INDEPENDENCE: An Acrostic

Independence

by JE Lillie

Innocent

100_2622Native son

statue in blue

Driving back lethargy

Engaging the world about

Mel 5Prevailing darkness wearing carnival masks,

Ensnaring hapless men. “Everything’s just fine,”

Nattering poppin-jays proclaim.Without knowledge lies reign.

Duplicity doesn’t dupe  truly free slaves of righteousness.

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Every step they take frees the land from bondage.

Native sons and daughters rising up. With truth ignoring through

Charity the carnal call to embrace an existence  proclaiming freedom yet

Ending in nothing but a pop of smoky fire. This is independence!

firecracker (1)

The Celebrant: This Was Us Pt. 1

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Skin tells tales. Dolly, a friend of mine in high school,  could usually wash with soap and water just fine; But when she got agitated Irish Spring would burn the skin right off her hands like it was fire. She always used to say that was because her mother was Irish and Momma Rose was usually the source of Dolly’s consternation. At any rate it was always easy to tell when Dolly and Rosie were on the outs.  I suppose my skin speaks volumes about my own story. My upper lip is usually beaded sweat mingled with peach fuzz and while my face is generally clear that has more to do with Proactiv than the fact that acne isn’t a problem. I like to keep my arms and back covered for that reason; So swimming isn’t one of my favorite pass times. Too bad it is Paul’s. Adam likes to make the community pool a weekly family affair to highlight his favored son. Sucks to be me.

The surface never lies; It just doesn’t tell the whole story. Even straight-up  falsehoods find their anchor in some truth deep inside. You might not think so but dig long enough in your own lies and you’ll find the grain that led you down the primrose path to Hell. Trace it back far enough and you’ll find the seminal truth that made your very biggest lies so believable. That’s the problem with the stories we tell each other, whether their bold-faced prevarications or lily-white truths they’re still just bits of the whole. Happy endings are part sad and tragedies usually leave someone somewhere chuckling because they see the other side. The “Hallelujahs” and the “Aww Hells” are all mixed together and no story really ends with “The End”. We just can’t tell it all so we do our best and leave the rest to providence.

I was born in a field, or so my mother tells me.  We lived out Rte. 2 about twenty miles out of Concord just the other side of Ayer by the Oxbow preserve. Mom’s OBGYN was out of Emerson in those days and no one thought anything about the distance to the hospital. Paul had been a thirty hour delivery that nearly killed Mom just eleven months earlier. My conception was not therefore hailed with flags and fireworks. The “Should’ve used protection” comment has floated around my unhaloed head more than once. Who knew I wasn’t supposed to take that comment seriously?

Mom’s labor started sometime around  one in the morning on July fourth 1989. Adam took a shower before loading her into the car. If I’d been more like Paul everything would have been fine but  by two thirty I was popping out in one of the flowery fields alongside route 110. I hear I ruined a perfectly good picnic blanket but hey at least the upholstery in Adam’s new Ford Escort was spared the bloody mess.

When I was 10 we went as a family to see the Fruitlands and stopped by the spot where I made my world-wide debut. The field is wide and flat rising up to a stand of pines,  sentinels to all that goes on in the valley below. I realized they were there at my birth. In my ten-year old head I thought maybe the trees could tell me why I had been born. My thoughts diverted, though, when I heard the whistle and the thudding of the train pistons. The Boston to Maine cut  its course through the field of my birth. I shuddered with the sudden revelation of my life’s nightmare.  The crunching thunder of steel on steel,  the banshee screams of hydraulic brakes mixed with coal smoke sirens.

Mom remembered too, “That whistle was blowing the night you were born Natty. It made me glad to know we weren’t alone. All I could think as I pushed you out was how here we were in the middle of nowhere and there not 300 yards away was a whole train load of people watching me give birth.”

She smiled remembering her moment of fame.

pUpdate

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The puppies are three weeks old today! Eyes opened last week and they are beginning to wander just a little bit,

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This morning I met with a lady who bought one and the other is going to my sister in Hollanhd. So I have one of the little fellas left.

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If you or anyone you know in the New England area is interested in a male Maltese pup drop me a line here at WordPress. Cost is $690.00 pet price.

The Good Shepherd Pt. 7

The Good Shepherd

The Good Shepherd

I hope you have been enjoying the continuing story of Jerome. If you have missed any of our editions you can catch up on  our Stories sub-page, The Good Shepherd here: http://wp.me/P39vIx-j1

The Good Shepherd Pt.7

      I watched the shadows swinging across the fire station lot with a mixture of satisfaction and guilt. Scott had warned me the price would be high. Conflict boiled my insides as I watched the streetlights wink on in the summer twilight. The crowd around me applauded even as my soul emptied its light into the yawning abyss of the back and forth shades hanging from the scaffold. The increase of wickedness had cooled my heart to stone since that night in Acton.

