Nothing To See Here: “Community Confrontation”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

Matthew 5:14-16 (NIV) “You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your father in heaven.”

 

Perhaps one of the most difficult qualities about being a creative writer is that having composed a manuscript, for whatever purpose, this document must be offered in some form for others to read. Without that completion of the process, one is left with a feeling that the effort of expression has been silenced and made irrelevant. Yet in doing so, particularly when the subject matter is edgy or controversial in some way, the results may prove to be less than ideal. As a wordsmith, speaking out is a necessary component of life. But what comes in the aftermath of this cleansing act may be challenging to accept.

 

I faced the possibility of this truism in recent days, when a poem intended to be part of an upcoming anthology was posted on my newspaper blog. Initially, it did not seem to be too extreme in its content or tone. But when I read it aloud, a note of contrarian dissent became obvious. I reckoned that if seen by other residents in my isolated township, this offering might be viewed as seditious or provocative.

 

Reaper’s Harvest

 

“A world superpower humiliated and lost

While international financiers tally the cost

Headline news made, all around the globe

Grim Reaper stands with stains on his robe

A dot of crimson for each life cut short

Swinging his scythe in a sharp retort

Ships sail on the oceans, there to warn

Of consequences for those who do not conform

Yet this bounty is won by gamblers who cheat

A yield of dissent, a yield of defeat

And the harvest is made

 

Red-faced diplomats argue the point

While barons and bureaucrats bust up the joint

Who is the leader that none will deny?

It’s difficult to tell with a stick in the eye

Missiles and drones and bombs, galore

All intended to prosecute this war

But targets untouched will survive for today

And do daring deeds in the unfolding fray

Devoted disciples of a foreign god

Give the masses a wink and a nod

And the harvest is made

 

At the outset their promise seemed wise and intent

Of a conflict begun between mongrels and government

Savages brought unto heel in a day

With the prize held aloft, they’ll do what we say!

But the rancor of villages far from the fire

So often becomes an anthem of ire

Not easy to thwart, or convenient to stun

These beggars in rags have their own swords and guns

When scattered by the force of a superior breed

They return to the scrolls of an ancient decree

And the harvest is made

 

Leaping and laughing as blood spills on sand

The invaders from afar find themselves being panned

Opinions are hardened as the fault is turned back

From one side to the other, from red into black

The spigots of oil, go dry with neglect

Countries on fire do naught to protect

Alliances shift with the winds changing quickly

Our situation becomes both embarrassing and prickly

The tortoise and hare in a race to the line

This trophy is tarnished, braille bumps for the blind

And the harvest is made

 

A thumping of chests can be heard on the main

With jets scrambling wildly to promote the campaign

A billion in ransom for a cluster of tents

Paid for by sweat and a handful of cents

Much like a battle between one age and the next

We find ourselves facing what infidels reject

Now we are the cause of a glorious goof

A fiddler in flames, played out on the roof

Ours is the glory, and the grand limitation

Of a nabob that natters about rude annihilation

And the harvest is made

 

When we have finished with this dabbling in dirt

And gone home to consider what we could not avert

The time for reflection will then be at hand

We’ll march to the drumbeat of a funeral band

Laying to rest those heroes who gave

Every bit of themselves, the bold and the brave

Their sacrifice will send a message of hope

To judges and jurors who string up the rope

The law of this land remains as a guide

For future generations, to follow the tide

And the harvest is made...”

 

Imagination took hold, as I considered that a projection of sentiments not adhering strictly to the philosophical discipline of my rural neighborhood might arouse some form of protest. While sitting on the front porch with a cold beverage in hand, I envisioned being confronted by neighbors who wanted to offer their own commentary on what I had penned, in real time. The yield of this mental exercise was a peek through the eyes of Nostradamus, toward what might occur on my street, in the near future. And very quickly, I found myself mentally engaged in a vocal debate with someone who reacted quite viscerally to everything I had said in my short composition.

