Todays Guest Blogger is:
Alexander Throckmorton
My daydream lays bare secret wanderlust.
The loudspeakers crackle. "All aboard!"
The
crisp evening air of late October kisses your cheeks. In Strömstad
harbor, Royal Wordsmith Cruise Lines has weighed anchor and is about to
leave the Swedish port of Dangling Participles.
Just outside
Santo Domingo, the rumble of two Pratt & Whitney turbine engines
echoes in the sub-tropical Caribbean valley below. Growling toward its
destination, Allegory Airlines flight 101 has left the gate, cleared the
runway, and begins a labored climb that sends crude vibrations through
the plane and its passengers. The nose begins to poke its aluminum
alloy through the clouds on its non-stop flight to Shangri La and
promised paradise. The take-off went unnoticed to most of the residents
in the ramshackle colonial village adjacent to the airport. From the
window, you watch the deteriorating terracotta tile roofs disappear
below. You wonder if Letitia is still asleep.
Nearly a thousand
miles north, a resounding whistle has blown, pushing clouds of steam
into the evening air, signaling the departure of Reading Railways'
overnight Pullman Express to the resort hideaway of Pentameter
Peninsula. You cannot wait to relish the arcadian solitude of the
Allegheny Valley. By eleven o'clock, you should pass Shamokin,
Pennsylvania and cross the Susquehanna River. Your chest heaves in
anticipation of tomorrow's reunion in Toledo.
From the backseat,
you hear the innocent question: "Are we there yet?", and realize that
you forgot your road map back at the Algonquin Motor Lodge. Kari's
innocent voice tears at your emotions as your eyes fix on the ominous,
endless black ribbon of asphalt highway ahead of you. You hope life in
Albuquerque will be better. After all, that is what Gustav had promised
when you signed on. You let out a sigh and your thoughts drift back to
the pathos you left behind in Pittsfield, Massachusetts.
The
fickle fingers of fleeting emotion have tricked my senses once again,
and my hopes are dashed. It seems that nobody is willing to leave a
review. Good, bad, or detached, my literary works are completely
unnoticed this side of Wichita. I fear the coming realization, the
ominous epiphany, that being an author is an exercise in futility. I
surrender, and make another Rusty Nail. Silence is golden; the same
color as my Rusty Nail.
Find Alex's Blog and more info about him at: inacreampackard.blogspot.com
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