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The JackB

"When you're in jail, a good friend will be trying to bail you out. A best friend will be in the cell next to you saying, 'Damn, that was fun'." Groucho Marx

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Fragments of Fiction

Just A Matter Of Time

May 25, 2019 by Jack Steiner Leave a Comment

Johnny grabbed a pen and started writing a letter to June in which he said it was just a matter of time.

“You know most days I don’t make bold declarations like this one in which I say it is just a matter of time but today is different. Don’t know why, can’t say, can’t figure it out and won’t bother trying because it is a hunch.

‘Cuz dearest June something in the air has changed and it feels like I can reach out and touch you, figuratively and literally.

Which is to say, Red dress, blue dress–it doesn’t fucking matter. I like them both. 🙂

And I think you’d like to see what I might do about them. Maybe I’ll just smile and say no and maybe it will be like a snowy New Year’s Eve on a staircase.

But most likely it will be different than all that because different is good, meaningful, important and significant.

Not to mention you miss leaning against a familiar man who is just different enough to be intriguing but well known enough to be comfortable.”

He signed his name, folded the paper into thirds, stuck it in an envelope and then life continued.

Filed Under: Fragments of Fiction

Our Eyes Are Upon Us

May 22, 2019 by Jack Steiner Leave a Comment

The tall brunette tries not to let me see her eyes walk up and down me as she hasn’t decided whether to let the walls drop or build them higher.

She tells me I am shorter than she remembers and then waits for me to say it doesn’t matter if we’re lying down.

I remain silent as I am not bothered by any of this, not because I am still taller than her but because silence is my best tool.

She knows I can carry a conversation by myself if I feel like it and also knows I am capable of being stone silent for days.

We’re both posturing and dancing in a circle around the other, anxious to tear down the walls but concerned about the outcome if we do.

Funny to think how quickly we can fall in and out of routines.

When she turns away I take full advantage of not being seen and let my eyes stroll up and down.


Better Together Or Apart

During the moments of separation there are internal discussions about whether we are better together or apart.

Conversations in which we work to convince ourselves that together isn’t a good idea because it has hurdles and challenges that fantasy is best left as fiction.

Those work until the moments in which life intersects and conversation with eye contact resumes. There is a level of comfort and ease that is so deep we don’t notice it, but others do.

They remark upon it and ask how such a thing is and we laugh.

In the embrace of the midnight hours I think about that level of comfort and how rare it is, recognizing this is what it is when we are partially guarded, imagine what it is like when we let the walls down.

You could stick us in a closet or on an island and come back in a month and we would be ok because we like and maybe even still lust each other.

It is the lust part that keeps things interesting.

She tries not to discuss or acknowledge it, we suspect because it is like Pandora’s box.

It is a nice idea, except the box was opened long ago. We know what touch can do, especially when you don’t have to think about it.

Natural connection works.

We might too.

Filed Under: Fragments of Fiction

Truth In Publishing

April 30, 2019 by Jack Steiner Leave a Comment

The boy wrote 10,000 letters and the girl read almost all of them.

Sometimes she told him what she thought and sometimes he had to guess.

Sometimes he saw her and caught a look in her eyes that made it clear he could still see what lay beneath the surface.

He always remembered that whatever he could see inside her she could see inside him.

One day he wrote her a letter and said he knew she still loved him and that, of course, he still loved her because the kind of love they had never could die.

It might go through periods of time in which it slumbered a bit and there would be moments where it felt like maybe slumber was too generous a word. Moments where he was sure she wondered about it as he did, but then something would happen.

Always, something would happen and he would remember.

He assumed she remembered too and that she intentionally remained silent.

Perhaps it was because she couldn’t see a way forward or perhaps it was because she would protect her own heart by not allowing entry.

He always figured she avoided spending real time with him for that reason because distance made it easier to maintain the wall and the fiction.

Of course he thought there was always the chance he was wrong, but the actions showed otherwise, at least some of them did.

A long twisty road lay behind and perhaps in front.

Sometimes he thought about just pulling her into his arms and kissing her but he didn’t.

Once she would have melted into him and perhaps she still wanted to or would again, but she wasn’t the only one to protect their heart.