 

“HEY BUDDY, YOUR PRINT WORK NEVER PEGS THE METER FOR ME, I’LL BE HONEST! BUT THIS LATEST BIT OF DOG CRAP ONLINE IS A FREAKING JOKE! WHY DON’T YOU GET A JOB CLEANING TOILETS AT THE FLYING J TRAVEL PLAZA, OR SOME FAST-FOOD PLACE IN ASHTABULA? YOU’VE GOT NO TALENT, AND NOT A DAMN BIT OF COMMON SENSE! NOT ANY PATRIOTISM EITHER, SLUGS OF YOUR KIND SHOULD BE FLOWN TO IRAN AND DROPPED LIKE SACKS OF GARBAGE! YOU DON’T BELONG IN THE USA, DAMMIT! GO TO CHINA, RUSSIA, OR NORTH KOREA, AND BE HAPPY, DUDE! THIS COUNTRY AIN’T FOR PEOPLE LIKE YOU!”

 

My salvation was in the details, of course, as none of this actually occurred. I simply drank a six-pack of brew, scrolled through webpages on my cell phone, and watched the progression of neighborhood traffic as afternoon hours transitioned into evening.

 

But now, I had a double-measure of energy in reserve. Enough to inspire not only the lyrical output of my first project, but enough for a second installment, which is the one you read here.

 

God is good.

 

“Reaper’s Harvest”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

A world superpower humiliated and lost

While international financiers tally the cost

Headline news made, all around the globe

Grim Reaper stands with stains on his robe

A dot of crimson for each life cut short

Swinging his scythe in a sharp retort

Ships sail on the oceans, there to warn

Of consequences for those who do not conform

Yet this bounty is won by gamblers who cheat

A yield of dissent, a yield of defeat

And the harvest is made

 

Red-faced diplomats argue the point

While barons and bureaucrats bust up the joint

Who is the leader that none will deny?

It’s difficult to tell with a stick in the eye

Missiles and drones and bombs, galore

All intended to prosecute this war

But targets untouched will survive for today

And do daring deeds in the unfolding fray

Devoted disciples of a foreign god

Give the masses a wink and a nod

And the harvest is made

 

At the outset their promise seemed wise and intent

Of a conflict begun between mongrels and government

Savages brought unto heel in a day

With the prize held aloft, they’ll do what we say!

But the rancor of villages far from the fire

So often becomes an anthem of ire

Not easy to thwart, or convenient to stun

These beggars in rags have their own swords and guns

When scattered by the force of a superior breed

They return to the scrolls of an ancient decree

And the harvest is made

 

Leaping and laughing as blood spills on sand

The invaders from afar find themselves being panned

Opinions are hardened as the fault is turned back

From one side to the other, from red into black

The spigots of oil, go dry with neglect

Countries on fire do naught to protect

Alliances shift with the winds changing quickly

Our situation becomes both embarrassing and prickly

The tortoise and hare in a race to the line

This trophy is tarnished, braille bumps for the blind

And the harvest is made

 

A thumping of chests can be heard on the main

With jets scrambling wildly to promote the campaign

A billion in ransom for a cluster of tents

Paid for by sweat and a handful of cents

Much like a battle between one age and the next

We find ourselves facing what infidels reject

Now we are the cause of a glorious goof

A fiddler in flames, played out on the roof

Ours is the glory, and the grand limitation

Of a nabob that natters about rude annihilation

And the harvest is made

 

When we have finished with this dabbling in dirt

And gone home to consider what we could not avert

The time for reflection will then be at hand

We’ll march to the drumbeat of a funeral band

Laying to rest those heroes who gave

Every bit of themselves, the bold and the brave

Their sacrifice will send a message of hope

To judges and jurors who string up the rope

The law of this land remains as a guide

For future generations, to follow the tide

And the harvest is made

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Life During Wartime”

   

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

T. C. Lincoln had lived at Evergreen Estates for so long that the period of years preceding his slide into disability and isolation had now become difficult to recall with any amount of clarity. He could summon certain facts with effort, yet remained unable to properly interpret them sequentially. Like bits of fluff, they were loose and randomly arranged, inside of his skull. He knew that two failed marriages were on his personal roster. Somewhere in California, a daughter carried the signature of his DNA, anonymously. He had wasted educational and career opportunities in the interest of freeing himself from any burden of responsibility. And most of all, his penchant for getting drunk on beverage alcohol dulled the sting of bad decisions and unfortunate consequences that came as a result. With the effect of separating him from reality in a way that impeded his ability to perceive literal events in a common manner.

