Musings of JR Simmang

Down at FM 980 and Larkspur Fats Hendricks runs a small gas station that sits just north of the tracks. He got a small café there. It ain’t much, just a few benches, tables, ones even got a table cloth on it, and a sneeze guard in front of the food. But, the food’s always hot and there’s always a fresh pot of coffee on. Fats, he’s a good man, wife left him for Biloxi, took the cat and the dog, and left him with the trailer and truck that he don’t drive none too often ’cause gas is so damned expensive. He got these fried pies he makes on the weekends, somethin’ special, and sometimes, me and my wife, after church, we like to go in and sit down at that table that has the tablecloth, and order these pies and two cups of coffee. Fats’ll smile, ask us how the sermon was, because we got a new pastor, Pastor Dean, son of a preacher, and he’ll talk to us about marriage, his kids, the reason he ain’t been in town lately. He’ll ask us about the pies, ...

When did I reach the age of cynics, regarding the whole world eurhythmic under boards of knitted brows, outfitted and ready for interns and clinics?

Alanah rolled the tooth over and over in her fingers, fascinated at its perfect, pearly, smooth outside. She touched the space where her own front tooth was missing and giggled. "Alanah, hon? What's that in your hand?" Her mother walked over to her, placing her debit card securely in her wallet. "Oh, honey, did you lose another tooth?"   Alanah looked up to her mother and smiled. "No, mom. It came from here. Who will the tooth fairy visit? Can I keep the dollar?" "Dear lord." Her mother shuffled for her cell phone and dialed three numbers. Alanah could tell because there were only three beeps. "Yes, hi. My name is Cathy Willows. My daughter just found a tooth in a gumball machine... Okay..." Alanah's mom grabbed her daughter's free hand. Alanah looked again at the tooth she held on to. It had to have been - what was it called - a canine! She thought that was silly because that's what dogs were also calle...

It's called a gwawdodyn (rhymes with ska-doe-din), and it hails from Wales. It is comprised of four lines (a quatrain) that follows a 9/9/10/9 syllable count. The rhyme scheme is thusly: xxxxxxxx a xxxxxxxx a xxx b xxxxx b xxxxxxxx a There is internal rhyme present in the third line. The second version contains an internal rhyme in the fourth line while maintaining the rhyme scheme of the first version, so it may look like this: xxxxxxxx a xxxxxxxx a xxxxxxxxx b xx b xxxxx a Thank you to Robert Lee Brewer at Writer's Digest for exposing us to this fun form. Here's an example: Sunday morning, we found a table topped with similar things, unable to keep its surface level; the heaps and heaps of memories unstable. Fondness regrets what fondness can’t keep, she said as we rummaged through the steep mountains of kitschy keepsakes, heads above the strewn clothes, heads below fondness deep.

I can't remember the year, nor would I want to; this is a memory that I would rather keep mingled with hallucination. We set forth, three of us, men (at least we thought we were), eastward through California, mapless and sure. This was the time we believed that finding the world untouched would make an untouched world. There was beauty hidden somewhere. For the first few days, we felt that the smog in our lungs was slowly dissolving into the footprints we left behind. Each step, we felt lighter. In front of us were the Rockies. Montani semper liberi, I said. So, we trudged onward, remembering that once over the mountains we would be in flatland and unhindered, unencumbered, and untouchable. The roads were spare, and the cities were sparse, but this world was huge and what better way to see it than from the summit? There was a moment past the Grand Tetons, that the night blew in the bitterness held by the moon, bitter for the beauty of the world to her will be forever bath...

I wouldn’t call Francine my wife, though we’ve been together since the first winter. After the Plummet, people stopped believing in God, myself included. She didn’t speak a whole lot of English, and I didn’t speak a whole lot of… whatever she speaks, but when it’s cold, you don’t need words. We were told by some young couple a few months back that there was an enclave of people in the South, trying to rebuild. From Alaska, or what used to be Alaska, the South might as well be the other side of the world. Judging by the increasing number of cropland, and wild corn, I’d say we were somewhere in Idaho. I keep doing that. There aren’t borders any more. I rolled over in our tent, the moon poking my eyelids open. Francine was gone, which I supposed wasn’t wholly out of the ordinary. Still, with Marauders sweeping across the nation, one can’t be too concerned. I sat up, rubbed the dirt from my face, and shuffled outside the tent. Spring. The night was pitch-black, pure, breezy, and dark...

The spot on the bed next to me was cold again. She’s been getting out more and more frequently. I threw my legs over and slipped on my house slippers. I poke my head into the kids’ rooms. We were watching our grandkids this week. Parents were out on vacation. I kept telling them they need some adult time, away from the kids, where they can reignite their marriage. But, for three years, they didn’t separate once from the kids, and they were starting to get that crazed look in their eyes. From Kaileigh’s room, I could see the light on in the barn. I wasn’t surprised. A part of me knew that was where she would be. I walked downstairs, poured myself a glass of water, and watched the light flicker in and out of the sorghum fields. What was she doing out there tonight? Painting? dancing? Tonight she may be working on her memoir. Having finished my water, I pulled on my boots and started the walk out to the barn. The trail was still trying to stitch itself back together when I stepped...