EXCERPTS FROM SLOW DESCENT
BLACK AND WHITE
The boys's skin was as pale and thin as fine white porcelain
His eyes as gray as an overcast sky on a cold December day
He never showed any emotion but inside his world was a raging ocean
No word or sound – just a frozen stare like a clock unwound
His thick curls of chocolate brown hair tumbled down
From everywhere countering his fair skin and his vacant stare
They tried to reach the boy with every type of gadget and toy
Which seemed more to annoy than offer the slightest hint of joy
He had built a wall so thick and so strategically placed every brick
That no scream or chatter could ever break through
He would only touch paper and pen until he picked them up again
To fill in the dark shades of every sketch he ever drew
He sees the world in black and white and he draws it as he sees it
Each broad stroke of ink unlocks his talent and frees it
An image travels through his heart to his hands and the result displays it
The effort seems to calm his struggle or at least delays it
For the old man next door each breath was a labor and a chore
Gravity had weighed him down like a tree bent over to the ground
His long and empty days were clouded with remorse and regret
From the bleakest sunrise to the harshest sunset
Life had carved canyons from his brow down his leathery cheek
That slowly ran deeper with each passing week
Cobwebs crawled out from the corners of his eyes
All flashing warnings of an impending demise
Nobody knew his name or the tragic place from where he came
No one could intrude into his perpetual solitude
He once composed exquisite paintings of profound beauty and grace
Among the best of his time he had rightfully earned a place
She had given him the drive to keep his passion alive
She inspired him to the point where his craft could thrive
In a split second the fairytale came to a screeching halt
The day they found her breathless on the burning asphalt
Somehow the boy sensed an overpowering connection
He found himself pulled like a magnet in the neighbor’s direction
He rings the bell and drops a drawing on the worn out doormat
Then disappears behind the tall shrubs in two seconds flat
He dragged himself across the dimly lit room
To peak outside his self-imposed gloom
Shocked and overwhelmed by the boy’s skill he discovers
An incredible image but without any colors
Day after day the boy leaves him a new one in black and white
Each delivers a scene with more powerful insight
They begin to break down the old man’s hardened shell
Shattering the walls of his heartbroken hell
The boy uncovers a frayed book of paintings to his wide-eyed delight
Full of brilliant pastels that glow in the late-afternoon light
Alongside the old man left a box full of paints, a palette and brushes
Each one comes alive in the young boy’s tight clutches
The explosive splashes of red, orange and green
Appear to the boy like nothing he has ever seen
Suddenly a vivid new world unveils before him
He casts aside the noises and decides to ignore them
Now they sit side by side on the porch swing as it glides
Like the gentle movement of the cool evening tides
Held up by a rusty chain that creaks from its years
They never speak but the old man knows the boy hears
Each one creates his next vision in an intense sketch
And hands it to the other with his arms outstretched
Each congratulates the other with nods and smiles
Followed by deep laughs that travel a thousand miles
EXCERPTS FROM THE UNLIKELY TWINS
The Unlikely Twins
They were twins, but certainly not identical in either the literal or the medical sense. The town doctor called them fraternal twins yet only in the broadest application of the term. Harlon, the heftier of the two, came into the world exactly four minutes after Marlon. Sadly, their mom died shortly after she gave birth to Harlon. Granny took on the burdensome chore of raising the twins. Not an easy task for Granny who had begun to show her age in every possible way.
Except for the closeness of development in their mother’s womb and the timing of birth, neither of which was by their choice, Harlon and Marlon could not have been farther apart in virtually every aspect of life. To call them “different” would be to trivialize the obvious.
Marlon grew to be tall and thin as a rail but a rail with muscles. Harlon didn’t grow to be much at all in that he was short, flabby, and overweight which became apparent at a very young age. If the twins stood next to each other, an event that happened about as often as a full solar eclipse, the vision suggested that of a creosote light post stuck straight into the ground next to a small, round, and unpolished rock.
For the price of a dime at the carnival, one would never have guessed that they hailed from the same family, much less that they were twins. Simply put, they carried not a shred of physical resemblance, but that was just the iceberg tip of their differences. Differences that became increasingly evident almost from the moment they took their first breaths.