 

His mode of thinking was always tilted in an opposite direction from any neighbors, family members, or friends within his limited social circle.

 

Yet the first appearance of a looming, global conflict snapped him out of this foggy funk. It hit on a morning when he had finished having coffee and a bologna-cheese taco at his desk. An improvised breakfast that was unconventional, but satisfying. He scrolled through links posted online, until a report about wealthy individuals like tech guru Martín Varsavsky buying property in Argentina caught his attention. The Financial Times story about a ranch called ‘Wamani’ had been delivered with various photographs that depicted a beautiful and challenging landscape. A spot on the earth where someone of wealth and accomplishment could be safe with their family, in the event of a worldwide conflagration powered by nuclear weapons.

 

Predictably, no one in the trailer park paid any attention to this surreal tale of planning for post-apocalyptic survival. But at Lot 13, the yield of this revelation hit home, emotionally. It also meshed well with information about Saudi Arabia, Pakistan, and Turkey forming a Mecca Joint Defense Agreement, as mutual partners. And continuing aggression in Europe and the Middle East threatening to stall the cause of peace before it could blossom.

 

“Everything is falling into place! This is WW III, in its primary stages! We are effed!”

 

The words of a Talking Heads recording from 1979 spoke with renewed meaning as he pondered unrest that was boiling over, across the planet.

 

“Heard of a van that is loaded with weapons

Packed up and ready to go

Heard of some gravesites out by the highway

A place where nobody knows

The sound of gunfire off in the distance

I’m getting used to it now

Lived in a brownstone, lived in the ghetto

I’ve lived all over this town

This ain’t no party, this ain’t no disco

This ain’t no fooling around

No time for dancing, or lovey-dovey

I ain’t got time for that now...”

 

Finally, the chill of a potential disruption in ordered civilization sent him outside, to the front porch. There, he sat with a jug of bourbon to ease his mind, and dull the throb of worry being expressed by pundits and prognosticators, everywhere.

 

He had managed to get through two rounds of potent liquor, when a notification chirp sounded from his cell phone.

 

“Hey Link, are you over there, buddy? Linn is having a yard party on the corner! Come on down, there’s plenty of brew and snacks! You need to get out and see people for a change!”

 

Darby Stronelli, on his eastern flank, had been in her storage barn, watching highlights of training camps being conducted ahead of the upcoming NFL season. The squarish, pallet-board hut was adorned in yellow and black, colors of her favorite franchise.

 

The reclusive hermit felt his stomach beginning to ache.

 

“Party? What made him want to throw a shindig right now? It’s been hot as blazes for several days. He sweats like a pig...”

 

The spiky-haired female must have snorted at her device. A string of emojis followed with another line of text.

 

“I don’t know, something about his fantasy league, he’s the commissioner. I don’t get into that kind of game, but whatever, right? He’s got plenty of beer in the coolers! I figure we can all drink for free!”

 

Lincoln clutched at his belly, and shuddered.

 

“He always buys Milwaukee’s Best, that piss is horrible! And I’d have to listen to him rant about church functions and politics. No thanks...”

 

Darby sent several middle fingers, and a laughing smiley face.

 

“Yeah, he does go for the cheap stuff! Oh well, it was just a thought. I’m watching old Super Bowl highlights, six rings still shining bright, buddy! Six big, golden rings for my Steelers!”

 

The inebriated loner dropped his wireless link in a vest pocket. Then lifted the glass bottle of whiskey until it was straight up in the air.

 

“Screw that portly son-of-a-bitch on the corner. And screw your Boys in the ‘Burgh! I’m good right here where I sit...”

 

While diving deeper into drunkenness, the contrarian boozer took out his phone again, and scrolled through more news headlines about dwindling, domestic stockpiles of ammunition, and fears of bold military moves by Russia and China in the wake of American embarrassment. Each report seemed to be more sensationalized than the one before. Eventually, the constant din of dire predictions became too heavy to bear.