    I remember staring down on the lights of Boston from the Belmont Hills on Route 2. Months in the dark made the city’s  shimmering radiance look like something out of OZ . Scott stopped the horse and buggy just at the top of a hill near the Mormon temple so Oliver and I could receive the full impact of the first electric lights we’d seen since the New Year.

    “It took them all this time to rebuild the city grid,” Scott explained. ” When the God pulse started it shut the lights and totally fried every circuit in the world. Power’s up here and in the biggest cities across the world but rebuilding the entire network is going to be a slow process.”

     “The God pulse?” Oliver asked.

      Scott explained, “It’s what their calling it. It’s not like anything else the world has ever seen. Whatever it is it’s more like a radio wave than a pulse. It started in January but it’s still resonating today. Weirdest thing is it seems to have a mind of its own. It’s like it  has chosen to let us rebuild the power grid but it still kills every car engine we build.”

    “Chosen?” I queried.

    “Like I said, it’s like nothing we’ve ever seen before.”

    That night we spent in Scott’s apartment in Cambridge. Our chauffer turned out to be an engineer with MIT. The black out had propelled him to a position of some power on the Boston City Council of Restoration, a goverment agency begun within days of the darkness. While towns like Winchendon had focused on maintaining order larger municipalities had been able to work on rebuilding infrastructure.

   “I’ve begun going out to the surrounding towns to survey the power grids with my team. We plan to have the state up and running again by next summer.” Scott explained.

    I tensed at his optimism,”Your biggest problem is not going to be the power grids. It’s going to be getting the local councils to relinquish their  hold over the towns. Power brings freedom and I know for a certainty there are those who will not want either of those things back where I come from.”

   “I thought perhaps that was why you had come.”

      I raised an eyebrow.

    “You’re not the first to come to the city for help with an out of control town government. The whole state is having trouble with local militias. Unjust arrests, suspension of trial by jury, even assassination of political opponents are commonplace complaints. Our committee is charged not just with turning the lights on but with restoring order.”

    The knot in my belly loosened as the voice within said again, “Trust.”

     Scott didn’t wait for me to speak, “It won’t be pretty. The town people may blame you when we roll into Winchendon with the National Guard. You may not be able to go home again.”

    I had nodded my head then in what I thought was understanding. As I met with the City council of Restoration the next morning to share my story, I realized it was a little more complex than I had thought. Oliver and I were arrested. Charged with malicious treason against our town government we were relegated to separate cells in the Charles Street Prison. A rider was dispatched to Winchendon to summon Tyson and any witnesses he deemed necessary for my trial.

   Scott walked in two days after my incarceration. I resisted the urge to rise and ram the meerschaum pipe he was smoking down his throat.

   “I gather this is what you meant by ‘You may not be able to go home again.'” I groused.

   “It could have turned out many different ways my friend.”

   “I most certainly am not your friend.” I shot back.

   He shrugged,   “When the council had you arrested I took the liberty of hiring you and Oliver a lawyer. You understand they have to do this in order to restore the law to communities that have  forsaken it. They can’t very well just go in and convict a full police force for suspending trial by jury without having a trial by jury.”

  I understood the concept. I still felt betrayed.

  “So where’s this lawyer?”

   “Meeting with Oliver first. He has to get a picture of what happened in your town that caused the Bone Brothers to form.”

    “Then why are you here? Why didn’t you just wait to come see me with him?”

   “I think you should sit down.” Scott’s eyes glistened with a watery hardness, a mixture of sadness and fury I had seen too many times in the eyes of funeral goers in the last months.

    “I think I’ll stand.”

    He nodded, “I have been verifying your story. I sent riders to your friend’s house in Ashburnham, to Silhouette’s.”

    I gripped the rod iron window brace with my right hand.

   “The house had been burned. We found two bodies. Elderly ladies.”

 

The Change

The Change

Daily Prompt: For many of us, winter is blooming into spring, or fall hardening into winter. Which season do you most look forward to?

100_0457Never the return of green and running falls

Dispelling ice from souls too long frozen

12-4-12 10-22-2012 1-55-47 PM. 24 042Nor summer sand burning toes

Ocean’s glimmer chosen for respite from the weary world

12-4-12 10-22-2012 2-24-17 PM. 24 063We do not covet autumn’s hues or

Changes come with dying splendor’s promise of the celebration

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Of another time to seal away to rest,  a winter solstice,

Snowy embrace!

My Warm Sun by JE Lillie

My Warm Sun by JE Lillie

The thing we long for is just the change.

If you want to try your hand at the Daily Prompt go to: http://dailypost.wordpress.com/