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Duane Locke Megan Webster E. P. Allan Jason Fraley Rochelle Hope Mehr Andrew Kaye Aaron La Flora Sofia Cicatrize Kelley White Robert L. Harrison Russell Bittner Nosheen Mukhtar Thomas Paul SternerHowe Ron P. Nhim          Movie Script 160 by Duane Locke Long ago, watch towers replaced church spires, Long before the age of the wristwatch’s fictions, The sun and the sun burn not as believable as numbers. But lost due to new occupations, shops and trades. With trade, numbers grew like weeds, but not green. Tonsured men roamed, without working, promised protection. To us, the past just an agony, the agony of isolation; No one in 1000 AD and their dispensation will ever hear of us. You, La Principessa, are my salvation, a fantasy Of the imagination, same as a myth when bells told time, When a few wore gold crowns among bouquets and preyed, While ninety-five percent, work-exhausted, no flowers, prayed. Principessa, we are no longer in the feudal ages, But in the age of the expert, the expert’s insane asylum.     Movie Script 156 by Duane Locke The dawn light through transparent lone leaf Reveals the yellow circle on the underside. Butterfly’s fluttering shadows obscure the future funeral, Moss-mixed greens, dark, light, parade over the prediction. It is a revelation like the dark spaces in a star’s constellation. Or seeing a distant, long, misty arm in the empty air, Becomes a memory of mandolins played in al fresco cafés When the wine was blind, dark curls roamed around the carnation, Blue wrinkled linen, folds still, in the canopy’s whirlwind, The conflict of the garland of gardenias with the gardenia garden.     Movie Script 159 by Duane Locke We, my multiple selves, watch The drunkenness of rain. Once the white painted curled iron Imitating a Chinese wood carving, The top of the table was sober, But now with inebriation ebullient With silver streaks.  fallen ebony berries, Wandering the streets of tent markets Among white onions and white garlic, The bins are seeds from oaks called “laurel.” The mystery of animation invents The disappeared object, brings visions. Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Jumpstart by Megan Webster From loss to loss we go, each a lingering cumulus:  now, a love of nine summers—gone without an adieu. I peer into the Tube—wonder how to winch the spirit . . . when suddenly the screen fills with an infinite snake of refugees: men laden with blankets, withered parents; women crowned with clay pots, draped with infants, threadbare children trotting behind.  No dust of war or drought clouds my eyes.  I see hummingbirds dart into the orange honeysuckle on the patio wall, monarchs land on the roses . . . and hear Remus in the kitchen, gorging on roast lamb Friskies. A twist of shame gathers wind— blows me to my feet.      Trash by Megan Webster knotted sausage casing fatty hems of ham stringy trunks of broccoli charred rims of tortillas  brittle hearts of pear heaped on plastic plates remind me of him   her   you   me— stumps of friendship butts of one-night stands dregs of marriage trashed on life's greasy plate.     It's True What They Say About the Tunnel by Megan Webster being swished through it when you die, voices you don't know beckoning louder and louder from faces you cannot see, however hard you stare.   It's true that your life flashes before you.  I was there once, heart exploding, lungs heaving. Don't expect to see the highlights, like the secret shared with the moon, the touchdown that brought home the cup, the cum laude that made your parents beam or miracle of your firstborn child. It's the other deeds—those buried under stone (or so you thought) that reel before the eyes and demand you judge at your dying hour (imagine Hitler and the likes!) when all you crave is quick release.     Scavenger by Megan Webster The homeless man prods, spears his stick into the mountain of bloated plastic bags growing in the dumpster. A Styrofoam box streaked with ketchup, a Barbie torso, the cracked heel of a Reebok, chicken ribs, fries, burst Through the holes.  Flies leap from their sleep, battle around his head. His grizzly locks swing on the back of his dank jacket as he zigzags between dumpsters, shuffling his cart through morning fog before the juggernauts plow the alley and rob him of our waste— the pickings that fuel his day. Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Algonquin Mantra by E. P. Allan Tonight the moon is a willow leaf furled in the indigo sky, hanging only a finger's tip above darkening trees How quickly our lives move away from us, drift unnoticed on hazy rhythms rippling with the ether of our dreams A breath cannot contain all the meanings of night nor hold back the memory that slips behind this starlessness into a walk of night rain and the amber smell of leaves chanting words before the coming of Christ and cement "Way o way Shawan gay...." reflects itself on a landscape of untied shoes sluiced with wind     Morning Meditation by E. P. Allan Morning sits in hushed expectation                          silent as a pillow still warm with the indentation of sleep                 Birds wait for the light, not yet flaming into the peon of bleeding throat             cats sit slant eyed and scrutinize the sky the trees                 their branches quivering at the slightest stir        make a calm music And then a syncopated chirp              single                     calling the light from sleep                    bees begin to dream stealing honey                          bright as moon dew as yet another sparrow joins in      We wait for light turn towards the light like potted plants turn               their anemic                               fat leaves to the window                          light has no words                no prison                                to think about being light                but steals over the grey horizon                 shading over into an inky blue   Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Migration by Jason Fraley After cardinals and mocking birds seek shelter  closer to the sun, my birdbath collects colors  of autumn.  