Email: bosley.gravel@gmail.com
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Bio: Bosley Gravel, eclectic hack writer, was born in the Midwest, and
came of age in Texas and southern New Mexico. He writes in a variety
of genres. His fiction focuses on the absurdly tragic, and the
tragically absurd. He likes good black coffee, nightmares, Billie
Holiday, and that hour just before the sun comes up.
Coming soon: his debut literary novel "The Movie" from BeWrite Books
(for pre-Christmas Release).
Credits: http://www.ripcot.com
Music by:
"Don't Quit Your Day Job"
Written & Performed by:
Derek R. Audette - (C) MMIV
(Socan)
Because it is Summer
He sleeps in the dark room; the ceiling fan spins endlessly in a soft and comforting whir. Cradled in dreams, feather pillows, and slow moving air, he wakes. Because it is summer the window is open. He slept soundly and peacefully despite the air laced with pollen and the faint odor of a skunk.
The birds wake before the sun. Each one a distinct voice in the chorus: The Whistler who knows how to say "skee-skee-skee", wakes the earliest of them all to repeat her parlous mantra like an overbearing alarm clock; next comes the Warbler who sounds like water bubbling down rocks, cold and concise; then comes the interjections of the Chider who complains of the impending light, she says "washa-washa-lee, washa-washa-loo".
Still he is caught in the twilight; the faint morning blues leak around the shades ... Then comes the Mourning Dove, lamenting with hollow whimpers. Then the frighteningly coherent accusations of lunacy by the Bird-He-Can-Never-See, "kook-kook-kook", she says quite rationally. Now the awkward rhythmic tapping begins -- this one he knows -- Ravenous Woodpecker who stupidly drills for a breakfast of insects in the nearby telephone poles.
Then sings the Bird-Who-Prays. She mumbles softly asking forgiveness for all the sinners of the world and food for all the hungry children. He knows as well as she, she has long since lost her faith and only sings out of habit.
Because it is summer, the kids will sleep in and so can he. He turns over and tries to fall back asleep. But he knows if he can just pull himself from the doughy mattress and get to his desk, he can write those perfect words and send them out into the world like a song. But instead of pursuing the fame and the glory, he listens, and he watches the blinds turn orange, and he thinks about coffee -- fresh and pipping hot -- as the Warbler changes her tune to mimic a percolator.
He lies wondering if the birds are speaking to him, or it is the other way around, the birds are listening to his secrets and voicing his morning thoughts out into the summer.
