Riffs & Rhymes

By Doug Hile

This is a collection of short stories with poetry.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543437201

Doug Hile

One of the few natives of the area, Doug Hile was born in Washington D.C. and remained in Maryland most of his life. He has led a rich and varied existence; has been to Europe with the US Navy, and now resides on his ranch in Southern Maryland. He is a movie and music buff, enjoys live Rock 'n Roll , Guinness, and the local craft breweries. This is his second book. He hopes you enjoy reading as much as he enjoyed writing it.

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Copyright © 2017 by Doug Hile.

ISBN:      Softcover      978-1-5434-3719-5

                eBook         978-1-5434-3720-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 07/26/2017

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Contents

Preface

Part I - SOME PERSONAL OBSERVATIONS

Openers

Nightmare

Stirrings

Impromptu

DoNuts

Random Rambling

Messy

Ricky

Neighbors

0523

Livin’ with Fred

Dream

Dream II

Dream III

Bicycle

Fire Flies

Junk

Twinkle

Seamus

The Simple Things

Musings

Where did THAT come from?

The First Day

The Last Day

Time Ripples

Time Ripples II

Merry Meet

Ants

Ants II

Ants III

Ants IV

Word of the Day

The Pink Pig

Next Generation

Musings II

Logan

Stream of Consciousness

Logan part II

Kay

Elisabeth

Roy

Synchronicity

Locust Tree

Autumn Leaves

Thanks

Mary

Lifetimes

Part II - STORIES

MESSAGES

Recco

A Conversation

The Eleventh Commandment

Old Folks

Cantina

Pedro

Microcosm II- What Makes America Great, Or Not…

What If… .

Beginnings

Ben

Jesse

Dennis

Kowalski

Mike

The Fullness Of Time

Bits

Carl

Velvet Wings

Yorick

Karl

Choices II

Frank

Martha

Jerry

Chester

Charlie

Paul

Jones

Thumbhead

Rusty

Dancing with Herman Goering

Cathi

Mac

Kip

J

Eddie

Ecksy

Devils’ Town

Choices

Mitty

The Soup

Sainte’ Claws

Mission Accomplished

Part III - RHYMES

Perfect

Age

Barlow

Ever

Grackles

No Ending

Fall

Golf

Puppets

The Rassler

Thoughts

To Renata D’Amatti

Electra

Wee Chee Woo

Death

Writers

Relics

Part IV - FREE VERSE

Empty

Black

Fragile

A Kiss

Wine

Fall II

Microcosm

Mornings

Procraster

Luna

Sips

Spuds

Sleep

Threads

Buttercups

Part V - BONUS VERSES

Blues

Georgia Wine

Lindas Cafe

Jihad Rap

Reflection

Preface

Here ya go! You are now the proud owner of a few years of work, on and off, which I hope you will find amusing, or interesting, or maybe disturbing. Overall, I hope you find it enjoyable.

It wasn’t intended to be read all at once, but rather taken in sips. If you find yourself with some idle time, and you are inclined to read a few things at a sitting, good for you.

There are only a couple longer pieces.

I put a couple little interactive sort of work-in-progress pages here, should you be inclined to add to ’em and finish ’em up.

Be my guest! Naturally, I would like to hear your feedback.

Feel free to email [e-mail]

For

Elisavietta Ritchie

Thank you for all the encouragement and advice over the past

few years which brought this tome to fruition.

I would have never done it without you.

Thank you Lisa~!

Part I

SOME PERSONAL OBSERVATIONS

O peners

It was in Saahibs’ Laundromat And Bar, that he made the decision which would change his life, forever.

nah.

He watched the clothes tumbling in the dryer, like his out-of-control existence.

nah.

The house specialty was called a Wash-N-Wear, and he was on his fourth, wondering what he would do next.

nah.

Trash can was overflowing with balls of crumpled paper.

Ratchets on the platen of his aged Underwood were screaming as Sydney viciously ripped another false start from the typewriter. Somewhere out in the ether, was the perfect line of dialog to open what he was sure would be his master piece. The book would be, and remain, an instant Best Seller; would be optioned for a screen play; become Best Picture Of The Year; spin off half a dozen sequels and prequels, and people like Stallone, Tarantino, Ludlum, Spielberg, or Lucas, would be clamoring for his attention. He would be on the A List for the rest of his life. All he needed, was the first line.

Sidney thought about the thousand mile journey and its dependence upon that first crucial step.

He thought about a laundromat in India.

He thought about Chaucer, Dickens, Anderson, the Grimm brothers.

