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November 8, 2007

Thursday

I spy, with my little eye, something that is red...

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There was no mistaking that color. Seated three rows ahead of me, her red hair glowed brilliantly under the reading light of seat 14C. Shades of gold and bronze appeared and disappeared as she moved her head - leaning in towards the man, looking up at the steward offering coffee, bending slightly forward to read the inflight magazine.

I noticed a similar glow on my jacket sleeve and lifted off a long hair. Perhaps I had come too close at check-in. Better hold back and stick to the plan. Red or dead, the man had said. Well, red it would be.

Posted by: katieduck at November 8, 2007 12:49 PM · Permalink

My grandfather cannot walk now but his arms and back are strong. He wears a v-neck work shirt and a gold and diamond Christ-head and he's kneeling on the den floor looking for his pills. His forearms are Italian-dark with latent bulldog power, still big from turning Navy mounts and tagging Mitsubishi Zeros by blood-red dots behind their wings. Now he's moving the recliner and sweating through his nose and steel wool muzzle. His chair crashes heavy and Jesus weeps the nose sweat while my daughter crawls behind him and he doesn't know I see. Find the red dots, Pop.

Posted by: Christopher Cocca at November 8, 2007 3:15 PM · Permalink

The bruises on her face throbbed and the raw skin on the tips of her fingers bled. Whip marks ran from the base of her neck to the small of her back and her inner thighs ached from old and recent puncture wounds.

Still, she lived. Lying on a cold cement floor, she could smell and feel his foul breath. His red uniform was all she could see through her tearing and puffy eyes.

He looked down on her and felt no pity. This is how he kept them in line. This was the dark side to his jolly personality.

Posted by: Rick at November 8, 2007 8:13 PM · Permalink