Filed Under: Fragments of Fiction

The Songs We Hear

January 1, 2019 by Jack Steiner Leave a Comment

I never stopped hearing her song or feeling like I was supposed to be the one hearing it.

Never tried to ask if it was for me or if she knew what she was doing because it felt a bit like looking behind the curtain to see if the wizard was only human.

Years apart but never completely separated we lived parallel lives and kept going as if none of it mattered.

Until the day we shared a meal and real conversation about who we were, are and wanted to be.

It changed everything.

My gut said relax and go with it while my head said be cautious you are not Charlie Brown trying to kick the ball Lucy is holding.

The Songs We Hear

I often told the universe to release me or bring us closer together.

“I don’t know if I am talking to myself or if this is being heard by someone or something that matters and has influence. But just in case I am and you/it do, here is my request. Set me free or change the equation.”

Some days I feared being set free and some days I wondered what happens when you get what you asked for.

And then came the day and the change.

We picked up where we left off and tried not to smile too quickly for fear that it would give away our true thoughts.

That didn’t last because eventually we pulled back the curtains and shared a little bit.

Ever since then the ship has been sailing pretty smoothly towards unknown shores. This is in spite of having told the navigator which way to go.

I choose not to spend too much time worrying or wondering what it all means. Better to be in the moment and to enjoy the ride.

It is a finer way to live.

Filed Under: Fragments of Fiction

The Hand On The Back Of Your Head

October 25, 2018 by Jack Steiner Leave a Comment

He told me the thing he remembered the most wasn’t the silver bracelets that kept his arms behind his back or the smell of a car interior in desperate need of an odor neutralizer.

Nor was it the chatter of the radio or cackling of the people who saw him get his silver bracelets.

It was a hand.

“The hand on the back of your head stays with you. That rough push down that they do to keep you from banging it on the door frame is the clearest sign that you are not seen as a human.

It is a rough shove like they would give livestock they are guiding into the barn, which I guess is kind what happens.

Because they lead you to a barn or maybe a pen is a better word and lock you in.”

Filed Under: Fragments of Fiction

Take A Chance For a Shmata

May 22, 2017 by Jack Steiner 2 Comments

Sometimes you search for a Shmata not knowing you had spent your entire life looking.

It is only after you discover your Shmata that you recognize what you had been missing and begin to wonder if you are crazy.

You make excuses and drag your feet because it couldn’t possibly be what you think it could and by the time you realize what you have things happen and you realize you just witnessed a shooting star.

Except the night sky is no longer lit so brightly and all you have is a trail and memory.

Time passes and you begin to think that maybe you were wrong, maybe you fooled yourself into thinking it was special but in your heart you know better.

Your air has gone and you choke a little bit and wonder why the sun doesn’t shine quite so bright.

 

Are You Alone In The Dark?

It is hard not to feel like you are alone in the dark and to wonder if that feeling is proof of your having fooled yourself.

And just when you are convinced you are indeed alone you find fingers wrapped in yours and for a long while you smile and your heart soars because the warmth is back.

Until it is not and you wonder if it is a cycle or a hiccup.

Maybe it is both and maybe it is neither.

The funny thing is you wander around trying to pretend it is meaningless even though you are convinced you’re still not alone in the dark.

All you need to do is reach and you’ll find those fingers again. Somewhere in the darkness you’ll hear a voice reprimand you for not believing.

And you’ll say you were told not to believe and be told you were always told to ignore the voice.

That will make you crazy because sometimes you follow and sometimes you ignore.

Red dress, blue dress–it doesn’t matter what fucking dress it is.

Wear it and then take it off.

You just know in your gut that you are right.

It is the best thing ever and a curse because even though you are convinced there is that little voice that says wait until the fingers find yours.

Is that really what you are supposed to do?

The boys of your youth would call you a pussy for that and though you never really cared, you sort of do now.

Maybe it is because you hope that you’re supposed to take that risk and you’ll be rewarded for doing so.

But if you are not, if you are wrong, well it is not much fun getting smacked in the mouth now is it.

We were together, I forget the rest- Whitman

That ring of fire burns, burns, burns- that fucking ring of fire.

Close your eyes and find your center and ask yourself what happens when lightning strikes and the impossible and improbable come to be.

It all started with one single moment and it could all start again…or not.

Filed Under: Fragments of Fiction

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