Breathing Like a Cool Blow
This week, stories inspired by One Cool Blow. Because, there are so many possible meanings. If you think you know the origin of One Cool Blow, play along until the end of the week to let others draw their own conclusions, though today’s reveals the true meaning for me. To follow the series from the first post, click here. Thanks for continuing to Click the Cootchie.
He never clocked how far he walked. Restless energy and scotch: they always sent his legs jittering past his car. Toward the scent of sulfur and mud. Waving grass and the twisted arms of live oaks, bowing along the edge of the marsh. His favorite spot to merge with the landscape, to sit and have his only smoke of the day.
The pulsing breeze always made it hard to light his cigarette. Every time, he had to shield himself behind the gnarled trunk that dwarfed him and cup his hand around the dancing flame. When it licked him, he remembered how he escaped. Again. Avoided being burned by the likes of the curve of her hips and big hair. One deep drag of smoke blew away and spelled out the fervor of her wave. It wasn’t casual. No, she’d wanted him to see.
He leaned back on a twisted oak branch, bigger around than he was, and stared at the sky fluttering through the canopy of leaves and mist of exhaled smoke. Wishing for a star to give him the right words, the right moves that would make her his. Saying Scotch. Neat. night after night after night, charging up on the brush of her fingers and the bend of her backside clearly wasn’t getting him anywhere.
Shifting his recline, he listened to the stillness. Grass rubbed together in the wind like an orchestra of rustling strings. He loosened his tie and extinguished his light, leaning into the blow, letting it encircle him, whisper the right words to say. Cool blows off the marsh were magic on a hot summer night in the South. They penetrated the thick air and licked dewey faces. Brought a fresh blast of relief. They even spoke secrets to supplicants, lost and lonely souls who needed a cool blow of air to blast their souls clean. Sometimes, they worked miracles, like bringing her voice to him in shifting strains before he saw her, shimmering in the moonlight under the shadow of his live oak tree.
Now that is the South I know. The smell of pluff mud and the caress of the breeze off the marsh. You know, this could, maybe, be Henry from the earlier stories.
I suppose it could be. But, in my head, he doesn’t look like Henry at all.
This post makes me want to bum a cigarette.
Ha. I don’t know why I can write about smoking the way I do. I’ve never done it myself.
Love it. More!
We’ll see what they do tomorrow, Jim.
In the cool of the evening when everything’s getting kinda spooky…now the rest of the lyrics aren’t as good, not nearly the quality of yours. Thanks for blowing a strain or two of real Charleston summer over us all. Though with the spate of recent summer cool, we are enjoying a respite.
It has been an odd few days, hasn’t it? Enjoy your trip.
Just what I needed this morning. It gave me a sense of peace and calm (which isn’t easy since when I got to work the cleaning people were here stirring up all the dust motes – ugh). Thanks Andra. My co-workers owe you.
As long as the biting creatures stay away, there’s nothing more peaceful than sitting right where he is. It could calm the crazy out of anybody.
Oh yay! She came out to him. Love the picture – it’s so soothing. I also love the picture you paint of those march breezes.
They really are something. I never realized how strong they were up here.
God, this makes me want a cigarette, as well. And I haven’t smoked in YEARS! I don’t know what that means about your writing–but you have NAILED it!
Hugs,
Kathy
Very sorry to be kicking up kicked cravings leading into a weekend, Kathy. Character ticks are so much fun to explore when writing. They add something to the landscape of the story.
Very southern and very good.
In a different setting, I could see it being a lot of things. But this is clearly a Southern setting.
This story almost makes me regret my Yankee heart.
No reason. I once sat on top of Mt. Mansfield in Vermont and felt like this.
That’s me! Go deeper south. Change the marsh for mangroves and made the cigarette an electronic one (that’s all I’m allowed this days), and you picture any day at work for me.
….these days, theeesee. I always make that one.
I cannot type in anything but English, so you are way ahead of me.
Mangroves and marsh are dang lovely, Gustavo. Even with an electronic cig.
Oh,you brought me the sensuality of a warm wind on this horrid cold wet British day, Andra. Bless you
Glad to help, Kate. Though where I am going, it will be hot and wet.
Beautiful . . . but it’s POURING here at the moment. Which made me wonder where he has his ONE smoke of the day when the rain is pronounced.
Good question, Nancy. In the shelter of his piazza, in the dead of night.
The cigarette is right in this, but I will stick to my cigars. They convey a much different mood in writing and in life. But still, they are my vice of choice. Or one of them….
I have never smoked. It hits all of my nervous ticks, and I have always known better than to try it.
Back to the idea of rolling and smoking cilantro.
Blech.
I hope this ends in a happy-ever-after, but not at all sure that’s where they’re headed.
Not sure which smelled better this morning, the cigarette or the marsh . . . I sometimes miss ‘em both.
The smell together is something.
I want to go to there. Minus the cigarette that is.
Scotch scotch scotch.
You could have twice the scotch.
I like where your head’s at
I kept visualizing her still wondering why he runs so hot and cold! Love the sensual tension…Debra
They were fun characters to explore, Debra. I never know where any of this stuff will end up, but the journey is entertaining.