more of the thing that is not sure what it wants to be

the reason it is not sure what it wants to be is because it is not the central idea in the bigger story-world, but is an opponent to that primary world – the idea is to establish the tone of the one and then introduce the other – I’ve played with putting this at the beginning and at the end and the middle – maybe it really doesn’t fit? Again, broken into stanzas because…. you know.


“Listen my sweet slippery fugitive.
You know you are my favorite
of all I’ve tutored in their new world
adaptation. Oh I’ve enjoyed a few dolls.
But a doll has no will. Not like a sweet
slippery rebel who spits and scratches
like a stubborn kitten. In a bit
I’ll show you the one you put on my chest
– I think it will be there a long time –
sweet slippery kitten. You must know too

what we both know as a futility
on your part in hoping you will manage
to remain hidden. I know you are running
out of hiding place choices but this –
were it not this exposed – as you are
about to be – oh yes you are about
to be exposed – fully exposed,
my slippery kitten, my limber
obsession – oh yes you are a limber
thing. Tell me I don’t know your limberness

– tell me I don’t know – and feisty, so feisty,
so limber, so independent – clawing,
spitting, slippery kitten’s feisty
fires bursting so hotly when
in my hands, my arms, under me….”
Forrest the fugitive hunter
swung the slung handcuffs
like a hopeful suitor
bringing his lover
a special present of pure

silver bracelets. Stab of his laser light
against the curtain of warehouse darkness
exposed a loveseat. No. Not the loveseat.
Jabbed the light to the right. Carpets
in a corner. Foot stepped on
the one loose board that squeezed a squeak
and burped a horde of dust devils.
Forrest again pretended
the one cuff he let dangle
was a forlorn swing only yearning

to play as the crotch of his dark
khaki pants expanded
as his thoughts became
spoken words. Yes, a sofa,
any sofa, would do. Rubbed
his manicured but most masculine
thumb against the smooth
edge of the cuff slung
on his third and pinky fingers
and the crotch of his dark khaki

pants took on clearer, harder,
definition as his steps proceeded
confident, slow, stealthy.
“You must know by now
that every fragment
or molecule we call a component
that composes who you are
does nothing but serve primal
passions. You are driven
by primal passions.

There you are more free than I,
for I must hold my primal
passions in reserve. Unleash
on you. Oh that’s a good one. Leash?
Unleash. I did leave the leash in our
darling training facility.
You will wear it again soon enough.
Oh how my sweet slippery
fugitive fights her leash.”
Forrest permitted a mellow

chuckle to flow
softly from his throat.
“Yes how my sweet slippery
fugitive fights. Runs. Tries to run.
Squirmy little rebel. But running
tucks you for an oh so brief spell
into your shell you consider hope
and home but which you will soon enough see
is only a false hope – and home.
I think it will not water you.

Feed you. And as I stand here
and try to calmly reason with you
and you maintain your silly distance,
we only prolong the tension
that needs not exist. Not between us.
And as if we’ve not gone through this
enough times, your cause gains no ground
of advantage if we must do it
this way. There are people who do not view
your rebellious nature as cute

as I view it as cute. They do not see
the sweet slippery fugitive
I see and cannot help but feel.”
Forrest’s cutting of the dense darkness
became as easy as his silent
slow strides; afterthoughts, and plenty to spare.
“And are you not getting hungry?
Thirsty? All sweet slippery fugitives
become hungry and thirsty. And you must
be scratched and dirty – all you’ve run

through – and these scorcher summer nights
when one would cherish nothing greater
than a contented sitting and sipping
a cool glass of lemonade after a long
day of service to your growing
panel of admirers. Lord knows
I‘m getting an appetite. I‘ll take you
where we can both get a bite, when,”
Forrest softened his voice even more,
“when what will happen has happened.

By the way, I don’t like it either. Not that part.
Brings me back to my real world as I
must fetch you back to your real world.”
Forrest did not care if it was
or was not his imagination
that he could hear the heartbeat
tapping like speeding cotton toes
because all he had to know was a heartbeat’s
toe-tapping truth and the light
stabbed the darkness and threatened

to expose the fugitive.
“I know what you want to say.
I know what you would like.
I know how it must sound to believe
there is another world for you.
Such a pity whispers of another
world as near as across the river
reached you. Honestly. Do you think
if you’d managed to cross into that
so-called sunny world across the river

border you could count on refuge?
That if you can find a way there just once,
you will never have to wonder
when I will capture you again?
Do you know how desolate
the region is over there? The elements
would gobble you before you managed
to reach one town. And even if
you did by some miracle get to a town.
You really think safe harbor

is a certainty? Maybe in
an elder time. I will grant that.”
The beam of light continued to flicker
as though lost in the joy of scribbling
on dense dark canvas.
“But as more of their governance
and law enforcement chieftains
taste the estate’s gourmet pleasures….
no you cannot feel – what I want to get
across to you is that there is no place

you can escape you. You belong
to the Estate and you always will
and there is nothing you can do about it.”
Forrest ended the last sentence
on a note that the perceptive
would identify as forlorn
and tried to repair it by repeating,
as he swung the beam to and fro,
“there is nothing you can do about it,”
and couldn’t care if his fugitive saw him do

a slow headshake expressing
a mutual resignation.
Forrest quit his footfalls.
“And neither can I do anything about it.
We have so much in common.
Do you not see? Do you think you
are the only one who feels powerless?
More powerless than I. Oh had I
adequate powers we would spend more time
discussing subjects of depth

and promoting intellect.
May I challenge you to imagine
what it is for me? Oh I have
authority. Some authority.
Dominion? Yes. Some dominion.
Though not the ultimate authority
or ultimate dominion – we know
who those belong to. Power?
Yes it is true the delight I take
in my spending may be greater

than yours. So be our roles. But you.
You’ve known worlds other than
the estate – or you did before the erasure
treatments, for your good. But only one
for me. Only one. Seduced me
long ago. Lured me with your species’
delicacies. Groomed me. Erased
my former person. Do you see
we do stand on that commonality?
And can I be expected to play

the naive angel when no barriers
prevent me from all the brazen
succulence that mostly defines you?”
Forrest’s words he tried to adorn
in as much comfort as the situation
permitted did not accomplish
anything more than the loss of the shape
of lust in the crotch of his dark
khaki pants. So he sucked in a breath
and sighed and his purpose

back on track, aimed his beam
of light here and there;
when he realized the color
of the carpets rolled in a corner
offered no new information,
he fortified his bearing and employed
a sudden movement tactic that produced
a rustle where he expected and showing
he really knew all along where his
fugitive hid, he dropped the beam of light

so it exactly spotlighted a curtain
of honey hair damply framing
the trapped cheeks of his favorite
fugitive. His sweet slippery fugitive.
Forrest smiled as he stuck
the penlight in his shirt pocket
and swung the slung cuff
and smiled bigger when the shape of lust
resurrected breathing outlines against
the crotch of his dark khaki pants.


About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
This entry was posted in exercise, fiction, poetry, roughly sketched, story, travails, Uncategorized, writing and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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