 

With a right-hand flip deftly executed, the shaggy misanthrope once again tossed his phone aside, and reached for a cold canister of Miller Lite. Foam poured from the corners of his mouth. A dribble of suds streamed over his T-shirt.

 

More song lyrics echoed across the synapses of his brain. This time, Lincoln reflectively hummed the tune of an Everclear song from 1995, while reading more on his display. The lyrics of their composition ‘Santa Monica’ fit his uneasy mood, perfectly. If the world were about to end, he would be a spectator facing mortality with no hesitation. Numb and insulated by a persistent wash of fiery, brown juice, with hops and grains as a delectable chaser.

 

 

“I am still living with your ghost

Lonely and dreaming of the west coast

I don’t wanna be your downtime

I don’t wanna be your stupid game

With my big black boots and an old suitcase

I do believe I’ll find myself a new place

I don’t wanna be the bad guy

I don’t want to do your sleepwalk dance anymore

I just wanna see some palm trees

I will try and shake away this disease

We could live beside the ocean

Leave the fire behind

Swim out past the breakers

Watch the world die

We can live beside the ocean

Leave the fire behind

Swim out past the breakers

Watch the world die...”

 

“World War, Revisited”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

World war, the inevitable yield

Of old men competing, with surrogates in the field

Missiles fly and blood is spilled

A testament resounding, shrieking and shrill

I might once have had a chance to escape

But there’s a wolf at my door, and the hour is late

Conscription decrees that I will serve

To see that the prominence of a pawn is preserved

It’s coming ‘round again

This curtain call at the end

 

World war, the history we forgot

My father was a boy when Europe turned hot

Only ten years old as Poland was invaded

After promises of peace were negotiated

The lust to conquer has remained intact

Advisers and pundits perched to attack

From seats of power, there is no cause to fail

But the view of a soldier is sharper in detail

It’s coming ‘round again

This funeral for a friend

 

World war, the bane of peacemakers

Blotted out by the glare of fumblers and fakers

They lob stones with glee, as enemies are felled

Until tasting the broth cooked up by themselves

An ugly repast, boils in the cauldron

A brine that bubbles with what cannot be undone

The sins of our leaders will outlive their reign

And we will inherit a prescription of pain

It’s coming ‘round again

This call for knees to bend

 

World war, an event most auspicious

Which the vultures believe to be most delicious

Feasting on famine, a prize for the rest

A sword brandished bravely, to win the contest

If there were more, sane minds to concur

Perhaps we could find a path to defer

Yet with the oration of heroes on high

We are reminded of nobility for those who will die

It’s coming ‘round again

Seeking allies to befriend

 

World war, the inevitable gift

True believers, at the edge of a cliff

Flesh in flames, and temples on fire

Patriot games, a coffin for a quagmire

Eternity brings what the living were spared

While the echoes of yesterday speak of despair

Lungs go flat, and faces turn pale

We knew all along there’s a trick of the tail

It’s coming ‘round again

This boast not to bend

 

World war, a conflict of creeds

Taking old opponents out at the knees

A lobbing of lead with the purpose made clear

No patience for detractors, ruling only by fear

Righteous and ready, with a rod and a staff

To play the role, of a pontiff in a peaked hat

Gesturing over this flock with remorse

As the habits of mankind run their full course

It’s coming ‘round again

This making of amends

 

World war, not difficult to see

Even when beheld from a mound of debris

Detritus dumped from a sacrifice made

By paupers and beggars, buried in their graves

Chest beating is heard, throughout the land

With a scimitar of justice, taken in hand

Silence in the aftermath, quiet and long

A whispering tribute from those who live on

It’s coming ‘round again

On glory, we depend

 

World war, the story foretold

By ten thousand years of fungus and mold

A creeping crown for the ashes to keep

A shroud of indifference by souls fast asleep

Blindness and rot are the qualities of those

Who seek to glorify the emperor’s new clothes

They prattle and prance while in the parade

And march in lock step with vessels of Kool-Aid

It’s coming ‘round again

This is a message to send

 

