Wet

Two boys run wildly from base to base, their hair stuck to their foreheads with sweat.
One is large, one small.
They play furiously, like Aztecan warriors golden brown.
A mother's limp pleas fall to the earth like noodles, sticky and useless.
They will not come home, not now.
They kick and rail, stirring the brown earth to life.
Elbows and knees pay the price, a day's work apparent in the holes.
The tiny drops loosed during their ritual purify the soil, and they dance.
Rumble.
Rumble.
It is working. They can hear.
Rumble.
Eyes cast up, they raise their arms in tribute.
One, two, three, ten thousand.
A smile to cleanse this damn world's palate.
And the mother, towels in hand, swoops in like a hen to collect her chicks.

Share, and share alike...

I recently came to a very small, but probably really important, realization while sitting in the airport in Los Angeles. I was having a brief chat with the fellow siting next to me about the (ludicrous) size of the trophies being carried by a series of children toward their gate. I mean, some of these things looked close to 5 feet tall and were being carried by kids as young as maybe 8-10. We, this fellow and I, both shared a laugh about the comedic scene before us. It was slightly later, when I was sitting alone at my gate in the middle of a 3 hour layover, that I realized how important and special it is to share a laugh with someone. Looking back on my trip, I had shared laughs with many people. Some in airports, some in casinos, some on the street. Some of those laughs were with my friends, and moments with friends are very important. Most, however, were with complete strangers. What I find so important about this sharing is that we were able to find a bond, a common denominator, between us, and that connection, if only for a brief moment in a sea of complete strangers, resonated deeply within us both. That connection, even if we never (and probably won't) see each other again, is immensely important because it is the prime example of how we are all one people. We might look, speak, act, or smell differently, but we are all here together, living our lives in the one place we have to live it. We could have both, in any of those situations, let the moment pass by without a mention of each other, or worse, found differences between us. We did not, however. We bonded, and we should do more of that. So, with that said, go bond y'all. Share a laugh with someone. It's probably one of the most fulfilling things you can do.

No sleep til Vegas?

Maybe, but it isn't the impending trip that is keeping me up when I haven't went to sleep since Tuesday night. Sitting here at my gate, looking at an empty plane being prepped for flight, I wonder how many people have sat in the same place I am, waiting on a flight out of Nashville. However, instead of going somewhere they are returning home. I saw a man walk by several minutes ago with a guitar case on his back. Only minutes before a woman walked by with a similar case. Did they come to Nashville to make it big in music, only to be forced to strap up their guitar (on their back) and return to where they came from? Were they trying to live their dream, only to see it go unrealized once again? Maybe... I guess they can at least say they played in Nashville for what that's worth. Wondering about these people I remembered what is important about their walk from security to their gate. This trip to Music City may not have been what they hoped, but they tried, and at the end of the day that's all the world can ask of you. If you know what your dream is and make an honest effort to see it come to fruition, well, no one can hold anything against you. It forces me to realize how little I have actually tried to accomplish my dream. I've been lazy, and I am wasting what some would call my 'talent,' although I don't particularly like that term. So, as I am sitting in the airport thinkig about these people, I want to thank them for trying. While they may not have accomplished their dream yet, they have accomplished a goal and completed a step. Moreover, they convinced me to write something, even if it is just a short blog about two people walking through an airport with their guitars. To you, dream chasers, thank you. Don't let this be your last trip home. I hope to make one soon as well.

The Hunter

The Hunter

It strikes,

Silently.

Reaching down to places

That only exist for its pleasure.

Grasping with time-dulled claws.

Darwinism. 

It has adapted to suit its strategy,

Its niche. Gnawing with coarse gums,

Not to maim or kill, just paralyse

Its victim long enough to perform

Its vulgar, grotesque dance. 

It's all for you. It's all for you.

Farewell: A Eulogy to Twenty-Seven

The first hour of my twenty-eight birthday will strike in very short order, and my twenty-seventh year will be coming to a close. Before that happens, I would like to say a few words of farewell to my twenty-seventh year.

My twenty-seventh year was tumultuous, to say the least. Some of my greatest triumphs and crushing failures happened in this year. I was most proud of myself in my twenty-seventh year. It was the year that I finally graduated from college. My collegiate career spanned through many of my years, but this was the culmination, the curtain call, the end. So, with my family watching on, I walked across the stage in the new Arena at Auburn University and became a college graduate. Shortly after, I was able to travel to see my Auburn Tigers win a conference and national championship in football. It was quite a four week period in my 27th year. In those moments, I was happy... for the most part. As far as school goes, I guess it is worth nothing that twenty-seven also brought me graduate school. My feelings on this matter have not yet been fully realized, and the impact it has will be seen more heavily on twenty-eight and beyond. Therefore, I will just mention that I was selected to attend graduate school, pursuing a MA-English degree at the University of Alabama - Huntsville, and I started in August.

Twenty-seven was also a year filled with regret and sadness. One of my grandfathers passed away just days following my birthday last year. It was a solemn way to begin a year. I was also left holding broken pieces of a few more dreams in my twenty-seventh year. Some will most likely be re-glued, retested, and possibly eventually attained. Some, on the other hand, will not. Those which are unable to be epoxied and made whole again were sources for much turmoil during this year, and consequently made this year a difficult one to manage while trying smile.

