Bob bristled at Angie’s comment.
“Love isn’t blind,” he said. “Love sees everything. Every wart, every defect. Everything. Love just accepts all those things and keeps giving hugs. Love wants to show you that it’s okay to not be perfect, to fail, to do something stupid. Love is there to be wounded, kicked to the teeth, and spit upon. That’s why love is considered folly by some and ludicrous by others, but in the end, love wants to see you be the best you you can be.”
“But Charlie is blind in the book,” Angie said.
“But his love isn’t.”
John was the master of his universe. He controlled his schedule. He would sometimes miss meetings just to show the others there who was really important.
He came and went as he pleased, and everyone had to react to his timeline, or he would ignore them out of existence. Most people couldn’t handle being treated like that, but John didn’t care. It was all about him damn it.
At least that’s what he told himself as he downed the rest of the bottle. As he staggered down the street, he wondered how much he could hock his AA pin for.
The ring bound him to her. He wondered what insanity had caused him to willingly volunteer to wear the cursed thing in the first place. Still, in that moment of weakness, he had accepted her boon and doomed his soul.
He looked at the perfect circle of gold and thought about chopping the whole finger off. He’d be better off maimed for the rest of his life. He couldn’t do it though. She had taken so much of his strength that he didn’t have the fortitude anymore.
Instead he closed his eyes and dreamt of her when she was alive.
I found a pot of gold, but then the damn leprechaun mobsters began kicking my knees. No one tells you about that. Find the end of the rainbow they say, but no tells you to bring a Glock! I never stood a chance.
Now I have an empty cast iron pot that smells like cow manure and a single gold coin I managed to hide. Too bad it won’t pay for the emergency room visit for my bloody broken knees.
Happy St. Patrick’s Day everyone! That is everyone except those damned leprechauns. They can go where the damn snakes went!
Tim looked at the shards and fragments of his many broken story ideas. He poked through their remains. Each was as pretty as a stained glass window, but every time he tried to hang one on a sheet of paper they would come crashing to earth. Now they were just jagged pieces of color.
He almost just threw it all away when he had a thought. He began to nudge the pieces together and laying new prose as the glue. Soon a new, even more vibrant, picture began to emerge.
Tim wondered if that is why they called it craft.
The snow continued to fall, covering the refuse of Gary’s life. He smiled at the cold whitewashing of his previous mistakes. It gave him a crisp clean perspective on his past. The sad thing was he knew soon the sun would come out and the blanket of white would melt away, allowing his warts to once again be in plain sight.
At least for now he could pretend there had been nothing wrong as he sipped his spiked hot chocolate in front of the fireplace. Spring can take its own sweet time. He was happy to be buried in blankness.
Melancholy was his mistress and muse. He worshiped her day and night, always trying to make things right, but it never quite worked. He felt he came up just short no matter how hard he tried. She had been his first love. One day he decided to take the plunge and proposed. That was the last day he ever saw her.
He now felt empty inside. That’s when he found Depression. She moved in, and they became inseparable. Once he thought about breaking up with her, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Till death did they part.