Symbiosis

 What is this sense of presence?  I peer out my bay window into the darkness that hides the deep water of the sound—“Nothing there.” Is it a foreboding?  I glance over my shoulder to see who is behind me—“No one!”  So reluctantly I reopen my book, find my place and continue reading, concentrating in the inadequate light.

 After a couple of minutes I lift my head, again listening intently to what may be the humming of the refrigerator—“No, not that.”  Then a nearly indiscernible vibration, followed closely by a barely audible, low guttural rumble begins to build like some far away, ancient volcano struggling to reawaken.

 The old grandfather clock in the hallway ticks away the minutes:  four, five, six.  Soon the tanker, stealth Demon of the Deep, crawls slowly across the darkened window, dragging its guard, a pair of massive tugs. It shatters the inky blackness of the night with its many eyes, tentacles of light searching out in all directions.  Looming now so large in the darkness, it possesses the bay and advances ever closer to the dock where the Dragons of Industry dwell. 

 Waiting with heavy breathing, these gluttonous reptilians cast a halo of orange from their refiner’s fire while spewing ghostly billows of steam heavenward, visible against their fiery tongues.  Then in that dim orange aura of night, the demon of the deep and the fiery dragon engage each other as the Polar Blue disgorges its belly of oozing, sticky black sludge into the mouth of the fiery one’s unquenchable thirst.  I picture a pterodactyl regurgitating nourishment into the mouths of its young.  At last the blue sea serpent with rusty red scaly underbelly completes its feeding and finally lies at rest.  The rumbling ceases and all is quiet.

 I settle back comfortably in my wicker chair and as I once again find my place in my book, I turn up the lights a bit, drawing down a little on the dragon’s energy.    

 © 2010 by Richard A. Ballow

Sweet Magnolia Brown

 Though she doesn’t have the legs of that Pauli Girl, my Sweet Magnolia Brown is comfortable—easy to cozy up to.  She moves slowly and deliberately, with only me in mind.  When she touches my lips she is sweet; she puts forth the warm embrace of true southern hospitality and we linger there in the shadows of the screened-in porch.  Taking her in hand I’m overwhelmed by her smooth amber complexion and the effervescence of her charm.

 I say to myself, “I’ll return this way again—to Jacksonville and the captivating pleasure of Sweet Magnolia Brown!”  For she is a brew that I shall not soon forget!

 © 2011 by Richard A. Ballow