World war, the alignments are known

An axis arranged by couriers between thrones

Nations that tread upon serfs in reserve

A gloating over grading, given on the curve

Deals made in haste, a foreign exchange

Judas Iscariot, with his sack of loose change

Duped and debased by a decree, most tyrannical

Servants will high-step toward the inevitable

It’s coming ‘round again

Much currency to spend

 

World war, a peace made on bones

When pillaging armies return to their homes

The appetite for crimson has been satisfied

Now there is rote rest from the ebbing tide

A deep breath clears what fate has amassed

While school children learn of such tales in class

Old women will grieve for daughters and sons

As tributes confirm that the campaign was won

It’s coming ‘round again

The circle has no end

“Cycle”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

The cycle of life, dearly played out

Deep in the darkness of unresolved doubt

One might expect a turn to occur

But the collapse of causation goes undeterred

It’s a ride toward destiny, in effect

With a saddle-bound bounty, a glorious trek

That’s the yield of a swab on the teeth

A stain on the wall where a spotlight can’t reach

That’s the upbraid

Of a heart being played

 

A scattering of dust that follows the kick

Moving through slowly, toward a taste of the salt lick

Eyes averted from a show of dissent

Then raised to reveal a rudely offered comment

The past is a guide to chart things that may come

But what truly transpires is still wildly random

Though shaped by the will of old men in control

There is still an opportunity to bend minds and souls

That’s the upbraid

Of a heart being played

 

Spat upon suddenly, instead of a kiss

Not quite a reward of innocence and bliss

Though episodes as these will toughen the skin

And bring a resilience to this age, wearing thin

I once thought it possible to stand and deliver

But now find myself ready to leap in the river

Where rushing waters may cleanse and renew

A chance to forget what my hands find to do

That’s the upbraid

Of a heart being played

 

Someone might ask how this rhyme came to be

And if questioned about it, I might seek to go free

But the reason is simple, a quest from the crib

A fine inclination in a diaper and bib

I have always been one to speak without delay

To mean what I mean, and say what I say

If ever there was a sense of wonder, inspired

I would stay on the sidelines, away from the fire

That’s the upbraid

Of a heart being played

 

The best and the brightest are both put away

When carnival attractions make a centerpiece array

Flanked by indifference to all that remains

Gone over the threshold of a house with no name

I’ve heard it said lightly that a fool rushes in

When those of better breeding take it hard on the chin

But I make no claim here, to be any more

That a bottom-shelf substitute from the dollar store

That’s the upbraid

Of a heart being played

 

At the end of this day, let there be no misgivings

About my attitude tilt toward a stand with the living

I’m glad for this seat at the foot of our master

Cast into form with a mold of fine plaster

My intellect honed by a discipline of right

After a journey into the void of midnight

That is the inn where I’ll rest and recoup

The worth of a slacker, slouched on the stoop

That’s the upbraid

Of a heart being played

 

If you want relevance, in this desperate hour

Look deep into the petals of a rising flower

Gazing strictly upon all the bright colors it carries

An offering of inspiration to be mirthful and merry

I might find the energy to rise and retort

Through a mantra in spray-paint, just for the sport

A cackle of commoners, repeated for effect

A cough of cold consequences keeping me in check

That’s the upbraid

Of a heart being played

 

Wish-upon, wish-upon, I believe all the way

Right to the crest of my judgment day

If I were slow to respond at the start

That might impede a run with the peddler’s push-cart

Carrying the goods that I now have to vend

Like a postal clerk, sacking letters to send

That is the path upon which I will tread

Until the finality of a cadence, long gone dead

That’s the upbraid

Of a heart being played

 

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Porch Encounter”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

T. C. Lincoln had never been particularly adept in social situations. He chafed at having casual interactions with other residents at Evergreen Estates. The sort of bogus chatter that seemed to interest other inhabitants of his mobile-home oasis was a chore to endure. He preferred to be drunk and alone, with no interference from those who lived along his crumbling street. Yet throughout the long days of summer, people continued to pass by the end of his gravel driveway. Either on foot, pedaling along with bicycles or riding electric scooters, or at the wheel of rusty, ragged vehicles that were all long past their intended span of use. He would snort and wave when confronted, or sometimes pretend not to notice their presence, at all. A fog of alcohol kept him shielded from being pulled into boring and banal conversations. Though sometimes, being exposed was completely unavoidable.