While there have been many nights of sleep sullied, long bouts of cardiomyopathy and dysautonomia (for various reasons), and a general abundance of rain cloud in my twenty-seventh year, there was also a lot to smile about. I have some really fantastic friends. They have been great this year. Some have risen to new levels in my twenty-seventh year, and it is because of them that it was so enjoyable, despite the obstacles.

This year, my twenty-seventh, was a difficult year, but it played its part. It came, it went, and it left me still standing and still in tact as it relented to twenty-eight. I eagerly look forward to this next year. I have lots of big plans that I want to see through. I also have a series of goals that I want to accomplish. I expect a big year this year. Hopefully, if I work hard and the ball bounces my way, it will be the best yet. With that said, I would like to say thank you to my twenty-seventh year, and bid it adieu. You were 365 days long, you were a bastard for the most part, but you made me smarter, tougher, and stronger. Farewell, twenty-seven!

Jonathon Wilson

PS - If anyone reads this, you probably already know this entire story. There is nothing new here that you didn't know already. However, there is something that I would like to say to you, reader. Thank you for reading what I write. I only wrote one original piece this last year. I am ashamed of that, because I love it so much, and I know people enjoy reading what I write. I let my problems, and my inability to manage my emotions for the better part of the year hinder my writing. Furthermore, I would like to say to you that I will not let it happen again. Not only is this a eulogy to another year gone in my life, but it is a flag that I am raising signifying that a tide has turned. I am writing this less than an hour before my birthday to say that, while twenty-seven had a distinct lack of writing,  twenty-eight will be filled with it. I will write for myself, and I will write for you. Let's all have a big year.

Storm Season

Standing near the corner of a chert parking lot, Jack leaned against an old telephone pole and breathed the hot, moist air. He scanned the horizon and noticed a storm approaching from the northwest. The low clouds broke like a wave as they hit the short mountain range, billowing over like smoke from an oven. Rain began to fall in the distance and he hoped this would soon be over.

 

Suddenly a single headlight crept over the hill down the highway. A streak of lightning raced across the sky, ripping the atmosphere with a thunderous boom, chasing the motorcycle along. Soon the bike pulled into the parking lot.

 

 A girl climbed off the back of the bike, leaving the driver. The engine gurgled deep at idle. She walked towards Jack and they met somewhere in the middle. The wind blew her hair around her face, but he didn't push it back this time. They talked for a minute, or two, or ten. The words didn't keep track and neither did they. The wind kicked up a cloud of dust that passed between them and it began to rain. Her hair no longer drifted in the breeze but stuck to her cheeks. He stepped forward and pushed the hair away from her eyes and said goodbye.

 

Jack stood motionless as she climbed back onto the motorcycle. He seemed to notice an expression on her face, and it appeared her eyes were welled, but he was unsure if it was the rain and blowing dirt or some other factor. She buried her cheek in the new guy's back as he revved the engine and put the bike into gear. He didn't notice her hair, or her eyes. He just complained about getting wet.

New Moses

          So... I've started again. This is just the beginning, and I am working on it. But I thought you'd be pleased. I will post the rest when I finish, which will probably be over the weekend.

 - Jonathon

            Moses woke at exactly 6:27 PM to the very distinct sound of train brakes. The high pitch screech of steel on steel, Moses thought, was enough to roll Hoffa over… wherever he was. He rubbed his eyes and ran his hands through his hazel hair, worn long during the winter, and attempted to look out the window he had been recently using as a pillow. The window, long fogged over with condensation from the clash of his breath against the cold glass, was lit in a fiery glow. Moses wiped the window with the sleeve of his jacket and watched the sun set over some indiscernible town in what he could only guess was either Ohio or Indiana. Having been asleep for several hours now, he had no idea. Looking to his right, he saw an older woman, possibly in her seventies, wearing an outfit that slightly resembled what Moses believed the Queen of England might wear on an afternoon outing. Maybe it was just the small round hat.

            “American women don’t wear enough hats these days,” he muttered aloud.

            The woman looked over at him and smiled. She must have heard him say something, but obviously had no clue as to what. He nodded to her and turned back towards the window. A cracked voice came over the PA system.

            “Waterloo station, next stop,” the voice said.

            Moses began searching the pouch in the seat in front of him. He hoped to find a map, but only retrieved a coloring book undoubtedly left by a child who occupied his seat at another time. He looked across the aisle to the elderly woman and asked, “Excuse me. Do you know where we are?”

            The woman looked back at him and replied, “Excuse me?”

            “Do you know where we are?” he asked.

            “I beg your pardon,” she replied.

            Moses, now getting slightly agitated, raised his voice, gesticulating towards the septuagenarian in hopes of getting his point across. “DO. YOU. KNOW. WHERE. WE. ARE?”

            “Ah, yes,” she answered. “We are in Waterloo. Did you not hear the man on the box?”

            Moses sighed a deep breath of frustration. “Where is Waterloo?” he asked.

            “What?” the woman replied, craning her neck towards him.

            This was quite enough for Moses. “Never mind,” he said to the old woman, squinting and shaking his head.

            “You look like my grandson,” stated the woman, with a smile.

            “Yeah?” Moses asked. “Well you look like the queen!”

Feeling satisfied that he had “showed her,” Moses then turned back to his window and began thumbing through the coloring book. After a several pages of lines that had clearly been colored outside, he tossed the book into the seat beside him. 

“What are they teaching kids these days?” he asked himself.