separated Vera and him. They share a wonderful marriage; the couple has great children and even a happy dog. This sickness, this horror would not take away the man’s partner and sweetheart. Ty would never abandon his lovely wife.

Kissing Vera “hello,” the weary man relaxes by her bedside: he begins:

“What’s it Like?”

“Baby, what’s it like; feeling warm yet not to know, you lie there naked on a bed of snow? Roaring hot, the fever burns in your mind. Worry not; passion soars from time to time. Your heart pounds, like sunshine raindrops through the night, and crystal melts in the darkness of the light. As sweet flowers dance in the fibers of your hair, you would love to spread your petals, but you know you should not dare.

What’s it like; gathering tears of snow filled clouds and moonlit dew; a tireless sun at the dusk of daybreak awakens you, to arise ready alert alive greeting the day, taking charge of whom you are or walk away.

What’s it like; (when) the mind screams and the body aches, from all you missed; tearful eyes and lust-filled lips await the kiss. Hungry arms seduce the soul the spirit lives. To be saddened for joy grief-stricken for more of all there is.

Tell me, what’s it like, holding you close in candle lit smiles, caressing the night. To make a choice to choose for now, to know it’s right; (baby), do you know what it’s like?”

Sitting and staring at the words, Ty remains lost in his mind; he wants Vera back, and needs to know what else he might do. This moment: he must support his wife; and then from his heart, Vera’s distraught husband begs God for her return. He refuses to submit, to say goodbye.

Tired, Ty rests his head across his wife’s breasts; his silent tears seducing his sweetheart’s spirit, soon, Ty falls asleep…

Copyright © 1995-2012 Delbert H. Rhodes