Category Archives: jethro series

Jethro series; part 4

desert-in-south-africa

That one wisp of hair always blocks her view at the most inopportune time. Morning dew soaks through to her stomach as she peers over the vast expanse surrounding this plateau. Laying on her stomach and propped up on her elbows, she waits Immobile, scanning the countryside through a scope atop her rifle.

It has been years since she has seen another human being. No talking. No touching. No Interaction whatsoever has left her feeling frayed. Often she becomes engulfed in lucid daydreams of an alternate past that would have ; could have, if only this did not happen. In those never realised past memories she is with her beloved Jethro, in the new city. It glistens and It sparkles as all new things do. They go from street corner to street corner moving through the endless stream of peoples hustling and bustling about, as they once did. In these dreams she sees all of their faces, their living faces. Some are in their commute rush, no nonsense, I gotta get to where I’m going mode. Others sleepily walking as if just awakened moments before. You have the few grumblers mixed in and looking as if they might bite your head off: figuratively speaking of course. Again and again she can’t help thinking how pleasant and wonderful it was to look into all those faces. In these memories that will never be it is always the same, it’s like when she was a teenager growing up with her two younger brothers and she woke to that rare morning where everything they did was adorable. No rude comment or snide remark or trespass of any kind could shake her love of those two. The undying and infinite affection that was so clear on those rare mornings lays the undercurrent of emotion in these daydreams. She feels a sense of kinship with her lost neighbors.

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Jethro series; part 3

… another successful escape from what used to be normal people.  

Cold, wet, and tired, Jethro simply drops his sopping wet and filthy outfit to the ground, towels off, and gets into his favorite flannel pants and directly into bed.  Within moments he is asleep.  As always his dreams consist solely of times lost…..

 

  I remember these blocks before each house sat hip to hip like two school girls gossiping. This sprawling suburbia crushed underfoot a country once equal parts charming and quaint. It hurts me to see that things have become so… contrary to what they stood for in the beginning . Today people nuerotically drape and blind there windows in an attempt at privacy; at shutting the world out. Tensions run high. Everyone used to get along in the old days. Didn’t they? Was I that naive that I just didn’t notice all this tension? All this strife? 

  As I drive home from another day spent wasting my energy at a dead end job … I feel saddened to see the neighborhood this way. There is no peace left. Trust used to be something concrete, something crisp and clean and dependable – now it feels like just another lie. Just like the way we manufacture cardboard boxes with shiny sides and pretty logos and jam cheap garbage inside to trick each other. Some of us know it’s crap, but we still buy it.

  Waterfront avenues whip and weave along the coast of Forge River. Nestled among the marshes these clusters of homes sit atop millions of tons of sand and fill. Carted in by the coordinated convoy of dump trucks by the Ziggy & Corona Corporation . This counterfeit landmass was completed well before the gas crisis of ’78-when our parents were still dizzy from the spinning disco ball in studio 54. Talk about disco lights…that reminds me of Pop.

  “Disco lights and multi colored tights!”, that’s what grandpa used to say. He’d be laughing hysterically as we watched those home movies mom hide so well from us. He would sit there, watching my parents dance, with his old wooden pipe stuck stock still between his clenched teeth. Smoke billowing out at regular intervals like a steam engine. A grin would slowly spread across his ruddy cheeks as memories of when we were all still together flooded his mind, transporting him back to a better time no doubt.

  Wow, I must have been really young when I was with gramps. I was on the floor, intimate with the feel and smell of his grayish blue plush carpeting . I’d be looking up at such a sharp angle that his stubble was silhouetted against the backdrop of his shining white eyes. His fedora always on crooked, and blue sweater vest over a tawny button down shirt. Big black buttons vertical from sternum to belt buckle, funny the things we remember.

  He went through the Intricate process of taking the 8mm reels from their place of rest , spooling them through, turning on the machine and waiting to see if he did it right. It seemed to take forever . My young mind saw him do these things and was filled with awe. I saw it as a miracle, it’s seared in my minds eye as such: a testament to the innocence and the purity of youth.

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“Like” or Subscribe for more from thinkhub.org and if you enjoyed this piece make sure to read “Jethro’s Introduction” and “Jethro’s Escape”, the first 2 installments of the Jethro Series.