 

When these rare incidents occurred, he would clutch at his belly, and groan quietly.

 

Late on a Monday afternoon, he took a seat outside on his front porch, after sorting through postal mail and checking accounts via a desktop computer in the home office. His mouth had already begun to salivate for the taste of southern whiskey, and a cool beverage to serve as a chaser. But he was barely able to get through one round of refreshment before a young woman appeared at the foot of his access ramp. She had the unadorned appearance of a wandering waif, with long, stringy hair in a dirty shade of blonde. Her apparel looked to have been sourced from a thrift store. And she seemed not to know too much about the neighborhood.

 

“Howdy there bud, I see y’all havin’ a drink by yerself. Don’t it get lonesome sittin’ there with nobody ta talk to?”

 

The reclusive oldster shook his head, and chortled.

 

“Ma’am, you must be new around here. Most everyone knows enough to keep their distance from me...”

 

The plain-faced female smiled with a look of feigned innocence.

 

“I came here in January, so yes, I am new to tha park!”

 

Lincoln gestured with his right hand, as if giving a salute.

 

“In that case, you’ve got my sympathy. I don’t know what made you move to this hole in the ground, but if it was desperation, then brace yourself for that condition to become considerably worse...”

 

The anonymous woman widened her eyes, and looked around as if she were lost.

 

“I’ve got to say this is better than tha last place I lived. I was in a shelter run by the City of Painesville. That halfway-house was overcrowded, stinky, and noisy. I couldn’t even pee in private!”

 

The shaggy hermit grinned with his mouth pulled tight against misaligned, yellow teeth. Then, he punctuated his confession with a foamy belch of Miller Lite.

 

“I pee off the back of my deck. The trash bin is a blind so nobody gets offended...”

 

The wandering waif sat on a set of neglected, fiberglass steps that flanked the wooden ramp.

 

“Anyway, my name is Shondra Leigh. I’ve been told ta stay away from yer trailer, but just now, you really looked like someone who could use a friend!”

 

The disabled biker coughed high-proof liquor from his throat, and cursed.

 

“FRIEND? YOU’VE GOTTA BE KIDDING, MA’AM! I DON’T HAVE MANY FRIENDS, AND THE ONES I DO HAVE DON’T LIVE IN A TRASH DUMP LIKE THIS! THE ONLY REASON I’M HERE IS BECAUSE I AM DIVORCED, DISABLED, HUMILIATED, AND FLAT-ASS BROKE! THIS PLACE IS A HUMAN GRAVEYARD, WHERE PEOPLE COME TO NURSE BROKEN HEARTS AND SHATTERED DREAMS. AND BY GOD, THAT’S WHAT I’M DOING RIGHT NOW...”

 

Inexplicably, Shondra giggled at this harsh assessment of the rural community.

 

“Y’all sound like a freaky movie character! But I get it, sometimes ya lose yer faith in people. Not me though, I always think there’ll be a brighter side to tha day if ya keep lookin hard enough! That’s why I’m here, ta say hello! I like ta meet new dudes!”

 

Lincoln wanted to raise his middle finger. But guessed that such a reaction might draw tears from his impulsive visitor. So instead, he simply continued to swig bourbon from his jug.

 

“I’d offer you a taste of this swill, but you’ve got the look of someone who no longer partakes...”

 

The quirky femme nodded to affirm this insightful statement.

 

“Y’all are right, buddy! I’m clean and sober fer nine months, and gonna stay that way. But thanks anyhow. I appreciate the thought.”

 

The graybeard loner pointed to a vintage singlewide, across the street from his own dwelling.

 

“Granny Maylene lives over there, she’s precious to everybody in this park. Go knock on her door, she’d be glad to get some company, I bet. If you want to hear some stories about this township, she’s got more than a few...”

