Twilight

Upon the Wings of Eagles

Enter The Scorpion

The sun drifts down just below the skyline as Michael enters the local watering hole that sits around the corner, down the street from his office—a low lit indoor and outdoor pub—The Scorpion.

Converted from a small two story paper factory on the edge of a revitalized industrial zone, the Scorpion draws a mixed crowd.  Young professionals are making a push into the area as the redevelopment continues, transforming it into a new active scene.  This time of day, a steady small crowd of locals and regulars filter through.  Later the stage comes alive as musicians and bands carry the evening, standing room only the norm as the week draws to a close.

Michael gets his bearings in the dark room as he scans the area.  A few tables and booths are occupied with patrons, as well as the three rough old regulars sitting at the one bar, half in the bag, and as much a part of the décor as the objects hanging around on the walls.  Staff flow around the room helping customers, and the owner chats with two bartenders as they get things prepped for a busy evening. 

The owner, David, a New Jersey import, has built a solid establishment for himself over the last 20 years in this western city.  A round individual with graying hair, glasses, and a demeanor that, while calm and composed most of the time, has an explosive edge when lit.  He spots Michael coming in smiles and lifts his head with a nod. Michael smiles and nods back.

Several of the detectives are already here, occupying a tall table near the bar across the room.  Michael strolls across the room the to his counterparts.

George:  Retired designer for a tech company.  Very intelligent and practical, he was pressed into retirement with the evolution of technology and the influx of a new younger, college educated, and expendable crop of designers.   George has a knack for finding out things.  He relies on old school modes of gathering using phones, newspapers, and knocking on doors.  He is also the nursemaid of the group, often figuring out how to keep the rest out of trouble.

Finn:  The young expendable program designer.  Thin and wispy with pale features and blond hair, Finn has a keen mind that can figure out detailed problems, when it is not wandering away on a side project or idea.  Taking one of those jobs like George used to occupy, Finn burned out quickly and was fired for reasons he has yet to fully explain.  He has become an adept computer forensics specialist, which has proven helpful to the police several times.  He is a gadget and on-line maniac, and constant thorn to George’s side, heckling him often on his old school ways.

Riley:  Sometimes called the rat.  The youngest of the group, Riley’s rough and dark past had left him few options for a positive future until Michael pulled him from a very sinister situation.  Average height, but strong and burly, with long brown hair and several tattoos on his arms shoulders and back, Riley can dish out beatings and he can take them. Barely high school educated, but mechanically minded, Riley has totally immersed himself in his role as the bruiser with the detectives.

Misfits all of them, and Michael, in his late 20’s and running the odd detective agency, feels most misfit of all.  He approaches the group and they break out of their conversation to acknowledge their leader. George gives a nod.

  “Hey boss.”

Michael pulls out a seat.

  “Hi guys. Anyone seen Carlton?”

Riley snorts.  Finn chimes in.

  “He’s working something over at InfoCom, but he texted that he’d be over shortly.”

David stops over with a pitcher and an extra glass for Michael.

Welcome to the Scorpion—this is their place.  While it stands as a sort of refuge for each of them in its own way, expect the unexpected, as a lot of things will happen here, and the detectives are only beginning to find out the dark world within which they are entering.

Edge of Forever

When I reach out,

With all of  my being within,

Beyond, the realm of sight,

touch, taste, and sound.

Intangible, my heart stretches

out to the farthest edges,

the edge of forever.

Breathtaking, absorbing vision

and imagination,

deeper than the ocean,

further than the stars,

A path only my heart can travel

   

Where I have pushed myself,

to that edge

Will you join me?

Stir the energy that swirls within,

and find the ethereal world

Touch each other and dance,

as the wind touches the sky

join hands and guide one another

and find ourselves together

on the edge of forever.

The Detectives

Soft sunlight filters through tall windows, onto several desks, file cabinets and hard wood floors in the loft style office that Michael rents.  A lone man, George Devries, sits at a desk, legs propped upon it.  Slightly round, with glasses, receding hairline and cherubic face, wearing slacks, short sleeve button down shirt and a smart bow tie, George is immersed in the daily paper when Michael strolls into the room.  George looks up.

  “Good morning.”

Michael continues to walk to his desk. He tosses his keys on it and drops down into his chair.  He rubs his face.  George looks at him.

  “Or not.”

Michael looks up at the ceiling. He finally utters a few words.

  “Where are Finn and Riley?”

  “Working on something I suppose.”

Dead silence slips through the room for a moment. George takes his feet of off his desk and sets down the paper, looking intently at Michael.

  “You were there, weren’t you.”

Michael rubs his eyes and nods.  George lets out a light sigh.

  “The write up is in today’s paper.  Felix Emerson, pro tour golfer, found

   dead at Wilmington Club.  No mention of cause.”

