Hurricane Preparedness

By Rex Carey Arrasmith

            Listening to the radio, KJET, the un-ironically named ‘Quiet Storm’ publicly funded Jazz station as outside the wind chimes bang a cacophonous clang of barely recognized notes. They try and ignore the din sipping white wine and barely worrying about the windows being assaulted by horizontal bursts of wind driven rain.  While Chet Baker croons, Marcus pulls a mango cobbler out of the oven, setting it on the counter to cool in the humid air.

         “Marcus, check out the screen door. Have you ever seen so many?” Ricky points at a multitude of moths clinging, Bob Dylan had it right, seeking shelter from the storm.

         “Oh my! I’ve never thought about what kind of damage this weather could do to a dust covered wing,” Marcus shudders as a bolt of electricity illuminates the screen door just as the power blinks out.

         The boys rush to light candles then cocoon themselves in a fort of pillows and blankets away from the windows. The battery-powered radio plays on, while the lashed down lanai furniture creaks and wails outside.

         “Turn it up, turn it up, I love this song,” squeals Ricky as he jumps up tugging Marcus up by his clammy hands. “Dance with me.” Etta James’s ‘At Last’ stokes their engines.

         Bare feet slide around the sandy bamboo floors as the boys take turns dipping and spinning each other around the room. An out of turn, attempted dip, sends them both crashing to the floor, breathless, in a heap of laughter and pain from stubbed toes.  Settling, Marcus lights the hookah drawing a slow toke then filling the room with dragon fruit. 

         “Yum! Gimme some.” Ricky scoots closer with outstretched fingers. “Let’s read poetry to each other by candlelight.” Ricky grabs Rilke spotted under the sofa.

         A sudden maelstrom fells a tree sending the wind chimes screaming down the drive. “What the fuck?” shouts Marcus opening the door to take a peak snuffing out the candles.

         “Damn, I’ll relight the candles, hurry, and shut the door.” Ricky busies himself lighting the twenty candles sending up smoke in eerie patterns. After a few moments of candle lighting, Ricky turns towards the door and see’s Marcus leaning on the sofa. “Is that a tiara? OK, my little pony, we can play, where’s my lariat? Where’s my cowboy hat?

         “Wait, can you hear meowing? Marcus freezes mid-curtsey. “When did you last see the cat?”

         “Hells, I forgot about Munchkin.” Pouts Ricky. “I’ll look for her while you scoop out the cobbler and make tea.”

         Ricky quickly finds the cat tucked up under the TV, after coaxing her out, the power suddenly comes back on. He turns on the TV to check the local weather. There was widespread flooding but only minor wind damage mostly caused by falling trees and branches. It looks like we boys dodged another one.

         “Well now, I guess we can go to bed now, the worst is over,” sighs Ricky as he moves around blowing out candles.

         “STOP!” cries Marcus. “Leave the candles and turn off the lights.  I’m not through with you yet cowboy.”  Grabbing Ricky and Rilke, the boys fall into bed giggling for the night was not over.

Empty Nest

By Rex Carey Arrasmith

Today I woke up with a tap tap tap from a crimson colored bird on my bedroom window. Not tapping at me mind you, tapping at his reflection trying to drive himself away from the nest he and his mate just built in the tree just opposite my window. Every time I approach, it flies away only to return and tap tap tap with increased vigor. Each attack comes in bursts of three tap tap taps then preening at his reflection...not his...yes, his own stupid unrecognized reflection.

Today I learned domesticated talking birds that escape are teaching wild talking birds expletives that sometimes become that flock’s group call. This would explain the, "hey hey hey .... ASSHOLE," I think I hear from the murder  of crows that swoop down, trying to get at the eggs my Crimson bird neighbor has been trying to protect from his reflected self in my window and now from hungry crows. 

Today I am sad to report that he and his mate's aerial maneuvers successfully protected their eggs but not their hatchlings. Is this a metaphor? I wept on and off all day watching mom and dad Crimson bird trying to feed an empty nest and then they were gone.