 

Shondra rolled her eyes and grimaced as if she was being kicked to the curb.

 

“What, are y’all tryin’ ta get rid of me, Mr. Link?”

 

The weary misanthrope leaned forward, over his knees. He glared with indignation.

 

“HOW’D YOU KNOW MY NAME, MISS? ARE PEOPLE AROUND HERE FLAPPING THEIR JAWS OR WHAT? IF SO, THEN SCREW THEM!”

 

The young woman folded her arms, defensively.

 

“Man, y’all have a reputation in this park apparently. But that don’t scare me a bit. I like ta meet folks who are a little bit different. They make things interesting, ya know?”

 

Lincoln stomped the floorboards with one of his canes.

 

“GAWDAMN IT! I’M TIRED OF THESE BASTARDS SLINGING MUD AT ME! I DON’T BOTHER ANYBODY, AND DON’T EXPECT THEM TO BOTHER ME! LET ME GET DRUNK IN PEACE!”

 

She curled her lip and took a step backwards, as if wanting to make a hasty retreat. Her tiny hands had begun to tremble.

 

“Geez, there’s no need ta get yerself all riled up, dude! I’ll take yer advice and skedaddle! Have a nice day, buddy! I’ll see ya later!”

 

After Shondra had departed, the solitary boozer sat staring blankly at his reflection in the storm door. He looked every bit of 65 years old, and more, with scars and age spots dotting his skin. The thought of having company on his porch had rattled his nerves. It put him in a situation that was uncomfortable, and perplexing.

 

Yet for a moment at least, he had forgotten about his own physical ailments and limitations.  The experience cleared his head of worry, and evoked echoes of what it had been like to have companionship throughout the day.

 

That alone was worth enduring an uneasy moment of kindness. He hoped that, in time, she might come again.

 

Nothing To See Here: “Dream State”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

An odd change in my retirement years has been that I now look forward to dreaming overnight. These episodes are truncated in length due to other needs I encounter while slumbering, because of disability and the aging process. Yet I find that they offer a release from the cares and woes of my daytime existence. Generally, I am always younger, able-bodied, and gifted with the sort of station in life that used to permit traveling, investments, and even spoiling myself at times with prizes of a sort that were not strictly necessary. But certainly enhanced my sense of being content with what I had earned through years of hard work.

 

Still, the self in these unconscious visions is usually naïve by comparison. Someone not attuned finely enough to the fate that had been proscribed by genetics and family disposition. When pursuing career goals in my 30s and 40s, I had less peripheral awareness, and more of a focus on the bullseye. I held the cause of advancement as my raison d’etre for living. Other concerns were not allowed to interfere with that mission. So, I did not prepare myself for what would arrive in the decades that followed.

 

Disability and isolation hit hard, when yonder days arrived.

 

During a recent trip through this imaginary realm, I met myself in person. With a difference in chronological age of around 30 years in effect. The conversation that I shared... that we shared... proved to be interesting and informative. Though ineffective in changing the timeline that had already been written.

 

Rodney 35 – “Hey you look familiar, man! Are you a relative or something? I know there are distant cousins all through the heartland, even in Oklahoma! We’ve got strong genes apparently! We all look alike!”

 

Rodney 65 – “Well, yes. I am a relative of sorts, you might say...”

 

R 35 – “I notice you get around with two canes. My father does that, he’s a wreck after years of farm labor, mechanical repairs, and going into the ministry. He’s always so tired! I never want to be a worn-out piece of leather! I wouldn’t ever do that to myself!”

 

R 65 – “Right. I am familiar with your back story. It’s easy to tag disabilities as something that only affects senior citizens. But depending on how one has treated their body, such ailments may arrive sooner than you might expect...”

 

R 35 – “Not for me! I get around quite a bit. There’s not any time to sit still. We hustle at my workplace, and I stay busy when going home. Lots of projects in the queue, all the time!”

 

R 65 – “I used to be that way, but eventually the genetic disposition of our family caught up with me. It happened more quickly than I expected. About 25 years faster than with my dad...”

