Both of these are very evocative: Smells, attitudes, observations, character. Both brief with depth.
Of the two, I personally enjoyed Babineaux a a titch better. But enjoyed both fully.
Loved "the scary mild machine." Says a lot. Well, there is a song that says, "Little things mean a lot!"
Never heard of a Prose Poem. But I got it!
Then I went and looked it up. (Now there is an antideluvian phrase. I actually, "Googled it.")
Both have the depth behind the minutae of life. How many, many, many hidden thoughts/phantasmagoria pass before us in seconds and are often jumbled that are never mentioned and simply often forgotten because they seem so routine in the quotidian of the Day. You have captured that in the simplest of actions.
These are things to file away and keep for the "Long Future" as one of my writing teachers used to say. You never know how these will affect you in your future writings or where an idea will fit in for inspiration in the "Long Future." Preserve everything you write. For future inspiration.
It is also an example of how "objects" bring us into a story.
Her father and I sat at a table in the break room of an inn in the beach town of P—. I had milk. He had less milk (it was for his coffee), but we both got our milk from the scary milk machine that was wondrously difficult to work.
We sat exchanging no words. It was early, far too early for lively chatter.
I once loved and lusted after his pet bird, which had beautiful black plumage and a melancholy disposition, and often repeated what was already said ad nauseum; a beautiful black parrot with beautiful black plumage had flown from her cage and we were trying unsuccessfully to get her back, coaxing her with nets and platitudes. I suggested he give the parrot earmuffs in this summer weather to block out the noise. He growled, “She already has earmuffs!” Silence.
I no longer loved the stupid black parrot because she had molted and was not very pretty. I began to feel ill the day before, on the beach. I had betrayed the graces of the parrot and the parrot-holders. My mouth moved and I could feel it moving on its own. Words vomited forth in disjointed bits of string. I could feel my eyes shoot from my sockets, and fly away to better lands.
The coaxing platitudes with which we tried to recover the bird and get her back in the cage were simple: “He loves you still!” “He’s not leaving you!” But these were the lies of the parrot-holders to soothe the cries of the cage-less and noisy black parrot.
The innkeeper came to the breakroom and smiled. “So, you two have managed to get milk from the scary milk machine. That’s no easy task. A couple of geniuses you are.” Milk did not console us. Her father was solemn, and his frown melted off his face, sliding into the coffee. He mixed his displeasure with his caffè latte, as tears diluted his morning nourishment. The parrot cage crumbled and turned to sand.
Last edited on Wed Nov 4th, 2015 05:16 am by RTurco