Ah,, what the hell. Worked for them. Gotta work for me. Anticipating the magic, the fame, and the fortune, Sydney carefully twisted a fresh sheet into the Underwood, and began,

Once upon a time,,,

N ightmare

It’s quarter to six AM and I just woke in a cold sweat from what is quite possibly the worst nightmare I ever had.

I had been appointed as press secretary and spin doctor for Hillarys’ first term as President. I was concluding a meeting in another suite with the campaign staff (which was being disbanded and reassigned), to get me up to speed on what to say and how to say it, on various issues sure to be asked in the first official press conference.

One of the staffers was telling an off-color joke about Hillary, but completely messed it up when he forgot the punch line. He blew it off, saying, She knows the joke AND the punch line,,, ask her when you see her.

I mumbled something, checked my watch, and hurried to the Oval Office for the first meeting of the new Cabinet. Being the last to arrive and greeted with raised eyebrows, I felt it necessary to give some explanation, and excused the delay with, The joke ran long.

Better get used to it, said Bill from the bar, These meetings will always be over-booked and over-lapped.

Nods of assent and scattered chuckles went around the room, dissipating the tension as I took my place beside Hillary.

One of the aides brought coffee and I accepted a cup, grateful to be out of the spotlight.

I know why you do it. I said to her, You do it for the coffee. More chuckles, and I felt I had now defused my faux pas effectively. Conversation shifted. Various members offered views and opinions which would shape national and international policy for the months to come. Comments were made. Questions asked. I was taking notes on a legal pad, and feeling confidant towards the upcoming press conference, when Hillary leaned toward me, our foreheads touching, and she whispered,,,

What was the joke?

S tirrings

It occurred to me half asleep one morning, as I was fixing the first cup of the day, that I was stirring in the cream and sugar in a particular fashion, similar to a drummer with brushes on a snare drum. It seemed like a natural movement, stirring in a counter clockwise motion, so I reversed the direction. Stirring clockwise with my right hand, produced a feeling of - that’s not the way to do it, along with the desire to return to a counter clockwise motion. I did, and dispelled the vaguely discordant feeling, to one of THAT’s the way it should be.

Hmmm, I thought to myself.

I’m guessing that lefties stir naturally in a clockwise direction, just as righties stir counter clockwise. Being unable to allow this thought to simply evaporate and continue on to the enjoyment of that first sip, I decided to explore it, and conduct a survey.

As sometimes happens in the scientific community, the postulate is not necessarily born out by the results of experimentation. A surprising number of respondents stirred rightie - clockwise. One stirred straight across in a linear motion, and one did not stir at all, but indicated shaken as the choice. These being outside the parameters of the survey, could not be included.

The results are as follows;

No conclusions can be drawn from such a limited number of participants, however, I suspect that a larger number might produce similar percentage results.

My coffee is now cold, and I am obliged to warm it up.

I mpromptu

The quick, brown, fox jumped out of the kitchen window after barreling in through the torn screen door. He was chasing a chicken, but became distracted when the bowl of cat food caught his attention. The cat would have none of this, and defended her bowl in no uncertain terms, taking the fox by surprise. Adding to the ruckus, the Lady of the house appeared, brandishing a broom and chaos ensued.

Fur, feathers, food, and critters went round and round, until Foxy decided discretion was the better part of valor and retired from the field of battle.

Too bad about the pies on the window sill.

D oNuts

Having a discussion about the virtues of donuts - cake vs. glazed.

I’ve always been partial to honey dipped, glazed donuts ala Dunkin’ DoNuts, and how good they are, freshly baked.

John agrees and replies that Wawa has a particularly tasty donut, but it’s a cake donut, with blue berries and with blue berry icing on top.

I have to take exception to cake donuts, since they are donut shaped cupcakes, and not real donuts, but probably still acceptable in broad definition.

I wonder if they have any cake donuts that are honey-dipped glazed, but not iced.

He says, Oh, you mean like Bruce Jenner?

Extended laughter ensues. . .

R andom Rambling

Here it is, 0624 hours, outside on the side porch with a steaming cup of java.

Cool Fall Morning, barely getting light; air is fresh, clean, moist; rich with Fall aromas. The critters have come and gone in the night, like Santa Claus finishing the offerings left for him. The bugs have gone too, or maybe they haven’t started their day yet. No buzzing in my ears or around my face to make me think evil thoughts about them.

Off into the woods, an Owl speaks in code to (I’m guessing) other Owls. The pitch is always the same, but the hoots vary like Morse Code. This mornings’ Owl Code is repeated at thirty second intervals, like a radio operator;

C Q, C Q, - come back?

hoot hoot, HOOOT, hoot hoot hoot?