Marlon learned to walk quickly and steadily, and with a very determined gate, but refused to mutter an intelligible word until well after his second birthday. Harlon could speak as clearly as a bell at ten months but preferred to orate from his hand-made wooden crib; a crib that already had begun to bow and sag under Harlon’s magnitude. Granny wondered if he would ever walk. She prayed it would happen soon because her knees were giving out. She feared she might have to ask her neighbor, the young neighbor, not the neighbor who was more feeble than she was, to build a wagon to pull him around.
Crusty and the Kid
In the 1960s, Odessa was a *dusty, dry and desolate west Texas town. It was flat in every direction and in every direction, you could see oil derricks and storage tanks. Its neighbor just down the road, Midland, had overshadowed it in almost every category, and Odessa had now become the ignored older sister.
Midland’s growth and domination of industry in the area had angered many an Odessa resident, young and old alike. That anger often led to heavy drinking which, in turn, instigated some belligerent and ugly behavior. The person tendering that agressive behavior often directed it at his own family.
The kid’s father had become a drunk. Not just a drunk, but a violent drunk who figuratively and literally struck out at everything around him. That included the television, kitchen plates, framed photos, but most disturbingly, at the kid and his mother. They felt the brunt of that destructive behavior way too often. In the midst of one of his bashings of everything and everyone within arm’s reach, the kid’s mother grabbed her then-15 year old son, and they left Odessa behind and for good. They headed east to Brownwood where they quickly settled in to what they hoped would be a better, or at least a safer and calmer, life.
Unfortunately, the kid had very few things working for him and many working against him. For one, he had a stutter and at this time in a small town, that did not bode well for a teenager. Add to that the fact that, at way too young of an age, he had a bout with palsy that had likely resulted from his dad slapping him on the head time after time and day after day. It left him with such a heavy squint in his left eye that, most of the time, it appeared to be totally shut. The combination of the two afflictions assured that the kid could not find a single friend.
About thirty years ago, Crusty had come south to Brownwood from somewhere in Nebraska. He found an old broken down barn on the far end of Vincent Street and turned it into a half-decent pool hall. He ran it every single day of the year. Rumor had it that Crusty had traveled with a circus, doing what, nobody knew and how he lost his legs, nobody knew that either. In any event, Crusty spent his days rolling around the pool hall in his ragged wheelchair.
Crusty was, well, crusty. He looked crusty and he acted crusty. He had the face of a bulldog and the temperment of one as well. Instead of his tongue, a half-chewed, half-smoked cigar always hung out of the corner of his mouth.
Her Boots
As he boarded the train, he noticed that the thermometer on the platform read 90 degrees. The morning sky had turned from a tangerine orange just after dawn to a crisp and cloudless blue. The Harrisburg line train left Galveston at 8:00 AM sharp every morning except, of course, Easter and Christmas. He was heading to Columbus, then working his way north to visit family in central Texas. He had made the trip several times. It was pleasant enough, save for the oppressive heat in the dead of summer.
Given the relatively short duration of the trip, he always opted for a seat in the front row of the second-class car. Even though the seats in that row faced the rear of the train, did not recline, and offered minimum legroom, he didn’t mind. He had a better view of his fellow travelers from this perspective. He would rather study the other passengers’ faces than ruminate about them based solely on a view of the backs of their heads. From his favorite seat, he could see hats, hair, eyes, ears, faces and outfits. Little old ladies fanned themselves with cheap fans bought from the general mercantile, and kids squirmed in their seats. Some regulars fell asleep and commenced a full-blown snore before the train even left the station.
She was seated two rows back facing forward and on the opposite side of the aisle. Since no one sat next to her, she had plenty of room. The open adjacent seat might have resulted from her rather stunning appearance or simply from the fact that she was a woman traveling alone. In the 1890s in Texas, a woman seldom traveled on a passenger train without an escort or companion.
In the unforgiving heat, her clothes clung to her body like a frightened child to an indifferent mother. Even in this foul weather condition, she seemed proud and confident, self-assured. She sat erect and held her head high, barely moving, almost statuesque.