A writer’s contemplation (fun with homophones, take 5)

MG pic.

It’s time once again for Fun with Homophones.

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Standing at the counter at the deli across from the town’s canal lock, and eating a piece of bread, he wondered about lox; were salmon bred just for eating, and how much do they pay the salmon counter.

“Did you remember to buy the locks for the suitcases?”  Her question brought him back to reality, and he gave her a questioning look, “I’ll get them tonight.”

“Sure, that’s what you said at the shore when I asked you to get the two blankets, and you forgot.”

He countered with “I did not forget.  I could not find them. I know you said that you left them to the left of the concession stand; right?”

“No, I said to the right!”  “Write notes for yourself.”

She periodically complained that he never wrote down reminders; and he would simply reply that he had a rote inspired memory.  ‘He has a wood inspired brain;’ a wry thought.

When they arrived at her apartment, they saw that their deli order had gone awry; the lox was on a roll, not on rye.  In his defense, it had been difficult to give the deli worker their rapt attention, because the server rapped terribly, and loud, while he made and wrapped the takeout.

They had met when he was auditioning for a part in a local theater production.  The audition scene was one that he had seen in the movie version.  The heir to a family fortune was asking about the coming weekend weather, in order to decide whether or not the air would be too cool for his bride and too windy for his own hair for an outside island wedding.  The prospective groom and Miss did not want to err and miss an opportunity to tie the knot outside.

The audition was a no go.  The director said that he had fiddled too much with his suit tie trying to look cool; and, alas, he did not get the role.  Nevertheless, he did secure a date with the director’s assistant.  And now they were on a roll, with real wedding bells in the near future.  Of course, she said “I’ll only walk down the aisle if it’s on an isle.”  His mom thought an island wedding would be very nice, and wanted her son to see some sun and, of course, the sea.

Soon after their engagement, while eating a carrot, she had wrote him a note concerning the wedding ring.  It read (with a caret over the ‘c’ and ‘w’), don’t overlook the carat weight,  because I would hate for your mom to cheep ‘cheap’ every time she sees it.

When he read the note he laughed and wondered if the newspaper announcement should read ‘bridal’ or ‘bridle’.

And they lived happily ever after!

AND, if you are not aware, August is National Romance Awareness Month.

For previous fun with homophones, see takes One, Two, Three, and Four.

 

 

 

 

 

Ambient Light (poem)

Ambient Light

You think you can brighten her life

shed illumination of good

not strife

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You reason that she needs you

and given the opportunity

she will so choose

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Her soft smile speaks thousands of words

however they fell on deaf ears

far too long gone unheard

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She had gifted her warm heart

to a man who took what he had planned

then swiftly left on a cold morning’s start

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Now she is over cautious, she hesitates

and you want to save her heart

before it is too late

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You reason you can a river of strife ford

with an  illumination of good

not discord

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Look into the mirror

note what you see

for true love glows from inside the heart.

If yours glows not

all her eyes will see

are more artificial words,

not the sun, the moon, the stars.

Thus, her heart will only see

light that is far from ambient,

and

artificial light chimes

with abandonment.

(Ambient Light, copyright Steven S. Walsky, August 2014, all rights reserved.)

“Time” (short story, life and love)

The townspeople note the ‘clock shop closing’ sign, the darkened establishment, and think it has to do with batteries, solar energy, or self-winding.

He has been a clock repairer for sixty years; took over the business from his father, who succeeded his father.  Clocks, watches, timepieces; human made, mechanical devices to keep life on time.  People refer to him as an artist with gears, gems, crystals, and movement.  Some would say that as a child he never questioned becoming a purveyor of clocks.  He liked the German bim-bam chime grandfather clock that graced the living room of his parents’ house.  Then, there were many clocks in the house; for time was so noted.  Time to rise, time to eat, time to do your chores and homework, time to go to bed, and, of course, time for resetting, winding the clocks.

However, when he was a young lad he once had an, albeit momentary, doubt about going into the business.  Every child at his elementary school had called him the ‘principal’s principle’, in reference to the wall clock his father had mounted outside the principal’s office.  The principal maintained a “disciplined, on time, no wasted time, educational institution”.  The primary teasers were those who had to sit under that clock when they were sent to the principal’s office for rule infractions.  Yes, he thought about not going into the business; however the family clock love affair called.  And there was joy in maintaining works of art.

In his seventeenth year another love affair called his name.  She would willingly share him with the sound of ticking clocks that filled his parent’s house and shop, then one day their house as well.  ‘Something old’ was his grandmother’s 1924 Bulova Lady Maxim.  However, it would not be wrong to say that the sound of love filled their world far louder than the clocks.

For their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary his bride gave him the wristwatch that he has literally wore every day since that moment.  For their fiftieth anniversary she touched the watch and motioned for him to bend down.  He was glad there were no timepieces in the hospital room.  She kissed him goodbye.

Regardless of time, that kiss was too short.

The townspeople note the ‘clock shop closing’ sign, the darkened establishment.  Clocks no longer have a place of joy in his life.  For clocks only remind him of every second he has lived without her.

(Time, is a work of fiction, copyright Steven S. Walsky, August 2014, all rights reserved.)