 

R 35 – “That’s a bummer, dude! I wouldn’t want to live like a cripple!”

 

R 65 – “Friend, in time you might discover that words such as that are hurtful, and unnecessary. ‘Cripple’ is demeaning especially for someone who inherited their condition through sacrifice and dedication. It’s not the kind of reward that anyone would seek...”

 

R 35 – “Yeah, yeah, okay. I get it. That wasn’t a zing at anybody, I just look at those people and shake my head. My dad struggles to do much of anything. He can’t ride a motorcycle anymore, or stand to drive for long distances on vacation jaunts. He sits at his desk with coffee and reads for entertainment. That is too damn boring for me, I want to be on the go! Gotta go, gotta go!”

 

R 65 – (Nodding reflectively) “Yes, I remember how it used to be. I do miss the adventures that we used to have...”

 

R 35 – “WE? WTF MAN, WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? WHO IS WE?”

 

R 65 – “Sorry. A slip of the tongue...”

 

R 35 – “So, who did you say was your ancestor? You’re on a branch of my family tree?”

 

R 65 – “Umm, yes. My bloodline began with an immigrant from Europe, about 1700. His name was Frederick...”

 

R 35 – “Hey that’s cool. Mine was the same. We must be cousins, however many times removed, right?”

 

R 65 – “I was descended through a character nicknamed Indian Billy. He had been a captive of indigenous peoples, but escaped and prospered afterward...”

 

R 35 – “Wow, I’ve heard stories like that. It must be part of the family groove!”

 

R 65 – “My grandparents lived on the southeast side of Columbus. They had an old farmhouse with no running water or central heating. It was interesting to visit as a child. I learned a lot about the world as it was before any of us kids were born...”

 

R 35 – (Looking stunned) “Columbus? Yeah, I know that city. I used to go there every year on Thanksgiving. And sometimes on summer vacation.”

 

R 65 – “I miss that place very much...”

 

R 35 – “I couldn’t live without it! That patch of ground is the home I never had anywhere else. We were always moving during my upbringing. Moving, moving, moving! That farm will stand forever!”

 

R 65 – “Forever is a long time, friend. But yes, we were constantly moving...”

 

R 35 – “YOU DID IT AGAIN!  WHAT DO YOU MEAN WE? THAT IS CREEPY, DUDE! CREEPY AS HELL!”

 

R 65 – “Have you ever considered how you might look in the distant future? Or what it might feel like to hobble around as an old grump? With aches and pains, and stiff joints making every step a challenge to endure?”

 

R 35 – (Taking a deep breath) “Screw any of that! I’m good as I am, there’s no need to be old and tired, that’s not my thing. I won’t let myself get run down like that!”

 

R 65 – (Laughing loudly) “If you only knew what was coming... but it is better that you don’t.”

 

R 35 – “WHAT THE DEVIL DOES THAT MEAN? IT’S BETTER THAT I DON’T KNOW WHAT?”

 

R 65 – “Just keep working to support your immediate family. They need you, friend. Your wife and her son, your sister and brother, and everyone...”

 

R 35 – (Clearing his throat) “What was your name, man? I don’t remember hearing you say it out loud. Tell me your name!”

 

R 65 – (Smiling gently) “It isn’t important, really. Just accept that I am someone who knows the road you are treading as we speak...”

 

R 35 – (Turning angry) “YOUR NAME, DAMMIT! TELL ME YOUR FREAKING NAME!”

R 65 – (Shrugging with a sigh) “Speak your own, and it will be said...”

 

R 35 – “DON’T GIVE ME A DAMN RIDDLE! WHAT IS YOUR EFFING NAME!”

 

I woke up with moonlight streaming through the bedroom window. My C-PAP machine continued to pump air even after I took off its cumbersome mask. I sat on the edge of my mattress for a few minutes, attempting to clear thoughts of what had transpired. The encounter had been too realistic to simply forget as I headed to the bathroom.

 

My own words echoed while facing the mirror image I beheld, attempting not to yawn.

 

“If you only knew what was coming... but it is better that you don’t.”