Refracted Neurons

I realize that I usually start with a story or poem, and then have some random commentary; but this week we're going backwards. I wrote this story when I got stuck in the middle of Murder In the Ferns .  The best thing I've found to get unstuck has been to write something completely different, and this short story is very, very different.  Most repeat readers will already know that I play fast and loose with facts when I rewrite stories, and some may know that I have a tendency to veer off into not-entirely-safe-for-work.  So here is a story that does both.  Don't say I didn't warn you. ______________________________________________________ She almost could have been afraid of Samson.  If he held his arm out straight, she could walk underneath it without ducking her head, and when he embraced her, she couldn’t touch her hands together behind his back. Could have, but the moment she met him, his face broke into grin that left her unable to breathe in or out.

Listen, it’s a steel dove of a city, with eyes more grey than blue, still she’ll tuck you under her wing and in her jumble of language, coo more sweetly than your mama can sing. Her pinions are raised for you, tall sheets of glass feathers. When they called her green, Hon’, they meant callow, like you, they meant she is constantly burning with electricity, burning herself down, burning, like emeralds don’t, ‘cause if you squint just right the concrete under your feet is more beautiful than a flower. ************************** The weather turned unseasonably nice this weekend and today we headed for the beach. I sat by the water and stared at a rock, turning it over in my hands, and thinking how it was in some strange way more entrancing than staring at a daisy. Yes, that’s what I do in my spare time: stare at rocks. Wow, that's a really big rock. I finished the short story I started in Arizona and, I posted the next chapter of Murder i

Plato, as you might remember, had a little bit of an obsession with shapes. He believed that there was a realm where shapes existed in a perfected form. And because of that, I’ve always made fun of him behind his back. The thing is, though, I’m guilty of the same thing. I have ideas of how things should look that have absolutely no basis in reality. For example, I have ideas about cemeteries. In the abstract, they have cross-shaped tombstones, wrought iron fences, and there are burial mounds. Have I ever seen a cemetery like this? No, well at least not until around a year ago. We were driving on the highway from Phoenix to Casa Grande when I saw it. “What is that?” I asked my husband. What I should have said was, “Pull over!” because I’ve been low-key thinking about this place for about a year. So since we were in the area, I decided to drop in and pay my respects. Now that’s what a cemetery is supposed to look like. The cemetery is named the Sacaton Cemetery