The Gift of Nature is Marvelous

A Haibun

Summer Beauty. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt

With her flirtatious spirit, summer is nearly here, and the dog and I trot up the hills–pacing with matching breaths. I wait for her to catch up with me–her old limbs slowly bending in the direction of our journey. She is cautious but she is carefree. She looks to her right and to her left, stops to sniff the grass, then uses every thistle as her personal licking buddy. I know not of what she’ll find. I stand patiently waiting for her to join me once again.

The sun hasn’t fully awakened–its eyes not yet focused on our backs, so we walk toward the wind. I smile at my neighbors, nod a “Hello,” and gently pull Jernee closer to me. I take no chances. Some people love to approach dog owners, and usually, I am okay with company but the pandemic’s ongoing stay has me even more skeptical of allowing space. We circle the block, breathe in and breathe out, and welcome our home away from home. We finally made it.

a long morning walk
with my old girl by my side
escaping summer


Originally published via Similily on June 08, 2022.

They Depend on the Time They Don’t Have

A Haibun

Photo by Lelia Milaya via ReShot

Delores leaned into her son’s embrace. He’d been promoted to area manager of his engineering firm. The promotion came with a corner office with an exceptional view of the city, and a $25,000 per year increase. He’d worked hard for it–harder than most. 

The sacrifices he made never met his mother’s ears. The people he manipulated, the women he raped, and the old neighbors from which he stole. He lived in lost moments of time, pursuing what he wanted and never what he needed. He’d step on the backs of everyone to get where he was all over again.

And his beautiful, loving, and clueless mother could never, would ever know it.

An evil con-man
steps on the backs of others
breaks the moon in half


©2022 Tremaine L. Loadholt, Originally published via Simily.

They Buried Him Under the Old Jane Magnolia Tree

Springtime. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt

Flash Fiction (Challenge Response)

Rufus was the town postman—employed for thirty-six years before he had a heart attack on his route during a blazing hot summer.

Died on the spot.

His manager, Paul Scheltz, had to identify the body, call his wife, and drive the mail truck back to the distribution center. EMS wasted no time hauling his bloated body to the local hospital, where he was officially pronounced dead.

All their potential life-saving efforts stood before them laughing—making fun of the ten minutes they had pumped the man’s chest. He was deader than dead, and there was nothing they could do about it.

Sylvia arrived at the hospital. Her heart weighed a ton. They’d just taken out a second mortgage, and their youngest was about to enter college. All these thoughts raced through her head as she stared at her dead husband—body as stiff as a board.

They buried him underneath the Jane Magnolia tree in their backyard four days later. No other family was there other than her and their three children. No friends except for Paul and his wife. Sylvia sang, “The Old Rugged Cross” while tears waterfall’d upon her face.

“May he rest in peace,” she said afterward.

May he rest in peace.


This is in response to a challenge request from fellow Simily contributor Rod Gilley where he challenged me by stating the following on my previous post: “I challenge you to write a Flash Fiction (1,000 words or less) on the subject of that tree (any genre). That is a beautiful tree – eager to see what your imagination can come up with for a story about it.” 

Originally published via Simily.

That Awkward Saturday Morning Smell You’re Not Supposed To Talk About

Photo by オム via ReShot

Flash Fiction

Chris sat on his balcony engulfed by the Saturday morning breeze—eyes bounced back and forth—blazing on a blunt the size of a sausage link. He had a uniquely relaxed smile plastered on his face. As he inhaled a toke, he exhaled the stress from the prior week. Working in IT had its perks, but he was becoming at odds with his current position.

His neighbors, he thought, would surely report him as soon as they smelled the smoke slowly slithering further down each floor. Saturday was his kickback and take no shit day. It had been the day to forget the troubles of the past week and move forward into the coming one with a rational mind and a happy heart. He almost always did this after his early morning smoking session. 

His roommate was a flighty bartender who worked late nights and slept until 2 pm every day. No harm. No foul. Who really had the balls to tell the property manager on a grown-ass man? Everyone was too busy living their lives, trying to keep their heads above water, and steer clear of each other as best as they could. He was one of those people. Wasn’t everyone else?

He’d often lose himself there on the balcony—drifting off to the ocean—one of his favorite places to be. He grew up in San Francisco and spent at least six years in Tampa, Florida. He was no stranger to the open waters. It was where he could be his most vulnerable self. He worked through many problems while moving his naked feet through the sand on various beaches—maneuvered through life accordingly without flouncing and losing his sense of self.

He deserved every Saturday morning smoking session he engaged in—earned it! The sun sashayed into his view, opened up its eyes, and pressed its rays onto his balcony. He closed his eyes, took another toke, and blew the smoke from his mouth as quickly as he inhaled it. 

Who really had the balls to tell the property manager on a grown-ass man? Everyone was too busy living their lives, trying to keep their heads above water, and steer clear of each other as best as they could. He was one of those people. Wasn’t everyone else?

Really, who?


Originally published via Simily.

NaPoWriMo #22

Photo by Lux_Phantazie via ReShot

ineluctable

how does one escape one’s own mind? the torturous thoughts plod their way in, pumping away until the moon cries silver tears on a spring day.

a day’s pain is measured by sadness–how much is displayed–how much is there to give?

I fall out of my bed and in line with every day calling me, and take a chance on me once again.

am I worthy? can I be more?

the breaking comes when I am least prepared and the box I am shoved in gets smaller. there is no way out.

you recognize my pain

and do nothing.


Originally published via Simily.