21st Century Freedom Part 3 by Tristan Drue Rogers

Of Legends and Dreams

“Mac!” The rounded-out wife of the man approached me with arms open before the screen door and a smile.

“Hilda!” I opened the screen door quickly hoping for an embrace just as steadfast. An explanation would surely be necessary in the event that a solid spherical shape with protruding handle had happened to be felt in place of an appendage.

     The embrace is short and sweet. Short, as only my wrong side had met her. And sweet, as crumb cake was transferred onto my cheek from hers.

     Still within the hallway beside her, Hilda progressed into conversation, “So what now is this I hear?” Her last words were the roar of a lioness stalking her prey for the hunger of her entire pride. She continued, “Somethin’ dirty comin’ up. First a steak, be it T-bone or any lesser type to obtain. And then a switch to the very icing of breakfast eateries, be it butter?”

     “Yes, ma’am.”

     She stared with an obvious intent. “Well, all right sweetie. You’ve always been a blessin’ to my still beatin’ heart.” Hilda stuttered her lips with not a sound. Her lips were licked as her tongue soon made with the clicks, “Come give momma a little kiss in agreeableness, yes?”

     An answer of no need not seem like hostile action with its decline; to get anywhere satisfactory I seemed to be all for not with an escape brought about by wordplay. So my answer must be, “Well, pucker up Hilda!” Hilda of legends and dreams. Closer I leaned, her flesh inflating with each successive breath and beat of the spasmodic pulse. A boarder mapped along with feather sustained pillows slowly but not so surely blocked my forefront path.

     “Oh Mac, my ba—” 

The man interrupted her. “Hilda baby, it’s back on!”

     “Oh!” And with that exhale of heat she spun around only to knock me aback through the screen door accidentally like an axe swing with her surprisingly bony shoulder blade wing. I fell with a back step or two toward the porch. At the very least, I was not able to enjoy her last meal by the avatar that is her mouth. Content or mortified, I was what I do not know.

The gnats and ever vigilant neighboring mosquitoes have formed a clan-like shadow silhouette surrounding my sad attempt at a cloaked, yet cooked appendage.

     “I feel like a cow without a tail for swatting, eating my corn as shit forms the early stages of my claustrophobia,” I said aloud out of pure boredom. Porky Pig is only so fascinating when still-framed from an artist not of his era as opposed to animated on twos for so long.

     My stomach grumbled. The insects’ stomachs, I would assume, only grumbled in anticipation of the thick Bloody Mary awaiting their consumption. Soon no grumbles for either of our persons. Hopefully, cuz fuck.

     Slowly, but surely, the L of Hilda and wuts-his-name’s hallway only entertained for so long as mini-vampires gnawed me away—one pore at a time. I opened the screen door with a loud silence of equal measured assurance and neuroticism. With the door closed behind me I stepped rapidly in succession towards the kitchen; the living quarters being the only attraction distracting from my destination.

     The two were themselves distracted by the mind controlling device of their flat screen, it is a good special that they’ve tuned in on after all—pulling all the stops for this one I’ve heard of the producers. I hope the show will be rerun or I’ll inevitably have to torrent it regardless. Best have HD!

     Safe as I am from their hungry eyes, I found no attempt at crushing eggshells appetizing. Luckily, a space was available behind their backsides resting their bottoms upon their futon that could easily fit a newly left-handed 6’2” individual as myself. 

     The kitchen was bare bones: sink, counter, microwave, stove rotisserie, and the fridge.

     The stove was halfway through a timed cooking of steak. I suppose I made their bellies grumble with such talk of burned animal hide. Or could be my smell. Either or.

     With the fridge opened I popped off the lid to the butter quickly. No spoon, only fingers. With a grab of the cooking tool needed I turn through to the living quarters after placing the container back inside. What a sloppy mess I’ve made.

     A commercial was playing along with only the man being visible to my senses. 

     The man, is it Abe? Nah. Doesn’t seem to apply. 

     He seemed to be transfixed onto his cell phone in front of him. A flushing sound overflowed through my spine as a door closes with a thud. I ran in panic with very little remorse for stepped on food trays as I readily made my way to the door.


     Stopped cold, just before the exit. I turned my neck to see my sure-to-be-pissed neighbor behind me.

     “Mac, bro, what’re you fucking doing?”

     My entire body was now facing him. “Oh, nothing. Had to use the restroom real quick-like is all.”

     He took a slow sip of beer—which I hadn’t noticed earlier; it’s a cold bottle—judging by the precipitation—good for throwing against the heads of those who assume they can break in to enter. He finished his sip. “Hilda was just on the toilet. So, yeah.” He awaited an answer that which I was unable to present without a misguided fear of being labeled extemporaneously ludicrous. Fuck fuckity.

     “I just wanted some kind ideas on tiles and she was more than happy to show me yours.” Fuck fuckity.

     “And then you left as she sat down to shit?”

     “Yeah.” I guess that works-ish.

     He—Neil?—looked away to aim himself toward the bathroom before he gulped down a waterfall flavoring of hops. He looked back my way.

     The stove rotisserie DINGED like a savior oughta DING. So, of course, I ran through the door back home. “See ya later!” I say. Fuck fuckity. 

     The song that which I sing was a miniscule whimpering found in many an indie track: amateur, yet with an exhilarating passion escaping the back of my teeth, arranged less rhythmically than the prevailing drums of the day of course. I’ve gotta push it.

     The door to my humble abode was cracked slightly, did I not close it? My woman with her legs open.

     I entered, shut and lock the door, and proceeded to the kitchen with the steaming sweat of butter in my hand. I suppose I may have left some residue near or atop the door handles—not a tissue in sight. The stove top was already aflame with two sunny side eggs broiling. I do hope that I have begun to hallucinate from my blood loss.

     I slapped the butter onto the pan; it sizzled quickly beside the eggs. My anticipation was staggering, almost crippling. I lifted the broiling pan near my wound, turning the pan slowly until all the goo of food coiled haphazardly every which way onto All Righty. 

     The skillet met gravity.

     As the tomb that held my numb hostage hit the floor with a one-two thud, I heard my name.


Fuck fuckity. 


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