Michael sighs, staring up at the ceiling.

  “Yeah.”

George shakes his head.

  “The guy buys it right before the open, not that he had much chance of winning

    anyway. Do you think the wife did it?”

  “She hired me, but I can’t rule that out…not likely though.”

Michael sits up in his chair, looking thoughtful.

  “While I was casing the place, the girl he was banging slipped out of the clubhouse,

   around the time he was killed, but there were several other men who left at

   various times as well.”

Michael looks at George who has been listening carefully.

  “You know a bit about this guy?”

George forms a round cheeked smile

  “Hey, you are talking to the sports library here.”

  “Good, you are coming with me.”

  “Where to boss?”

Michael gives him a good look and grabs his phone, starting to punch some buttons.

  “To the open of course.”

_______________________________________________________________________________

Spectators mingle around the golf course, quietly moving along pathways under a brilliant sun.  Pros are swinging on the driving range, chatting casually, and signing autographs. Fans gather at tees and greens watching players practice through the course.  Media members scurry to speak with players and catch a quote or a lead for their stories. From some shady trees, Michael and George emerge.  Michael, tall and slender strolls along in kaki pants, comfortable polo shirt and glasses, George still wearing his bowtie, tags along looking at a guide, sweat glistening on his brow. They stroll through the crowd of this opening day practice round. George pulls out a handkerchief and pats his brow..

  “A beer would be nice right now. Nice hook up on the passes by the way.  Didn’t

   know you had connections on the tour.”

Michael nods

  “Yes, Nicky’s a good friend.  Been meaning to come to one of these.”

  “Never been, huh?”

  “Nope.”

George looks back down at the tour guide.

  “Well, Felix was an average tour player at best. On the tour for about 10 years.  Made

   decent money, but never broke top 15 in any tournament play.”

Michael looks around as they continue along.

  “What else?”

George shrugs.

  “Well, he wasn’t well liked, by pretty much everybody.  He was a bit of an asshole.”

Michael stops for a moment, and looks up at the sky, shaking his head slightly.

  “That helps narrow things down a bit doesn’t it.”

George laughs.

  “Yeah”

Michael enters a beverage tent, George in tow.  He walks up to the bar and orders two beers.

  “We need to track down one or two of the people I saw leave last night.  Perhaps

   we can find out more from one of them.”

George takes a beer Michael handed to him and takes a long sip, looking quite satisfied.

  “How will we do that?

  “Hopefully I can recognize one here.  I believe all of them work for the club or the

    tour in some fashion.”

George nods his head.

  “Ok.  Give me a description of the ones you saw and I’ll figure it out.”

Michael smiles.

  “I knew you would.”

Take your shot

As he approaches his shot on the 18^th, the heat presses in around Guthrie.  Still as a statue the air is, and the sun a steady and constant bombardment of energy upon the mingling crowd.  Guthrie’s first shot from the tee had sailed wide right on him, into a clump of aged, bent trees.  The course staff had marked the ball and were creating a wall around it so the spectators would not interfere.

Nothing like watching a young talent struggle with a challenging shot.  What choice would he make?  How would he handle the pressure?  It’s only day one, but the leaders have struck early and hard with low scores, pressing the rest of the later field to keep up the pace.  After day two the number of entries is cut in half.

Guthrie approaches the shot.  There is one small window through a group of trees that might give him a chance to land the green about 160 yards away.  But it will require him to get the ball to arc to the left around one last tree after lofting over the first two and missing one that is leaning right in front of him..

Or he could chip out onto the fairway safely and get a better look at setting up on the green.

A crowd begins to muster around the ball as he scans his options.  It takes him little time to decide.  He is going for it.  He and his caddie discuss strategy as the onlookers shake heads, gasp, chuckle, and discuss the likelihood that his ball will survive the travel to the green.

This is no small time tournament.  Here, Guthrie stands on the big stage, in a pivotal moment that may decide a number of things for this potential emerging star.  He has talent and skill.  Can he make the shot when he needs it the most?

Knowing that keeping himself in the tournament might require him to take risks, he grabs his club and sets his sights on the 18^th green.  People who were mingling in front of where he might be are ushered out of the way.

“You might want to move back a little” Guthrie mentions with a slight smile to a few nearby onlookers.  The crowd chuckles, swooshing out the half held breaths of the people watching, as if they were the ones taking the swing.

The course staff holds up their hands to silence and still the crowd.  People stop moving.  Guthrie looks intently at the ball and lines up his club. Time stops moving.  He cocks his arms back and swings gracefully through.   His ball lifts out of the pile of bark chips within which it had landed, flies past the bent tree, lofts over the clump of trees and arcs to the left around a last tree slightly along a path that lands right on the green.

The crowd cheers and incredulous smiles break out on many of the spectator’s faces.  Truly a remarkable shot.  With the heat, the crowd, the pressure, Guthrie pulled out a shot that defines focus and perseverance.

