Teacher - Part 3 The Story in the River

The water in the river could speak. Every lap from a lapping wave along the edge, every gurgle from a bubbling brook, every splash from a crash against a rock or a tree's root were words. The water called out to her love in the sea. Having been separated, she spent her days rushing through mountain streams, down waterfalls into churning pools and sent along aqueducts to be captured by dams. Through it all she cried out for her love, lamenting the hardships she endured and yearning to meet once again to mingle salt with fresh...to be whole once again.

Teacher - Part 2

"But how can they come from everywhere? That's not an answer...there must be a special place where they are from."

The boy wanted to stamp his foot in frustration as when he was a small child but knew he should not. He did not understand why adults always seemed to talk in circles. How could something come from everywhere?

The man, pipe in mouth, turned his gaze towards the rivers edge. He watched the fallen leaves float by and listened to the gurgle of the water brushing along the pebbles.

"In this moment the story comes from the river...from the water."

Teacher- Part 1

"Where do they come from? The stories I mean."

The man sitting under the peach tree smoked his pipe giving no indication of hearing the question. The young boy fidgeted, reaching up to scratch an itch on his nose that had slowly been driving him mad in his attempts to ignore it.

"The stories come from everywhere."

The quietly spoken words startled the boy, itch forgotten. The man continued to smoke his pipe in a thoughtful manner as if the stories would come from his very pipe if he were still enough, thoughtful enough. At least, this is how it appeared to the boy. The man was simply enjoying his smoke.

The bitch is back

The page stretches white before me. A sea of white that goes on and on mocking me with it's lack of arial font. Writers Block, that bitch, has struck and the images that once ran across my mind's eye in 3-D and technicolor now only whisper from the wings in black, white and shades of gray. The lover's words refuse to come. The children do not play in the back alleys and dirt roads. The magic has disappeared from my fingertips. Where does it come from? And why does it leave me feeling so barren when it is gone...

Walls

"You have walls," said her mother. "You have walls so high you'll never be able to tear them down."

She protested vehemently, but as she lays in his embrace curled tightly in a fetal position she idly wonders if maybe her mother wasn't right. This man, whose face was intimately pressed between her thighs not minutes before, whose wicked tongue sent her pulse racing and fists clenching...this man was now being forcibly distanced from her.

"Can you move your knees? I want to hold you closer."

She curls closer into his chest wanting his warmth but tightens her fetal ball refusing his request.