Promethean Logophile

indefinite adjective: not clearly defined or determined; not precise or exact.
hiatus noun: a break or interruption in the continuity of a work, series, action, etc.

I'm afraid Promethean Logophile is going on an indefinite hiatus. It may be back some day in the future, or it may remain an archive of nearly two years. Time will tell.

Reason, I told myself, is a compliment wrapped in a lie. To lure Kara’s talented gardener’s hands into my yard, I’ve committed myself to this new friendship, while my yard takes on an attractive shape. In truth, Kara talks too much at the most inappropriate times, and constantly clicks her tongue against her teeth. The irritating sound a perfect match to a lovelorn bird in heat.

I counted myself quite cleaver to invite Kara for tea and dainty cucumber sandwiches in my shabby backyard. The tangle of honeysuckle all but strangled the porch rail, a limp pink dogwood tree, an overgrown purple rhododendron, and had begun to encroach on the small iron table and matching chairs, laden with the lunch for my honored guest. The yard at least smelled wonderfully sweet, to the point of nauseousness.

The pain in his eyes tugged at my heart and tore the lining in a soft spot worn thin from worry. Over night, his face had become sunken and shapeless, like the bones had been eaten away by the cancer in his body. Each day grew harder for both of us.

He sipped the homemade chicken broth I brought, wincing each time he swallowed. Not one part of him didn’t hurt. Not one part of me didn’t hurt with him.

If Mrs. Goldstein had wanted the last salmon at Fishel’s Fish Market she should have spoken up and claimed it. Instead, she bit her fingernail with indecisive vigor and cautiously adumbrated a years worth of dinner meals. The salmon wouldn’t stay fresh forever. It’s watery, bulging eyes would turn dry and sunken. It’s wet and shiny body would soon wrinkle and become dull.

Mr. Fishel rocked back and forth on his heels and wrung his hands together, one, two, three times. With each tick of the clock on the wall his smile stretched thin, like soup made to accommodate company.

The old man had lived at the end of the road in the three story Italian villa all his life. Many have dubbed him the eremite; a religious recluse who orders his world as he pleases inside the walls of his private estate.

In Katray’s thirteen years as a neighboring resident, she’d not gotten so much as a glimpse of him. Today, she would rectify the situation and soothe her curiosity hinged to her recent confusing dreams. She embarked from her moderate home nestled at the mouth of the road, and clutched a plate of lemon bars. She intended to introduce herself, hand him the fresh bake goodies, and study the old man with a long ample gaze. He would have to take the lead from there.

“I lied.” Marge sat unaware she twisted the tissue in her hands. “For the past six months my life’s been so far from normal you need a strong powered telescope to spot me dangling beyond the edge of the earth’s surface.”

Saddie offered her best friend another tissue. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“I wanted to wait until things improved, so I’d have something positive to say, but things just keep getting worse. Every time I thought things might be getting better and I prepared to release my breath and relax a little, something new developed and I’d paused with breath held again.” Marge wiped at a fallen tear.

Every time I see a quarter horse with one white sock I think of Susie, then I remember how we met and start laughing. How many women can say they met their best friend in the men’s bathroom?

I couldn’t wait in the long line marked ‘Women’s.’ Instead, I had dashed into the men’s bathroom. Seconds later another girl followed behind me.

I smiled. “Alright, a kindred spirit.”

Sally sipped tea, ate thick slices of zucchini bread, and read her latest romance novel in the comfort of a cushioned lounge chair under a broad umbrella. To some it may seem silly to take a vacation in the middle of winter in your backyard, but Sally thought it was perfect. Well, almost perfect, if thirty degree temperatures didn’t bother you. Old ski boots, a snowsuit, gloves, down coat with hood, two wool scarfs, and a wool blanket took care of the cold weather. She called this phase of her vacation, ‘Testing The Water.’ With languid snowflakes falling, maybe a more appropriate title would be ‘Testing The Temperature.’

Fat rain pelted Jen’s car. The ocean waves licked at the purple-gray evening sky, threw an angry wash over the rock bridge, and spit a thick spray of saltwater across the road. In quick return the sky darkened to black and retaliated with the crack of thunder.

Jen made a cautious turn off highway 101 and wound up the long, steep road to her grandparents cottage. Lightening filled the sky and illuminated the gray and white house wrapped in a wide porch. Heavy blankets of fog moved in from the ocean and broke momentarily as more thunder and another cluster of bright veins stretched across the sky. The dreary turbulent setting offered an unwelcome greeting.

Fear played dark notes in Baylin’s mind and froze her thoughts against all rational thinking. If time sped up or slow down, what difference would it make? The anxiety would still be present. The push to escape, take charge, break free of the bonds and chains demanding complete control, fought a weak battle in their plight to break down the heavy door marked panic.

Trapped in the silent ceremony of predawn anxiousness, Baylin pulled her eyes opened and raised herself from the bed. She glanced at her husband wrapped in blankets. Contentment smoothed his face. She longed for possession of the same restful peace.

“Kylie, I’m not apologizing and this is the last time I’m talking to you about it.” Kinnerly’s past promise to change her ethical values vanished. In it’s place her sharp tone shot through the phone line and snapped in my ear.

Kinnerly has always been difficult, nasty, even deceitful. Now that I’ve been turned over to a collection agency, because of her neglectful management of my share of the money for the overseas tour she arranged, I want nothing more to do with her. She’s pushed my temper beyond the boiling point. Her mercenary attitude has curdled every inch of this long anticipated vacation, due to begin in three weeks. The woman is impossible to deal with, but I’m stuck, and find myself at her mercy. She’s got to correct her error and set my account straight or my credit will be ruined.