Years ago, I was lucky enough to see one, perhaps the same Owl? He was big, maybe a foot and a half tall, gray and white, and he sat on a branch in plain sight. This morning, I walked toward him, and he watched me with a riveting, unblinking gaze. I guess I penetrated his comfort zone. He widened the distance between us and took up another branch, still wary of me. I continued slowly toward his new position while he again clicked off the distance, between us.

I stopped, and we regarded each other for what seemed like five minutes, until he turned and glided silently back into the woods to disappear.

No conclusions.

No grand revelations concerning Earth, Life, Death, or Infinity.

Just two living things contemplating each other.

Perhaps there was a Grand Revelation.

Perhaps.

M essy

Napkins and table cloths, hankies and underwear,

Sheets and pillow cases, doilies and slip covers,

Bandages and Charmin.

Sapiens is a sloppy creature from the first diaper

to the last vestments.

If the thread of racial memory be broken for a hundred years, would future anthropologist beings, have any idea what to make of the bones?

What would they say about the ears and trunks of mastodons if there were no elephants?

Would they be correct in labeling this particular two hundred thousand year segment, as simply a planet of the apes, in the same way we fail to identify any social civilization for the dinosaurs?

Of course they would not know how humans go about their lives; dripping, exuding, exhaling, expectorating, and excreting, if they were something more fastidious and less reactive to the environment surrounding themselves.

We eat and drink, we bleed and die. We hope our successors are better at Life than we are.

R icky

Ricky was nine, or thereabouts when he discovered he could fly. He was running flat out through the jungle, pushing leaves and vines out of his path and glancing back every so often, at the creature following him. It was low and black, on all fours and gaining on him, and it had lots of teeth. He emerged onto a promontory, skidding to a stop at the edge.

So did the creature a few yards behind him and it crouched into a pounce.

Ricky spread his arms and launched into a swan dive toward the valley, half a mile below. With the valley floor coming up fast, he found, that by arching his back and holding his head up, he could pull out of the dive, and by dropping one arm he could roll into a curving spiral toward a grassy field away from the rocks.

Just before bouncing into the foot high carpet growing out of the spongy earth, Ricky woke with a jerk, panting heavily. He knew nothing of lucid dreams but his shoulder hurt where he would have impacted. He was fully awake, catching his breath and re-running his dream; feeling like something amazing had just happened.

N eighbors

I’m pretty much secluded here, except for the house across the street. It used to belong to a crotchety old guy and his feisty, really cool, wife; both in their seventies; both lifetime chain smokers. She died first, and he died, last summer. The kids fixed it up, cleaned it out, and rented it.

New tenants seemed okay and they were doing a lot of the work. Much activity going on with many people.

I thought,,, now is as good a time as any to meet them, so I took a few large pizzas over and knocked on the door.

The guy who answered was having difficulty with English, but everybody understands pizza, so I gave them to him, curtailed any further attempt at conversation, and went back across the street. No one else came over in the following days to say thank you, although there seemed to be a couple more guys like the fellow who accepted the Dominos, a few kids, two or three women, one long haired, bearded hippie type, and a couple black guys.

Things stabilized after a while. Seemed to be something like seven people in steady residence,,, not that I’m someone who peeks out of the shades and blinds, but, just casually observing when I am out in the yard doing stuff,,, cutting the grass,,, working on the cars,,, you know.

The older kid would wave and I would wave back but he never spoke or came over to the road edge. Sometimes when I wouldn’t see him wave, he would shout HEY to get my attention, and then we would wave at each other.

One day last August was hot and sunny.

I went out to get some deer corn from the shed to fill the bird bath, and I happened to look down into the flower bed on the side of the house. Did a double-take, when I saw what looked like three inches of copperhead down between the blooms. Stopped and watched him moving slowly toward the front of the house.

Screw THAT, I thought, and quietly went back into the house for the Glock.

I put the green dot on the fattest part of him, and emptied the magazine. He didn’t even twitch.

I watched him for another minute before fishing him out with a stick.

Just before I scooped him up, I heard, Are you Okay?, and turned to see everyone across the street, standing in their front yard.

Ahh,, yeah, I’m fine… Copperhead… No problemo., I said, and hoisted up the shredded snake for them to see,,, all four feet of him,,, before tossing him into the woods on the other side of the driveway.

Hard to tell what they were thinking, but they all quietly went back into the house, without saying another word.

Boy doesn’t wave at me any more.

0 523

The Red Glow swirls with silver moonbeams, announcing the hour to someone who wakes with a jerk and a start; who just a micro-second before, was standing at his own front door in awe.

Red Glow of Time -— drizzling down a path, next to an infinite number of other paths.

He remembered he was contemplating the nebulous mocha bubble expanding from the coffee maker, containing the wonderful aroma of new brew,