In our moments, do we have the ability to focus our talents and do the best we can, when it matters most?  Indeed we all do.  It may not come in the spotlight of national TV.  It may not come with the reward and adulation that we all hope we can have every day.  And it may not always work out the way you had intended.  But it will come, when you believe in yourself and you trust the energy and talent that swells from within you. 

Some days it may be harder than others to reach for that energy and belief--to instead succumb to insecurity and self-doubt.  But without the drive to succeed, we would have long ago perished into obscurity.

That is not our destiny, and it is not yours either.  Live for today and take the shot that you know you can make.

Two Swans

Club House Murder

Michael knew what to expect as Detective Wilson entered the Wilmington club house changing room. Wilson draws a crooked smile and shakes his head. 

  “Any reason I shouldn’t just arrest you now?”

Michael passes a blank look

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you.”

Wilson walks right up into the face of Michael, both men standing about the same height. “Oh yeah.”

  “Enough.” Barks a voice from beyond the two. “Back it off Wilson.”

Michael smiles back at Wilson as his face transforms to a sneer. He turns to Lieutenant Dane. Dane, a tall, slim gentleman, with a receding hairline, and two other police officers enter the room.  He scans the area.

  “Let’s see what we have here.”

Wilson grimaces and makes his way over to a corner where a male body lays crumpled in a corner.  The other officers start scanning other areas.  Dane walks over to Michael who leans against a wall.  

  “I know.”

Dane walks up next to Michael, looking around the scene. “So…”

  “I found him here just like that”

  “And how was it, that you happened to find him”

  “Just lucky I guess”

  “Some guys have all the luck. How do you know him?”

  “I don’t really.”

Dane shakes his head.

  “Come on now, we’ve been down this road before.”

Michael straightens up.

  “I was recently employed by someone known to him.”

Wilson, crouched over the body, is looking intently at the corpse.

  “Looks like several traumatic blows to the head.”

Dane looks back at Michael.  One of the officers pokes his head back in the room. 

  “Detective Smith found something.”

Another plainclothes detective enters the room, in a gloved hand carrying a golf club, the end of which has blood covering the metal edge.

  “I believe we have a murder weapon.”

Detective Wilson stands up and walks over to the other detective.  He glances at the club.  “4 iron, lefty. You play?”

Smith chuckles. “Minigolf with my kid.”

Wilson looks over at Michael and Dane.

  “How about you wise ass.  You play, don’t ya?”

Michael looks on and Dane glances down, shaking his head slightly.  Wilson walks over to Michael.

  “So we have a murderer with a left handed swing.”

Dane looks at Wilson. The other officer has returned to the room.

  “ The area is secure, The special investigations unit has arrived as well.”

 The room goes silent. Michael smiles.

  “Or at least that’s what the murderer would like you to think.”

Dane twists his head toward Michael. Wilson snorts. “Right.”

Michael walks across the room and looks down at the body. “Exactly.” Dane follows him across.

  “It appears that the blows to the head are on his left temple.”

Dane nods. “Yes.”

  “Well, based on the angle, it would be more likely that the swing came from

    someone who was right handed.”

Dane cracks a faint smile as he looks over at Wilson, steaming. Michael strolls toward the door.  A few more people enter the room carrying equipment.  Michael looks back and nods toward the new people.

  “I suspect these folks will tell you the same.  You know where to find me if you need

   me.”

Dane belts back 

  “ Michael, you are not going anywhere just yet, let’s chat outside.”  Beckoning to one of the officers, “detain him if you have to.”

Michael exits and Dane turns to Wilson who is staring down the door through which Michael passed.

  “Wilson! Snap to it.  Here’s what I want you to do…”

Rochambeau

Lake Affect

This morning, the placid lake beckoned me.  I slipped out of the house, a whisper of noise, a slight creak of the floorboard. I don’t think I disturbed Austen.  What is he dreaming, I wonder?

The grass is cool and the air is very calm.  The smell of the forest fills my nostrils. It’s earthy, clean, and heavy. Embers smolder in the fire pit from the night before.  Frog croaks are replaced by a variety of birdcalls.

The lake surface is a nearly perfect mirror, reflecting the tree line rim that surrounds the lake, and a sky streaked with pinkish white ribbons.  I walk out to the pier.

The canoe wobbles gently as I drop into the back.  I reverse away from the pier, dipping my paddle in the warm water, with only a gurgle erupting from its wake.  Like a shadow I attempt to move across the water, with only the drops of my paddle, dripping onto the surface, and small waves breaking away from the bow of my metal boat, rippling through the crystal picture.

For a while, I can see the surface below the water, about a paddle length below.   The water is just clear enough to discern details of a different world.  Vegetation, rocks, limbs, speckle the landscape, with a stray fish slicing through the water on a chaotic path.

