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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
 
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A Cup Full of Humble Fragrance #755169 added June 18, 2012 at 10:06pm
Restrictions: None
Centipede Legs (June 18 - Legs)
Mark is running. Running for his life. He cannot control the inhale and exhale of his breathing like that of a marathoner. He has no steady cadence to his pace. His footsteps sound as if they are tap-tap-tapping like a blind person's cane.
He thinks: I wish I had stronger legs. Two legs aren't enough. I wish I had a thousand legs. I wish I were a centipede. A centipede with lots of legs. 100, even 300 of them.
He wishes he were a centipede so he could clump up with other centipedes and hide. He wishes he were a centipede so he could soften the pounding of his heart. He feels terribly vulnerable as he races over the bare land, zigzagging around the cacti. He even jumped over a snake. He couldn't tell which kind. A diamondback? Maybe, but nothing happened. Yet.
He berates himself for being stingy, for trying to save gas money. He curses at his luck, at Aldi's market, at the community cork board in Aldi's, but most of all, for answering the ad on that board, which said, You drive your car, I pay for the gas the entire way. From Oklahoma City to San Antonio. If anyone's going that way and looking for a companion, call: (405) 297-6351.
He called. The dude's name was Ernesto. They met once. They shook hands. He seemed warm, friendly. He said, "Eight-hour drive. Better with a friend through the desert. Just sold my car. I have an uncle in San Antonio. I'll work in his garage."
I believed him, even liked him. Considered continuing the friendship after the trip. Stupid, stupid, stupid!
Ernesto slept half an hour after Oklahoma City. Then he woke up, yakked some, and took out a bottle of Tequila and a paper cup from his small bag that he kept under his feet and sipped. Actually, it wasn't sipping but bottoms up all the way.
Somewhere in north Texas, they stopped for food and gas and started on the highway again. Ernesto crushed the paper cup and tossed it out of the window. Almost immediately, a black and white Texas highway Patrol car appeared with its lights flashing and siren screaming.
With no visible panic, Ernesto took out a pistol from his bag and placed it on his lap under his folded jacket. Mark frowned but looked away, then pulled to the shoulder of the road to wait for the officer in his khaki uniform with the star-badge on his blue tie. No other car was in sight.
The officer scolded them for littering, and when he was about to write a ticket, he saw the open bottle of Tequila on the passenger's side when Mark leaned to get the registration from the glove compartment. Ernesto admitted he was the one drinking.
The officer ordered them to put the Tequila bottle in the trunk. Ernesto draped his jacket over his left arm, covering the gun under it, and took the bottle with his right hand. They both got out of the car, since the trunk's eject button was stuck, and Mark had to use his key. Ernesto threw the bottle inside. Mark noticed a sawed-off shotgun next to Ernesto's duffel bag. The officer had to have seen it, too, for he was standing next to Mark.
Why didn't I check when this dude was putting his bag in the trunk?
"What the...? What's this? Whose is it?" The officer pointed to the shotgun.
"Mine," said Ernesto..
"This may all be innocent, but....Damn! Just the day my partner's out. Gotta take you fellas in." He took out his phone to call.
Suddenly, the shots...the officer on the ground, dying. He had no time to reach for his gun.
Mark can't even comprehend how fast Ernesto fired the shots, how quickly Mark buckled and tossed him the keys...such a disgrace!
The threats still ring in his ears as he runs, ashamed of his own voice, of his begging Ernesto, "I won't snitch on you!"
Lucky! Ernesto missed the shot, and then, Mark ran. Ernesto has the car and the guns now.
Mark imagines hearing Ernesto behind him. He's too scared to look back.
So now, Mark is running, running for his life, running like a cheetah but wishing he were a centipede with a hundred legs. A centipede, rolling together with other centipedes of many legs, reddish and invisible on the red desert sand.
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Prompt: Legs
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