Jungle JuiceBy M.J. Fievre
September 28, 2011
New Harmony, Indiana.
The serene boondocks.
A girl named Katie.
A tandem bike.
A minute bottle of vodka jungle juice smuggled into the Barn Abbey.
Tornado sirens, Midwestern snacks, midnight escapes, and the obscure ploy to trespass and skinny dip in a pool.
“Let’s do it!” (Her words or mine?)
A man lounged on a mattress behind a pick up truck en route for Illinois, and Katie and I told each other a story about a heart broken over a spoon…
We tripped over broken pavements, singing to the moon.
I remember the laughter—not hers, mine, but born from hers—“vibrate my body” laughter that ran down my cheeks in taunting tears.
We made up stories, wanting our writing to move the day forward. We added words, made up words, used other worlds’ words, and watched the words as they were born.
Secrets were whispered, confessions brought forth, as we blended with the shadows, in a quest to discover the Cathedral Labyrinth in the dark Indiana hours.
And just like that—the sun came out.
Turned out I’d been staring straight into its face for several lifetimes.
And peace settled again—again.
And peace settled again
And peace settled
You have a talent for making me feel that I have entered a magical world.
That’s what jungle juice
& skinny dipping
symbolizes to the sadly grown.
This was beautiful, MJ.
“We added words, made up words, used other worlds’ words, and watched the words as they were born.”
I felt like I was watching the birth of something unique and important.