Darkness is all that is left as I move into deeper waters.  Small cottages and piers protrude from the forest landscape surrounding the lake. Aside from the sounds of the birds, all else is silent.  No other human residents have ventured out to the water.

I pull my paddle out of the water as I coast near to the lake’s center. The sun has crested over the treetops, warming the water surface, and my face and neck.  Looking over the edge, I am coasting on darkness, with no change in color or texture, floating in an ethereal world. 

I rock the boat slightly, and feel the tension between metal and water, and marvel how the two interact in such a way as to keep one from just dropping to the very core of the darkness below.  So tenuous of a relationship--and yet I feel perfectly safe, no fear or concern.

For the moment at least, I am at peace. The slightest breeze from behind me ripples the water. It nudges the front of my vessel different directions and I watch the shadows cast into my boat move and stretch.

The only intruders into my serene world are dragonflies.  Thin wispy bodies dart across the surface of the water.  Bodies of brilliant light metallic blue, and long thin tails of brownish gold. The wings are nearly imperceptible, except when they land. 

Two venture close, joined together.  Flying in synchronicity, one attached behind the other.  They hover, then dart away, hover, and then land.  The dragonfly in front has four wings, of which only the outlines I can see.  The one in back has two.  The tails of the dragonflies are able to curl, even though in flight they appear to be one perfectly straight rod.  While they are on the surface of my canoe, the two joined dragonflies begin to curl closer together.  To the depth of who they are, does this engulf a physical connection and an emotional one?

And then they are off together again across the water.

I close my eyes.  I am going nowhere.  An occasional sound denotes that human activity is stirring slowly around the lake. For awhile yet at least, I know I am alone.

The sun is generating heat off of the water and my body.  It is an enveloping warmth that dares me to wander into a daze, losing myself in thought and feeling.  I open my eyes.  I have coasted to the far end of the lake.

Near to me is a decrepit building, resting at water’s edge.  Vegetation is growing out and through it. Boards hang off of the side.  The roof dips in spots.  No more than a single car sized structure, this building once housed ice for the residents of the lake.  In the winter, slabs of ice were gouged from the lake and dragged into the building.  In the summer, straw was placed over the ice to keep it from melting away.  Neighbors would come down to the large shed and get ice for their ice boxes. 

No longer needed in this day of technology, the old building has slipped away into decay, with only those few who remember passing along the tale of this once very prominent ice dwelling.

I turn my boat to head back, now nosing into a slight breeze.  The wind nudges me left and right, and my arms and shoulders tense as I drive the paddle blade more strongly through the water. I feel every muscle stretching and surging with energy. A small bead of water drops off my nose.

I steer toward the edge of the lake and find calmer waters.  Everything is moving past me faster now as I pull the paddle out of the water, and the boat slices through a perfect watercolor picture.  Each house along the lake is distinct and at various stages of age and wear.  Cruising past piers and stationary floats with minimal sound, I feel as though I am sneaking through someone’s back yard.

I can see below again and I stare at the lake bottom watching some activity around me.  I am sneaking through their back yard too.  I gently make my way back to the pier.  It is time to go home.

A New Beginning

As with any new experience, there is a tinge of anxiety, excitement, uncertainty, and electricity.
    How will things unravel?  What path should I follow?  Where shall it lead me?

Whatever may happen, the adventure leads to something new and endearing, that will change our lives forever--for good or for ill.

This is the beginning of a new adventure for me.  An exploration of language, imagery, sound, and energy. And an opportunity to share meaning that resonates with anyone who wishes to find it.

On any path, we often come to crossroads. They are intriguing. Sitting at a street cafe in Paris on Place Denfert-Rochereau--a star shaped intersection of four different intersecting roads--I encountered a dizzying interaction of color, language, sounds, activities.

It is at these locations where most traffic collides, where commonalities intersect, where ideas connect, and where the greatest degree of uncertainty lies.

Do we skirt the crossroads?  Avoid uncertainty?  Abandon interaction? It's an easy choice to stay on the same path, never diverge.

But it is at the crossroads, where the experiences allow the mind to expand, to see more, to evaluate, to make new choices, and to find the balance in life amongst all the forces that keep the world colorful.

I can't say writing has always been an interest of mine, or was a talent of which I was particularly adept (and my high school teachers would likely tend to agree) and yet somehow it has evolved into something that I truly enjoy.  And I have not yet fully explored it as I would like.  This is one of many steps down a new road--a road that I anticipate will lead to many interesting crossroads.

I hope you enter and enjoy the journey and adventure with me in the weeks, months, and hopefully years to come--in whatever way it strikes you.  And I hope you have many of your own adventures, new beginnings, and crossroads that make your life fulfilling and joyful as well.