Last Taste of Summer ...Stormy Weather

in writing •  4 months ago


You lethargic, waiting upon me,
waiting for the fire and I
attendant upon you, shaken by your beauty...
Shaken by your beauty

― William Carlos Williams

Mae and I had our usual fight over the house and now she was gone into town to have dinner with a friend leaving me alone in the house to write.

I loved the house. The architect who conceived it in the Thirties designed the curved windows to capture as much of the light as possible. And that was not a bad thing on a rainy day such as today.

All in all, I thought it was a very good purchase, not to mention the fact it appealed to my nostalgia for an era long gone.

I had adjourned to the study in hopes of picking up the thread of my writing, but couldn’t. The set-to with Mae robbed me of the momentum and I didn’t feel like going back over my draft trying to regain the flow of the narrative.

I was done for the day. Great! What now?

As I sat pondering possibilities, I heard, or rather sensed, a presence in the adjoining room. The hair on my arms stood on end reminding me of my troubled childhood in another attached house that was undeniably haunted.

But I was no longer a child, and I doubted this house was haunted.

I resolved to face my fears. I stood up and boldly strode into the front room, but was totally unprepared for what I saw.

A woman about my age, with long blonde hair and dressed in a light green jersey knit suit was standing with her back to me, peering out the window. I noticed the skirt was mid-calf length and gently accentuated her curves.

“I know you’re staring,” she whispered.

“Who are you?” I said.

“Blythe Summer.” Her voice was so soft as to be scarcely audible—actually, less a voice, and more a gentle breeze. She stood there, not turning around to look at me, but continuing to part the curtain and gaze out at the street.

“What’s your name?” she asked, in a musical, slightly mocking voice.

“Dawes Cooper, I said knee-jerk, then caught myself. “Look, the point is, what are you doing in my house?”

“I might ask the same thing,” she said in a lazy singsong drawl that I found very attractive. I couldn’t believe I was standing here, talking to a ghost and obsessing over her voice.

“I live in this house,” I told her sternly.

“So do I. We have something in common.”

She turned now to look at me and I felt my mouth go dry. She was breath-takingly beautiful. She struck me as looking the way a woman in the Thirties ought to look—well put together and full of glamor.

“Don’t get out much, huh?” she teased, smiling at my rapt appraisal of her beauty.

I flushed and looked away. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare—it’s just not every day that I get to meet a ghost.”

“Isn’t that funny,” she laughed, “I was thinking the same thing.”

“Now wait a minute,” I said hastily, “you’re from the past—about 80 years ago. That makes you a ghost.”

She was unfazed. “I see. Well, you’re from the future that hasn’t happened yet—what does that make you?”

Slightly dazed, I slumped down onto the loveseat.

The rainy afternoon had taken a sudden turn and somehow it seemed the sun had suddenly come out.

© 2018, John J Geddes. All rights reserved


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Y si de repente somos el sueño de alguien, si somos el fantasma de nosotros mismos aún sin existir!!?? Me gustó la respuesta y pregunta de Blythe Summer. Creo que damos por sentado que somos la realidad sin cuestionar nuestra existencia. Si alguna vez tuviera la oportunidad de hacer un trabajo de investigación con tus textos, seguro lo trabajaría a nivel temático y simbólico. Tu escritura, al igual que en muchos escritores, está llena de constantes. Sería un placer, @johnjgeddes! Un abrazo fuerte.


Thanks, Nancy. You wrote:
And if suddenly we are someone's dream, if we are the phantom of ourselves even without existing !! ?? I liked the answer and question of Blythe Summer. I think we take it for granted that we are reality without questioning our existence. If I ever had the opportunity to do research work with your texts, I would certainly work on a thematic and symbolic level. Your writing, like in many writers, is full of constants. It would be a pleasure, @johnjgeddes! A strong hug.

I agree. The Argentinian writer, Jean Luis Borghes, once wrote, "You have wakened not out of sleep, but into a prior dream, and that dream lies within another, and so on, to infinity, which is the number of the grains of sand. The path that you are to take is endless, and you will die before you have truly awakened." And yes, there are certain symbolic constants in my writing that once decoded make the whole thing understandable on that deeper symbolic level :)

And then? 😥 will be part 2 Sr. of the future?


Haa, ok ok, Thanks. 👍

Gud to read it 👍

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The perspective. Nice post.

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Thank you!