Leaves spiral in patterns of death, chameleon blood red for an instant, water the seamless silk of coffins.   Undressed trees allow slivers of sunlight  to penetrate perpetual shade—limbs  unaccustomed to light, grass uncomfortable with attention.  Like veins without foliar flesh,  branches harden or break              during night’s encroaching austerity.     Prismatic residue coats my fingertips as I pick a naked stem from the water, liberation  lures bones closer to my skin’s surface— they whisper about becoming              the chlorophyll of sunsets.   Defining Rain by Jason Fraley Moss-covered logs with fire char the air on cold, drenched days.  Through age-stained open window,  I see clouds tighten their grip on a sky of solemn, motionless slate.   Sycamore flames flash like the sun behind this veil, unless the universe’s frost burn breaks   solar flares into ice-covered comets that fall to earth as remnants  of a melting cosmos, rain on my hands.   Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Respite by Rochelle Hope Mehr I finally figured out what the black blank spaces in the crossword puzzle are. They are the rests in the relentless music. The spaces between the crushing lines. The indeterminates which give me pause to think. The sweet rose scent wafting over the sewer stench of the endless grids Tethering me to the grinding and binding of the livelong day.     After the Epidural by Rochelle Hope Mehr The Recovery Room nurse said she could tell you were a great man by the way you looked at her The light emitted from the eye may be deceptive luminescence not befitting a luminary She also said she knew you would not have passed her in Organic Chem You smiled at that and I remembered blue books, blue books tossed asunder blue ink in blue examination books running cold in my veins as I observed how meticulously you corrected how demonically you slammed shut the blue covers and proclaimed that this one would not pass your scrutiny and make it to med school that your course determined the course of so many lives And I shuddered at all the power emanating from the blue eye scrutinizing the blue ink between the covers of the blue book The blue eye atop the scowling face The red pencil scrawling corrections The gleeful energy emitted from the eye Scared me And I cried   Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Moose.  Monkey.  Jesus by Andrew Kaye The yard sale has a moose head mounted on a fancy piece of wood. Its eyes are sad, because its eyes are marbles, and they replaced its brain with newspaper to help it forget it ever had a body. But I bet it secretly scans the classifieds for a body going cheap. An ungulate body going cheap, which is probably not easy to find. The head costs fifty dollars. Nearby is an old toy monkey Which hops when wound from the back. One day it awoke after rigorous surgery to find its left leg replaced with the right leg of a plastic doll. Part man, and part monkey. What a miserable existence. However, scientists someday will make real man/monkey hybrids to sell for thousands of dollars. This fake one’s a steal at ten bucks On a table marked “SALE!” is a framed portrait of Jesus, a painting, of course, as he never gave out glossies. He’s got this look on his face like he’s saying “Hey, how ya doing?” because a statue of Ganesha sits beside him on the table. He wants to be friendly, even though deep down he feels kind of bad. His price tag reads three dollars.   Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       The Writer's Light by Aaron La Flora Nothing there was beneath a tree Adorned brightly in colours of the season No bows or boxes to unwrap Nor wrap my thoughts into Simply a humble poet I be With nothing to offer Any Baby Jesuses who may come to call this Christmas morn. Even the thesaurus that I so loved to ponder within Lies dust covered and unopened many months now it makes. my thoughts vastly resembling Virginia whose Vita never understood her yearning flame. peering well beyond into another lover's cool skin melting each pore into gasps. Leave it alone Virginia Just let it go And bury each pebble deeply into those empty pockets. A lakebed beckons to love you Forevermore. God, I wish I could melt into you just once Bury my nose into your vanilla scent Look into your eyes while they trace every Inch of my hot skin daring me to shyly beg for more your breath blowing soft cloud patterns round and round Alluring the flame within my scent of patchouli Sculpting two lover's shadows upon a darkened wall Beneath our Writer's light   Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page         Vulcan in Love by Sofia Cicatrize Genius smelts syllables, allusions, Forging ore into sharp points, Smithing words into pithy shafts. Each dart a tranquilizer Inflicting pleasure and pain. Genius plots three moves ahead, Anticipating his quarry’s retreat, Blocking its escape. Anesthetized, cornered His prey sprawls. Genius looms over his virgin kill, Spearing her groin, Piercing her heart. Blood pours over the shaft. Vulcan’s ego rejoices in the sacrifice. Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page         Ibrahim Ferrar by Kelley White Old eyes singing Old eyes singing sweetest love Old eyes burning Old eyes melting Cheeks Hope Pain Laughing Longing Yearning Desire in a language I almost understand. That sweet man’s face under the newsboy’s cap, those worn dark eyes behind the old-style microphone singing to a woman who knows everything he knows and sings too, delighted; I wish this for myself, wish an old wise child with everything he’s ever been and seen lighting still new eyes to watch me with those eyes laughing, to sing me home.     Katie's Alphabet by Kelley White That summer you were six you mastered reading.  Then you set to master the world.  You chose the books at the library.  I found them on the shelf behind your door:  Alligators, Bears, Crocodiles, Dinosaurs, Egyptian Mummies, Fire, Gold.     Inspirited by Kelley White Persistence, bent to your door, perseveration laid, laughter wrapped in bruises, served on ice; gone hope capering, leapt a-breeze to fear, desire seasoned by spiceless defeat, drought in a hailstorm, thirst in a cloud, sweet February, blossoms elderberry  bear fair:  the poems structure the sickness.     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Snow Ball Fight by Robert L. Harrison Snow balls flying in the air=============================O                               O===============================Zooming back and forth =================================O   Hitting everyone in sight===============================O                   O===============================Bouncing off arms and legs. Scoring hits on winter coats.============================O O                                   O=============================and everyone can play.         =======================================O                     =======================================O But the game ends==========================O when one side=========================O has=========================================O           too many========================================O                        kids.=================================O            ===========O                                  ===============================O     High Scores by Robert L. Harrison I once scored my poems like an Olympic judge and gave myself a 8.5 rating for performance. Once I  pulled off a 10 but was disqualified  by my ego because I bribed myself and was caught before the words came out of my mouth. now I am careful who hears my prose for it is the id thing to do and I am not a team player.   Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Note to Walt Whitman by Russell Bittner I met a woman in the park—       in Prospect Park; whose every syllable was pure       in Prospect Park; whose simple wish to tame my rage       met clusters of fierce consonants. She wrapped me in her vowels.       We parsed; we parried.  Walt, is that you in disguise?       Are you some vile muse on this, your midnight cruise?       Am I the fool you choose with ruse too silly to beguile—        in Prospect Park?  My children will not walk       in Prospect Park. They tell me ogres thrive       in Prospect Park. And that they hide—        in the amber, shaggy fanfare fops of lamp posts;                                      like spider mites beneath the bark of every tree.  Down below, down in the mucus       of the lake bed, deep in the undertow of dead debris,       they all lie lurking, like a huntress happy hunting.  While I, their grateful ground,       I take their arrows. I am their target fowl—        in Prospect Park.     The garden lusts for thrill tonight by Russell Bittner The garden lusts for thrill tonight      yet let us judge it fair– the trellis, birch and pottery,      each hungry element, bare. Hard winter’s eye upon it now      in cold, paternal glare, stiff winter’s hand upon it now      stays rigid in repair. Each seed lies dormant, dreaming spring,      each shooting dream, a flare– into this longest, darkest night      to which each spring is heir. Now here I sit and ruminate,      indulging in despair, while seeds grow restless, birches strain      against my prurient stare.    Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       The Clown by Nosheen Mukhtar I The steaming coffee pot awaits the daily ritual while I stand close to the mirror, brushes lined up near wet colours, awaiting the making of a clown II Innocence,cheers and claps, fill the street, The passersby stare at the faces I make and the awkward twists of my limbs, years on their backs jeer unlike my young spectators. Jingle of tossed coins at my heels tells they are entertained. III I remember calling home, a week ago I believe! The four ring tones, my mom's modest 'hullow,' stuffed in an apple jam jar, dad's dismal retort traveled through the copper-coated steel, the line went dead. The girl I met, danced the tango all night; we drank to content, till she detected wilted paint on my skin. IV Some say life is hard, I believe life is soft, moist, red paint round my mouth, can be twisted upwards or down. It dances mischievously everyday, in starlit eyes of children, who applaud my mimicry with honest spectator's verve. It spurts frantically tickled by their laughter. Life is life after all! So many laughs put together.     shards by Nosheen Mukhtar the pieces lie on floor a moment's carelessness I marvel at the moist colour of bruised fingers picking up shards     Morning scene by Nosheen Mukhtar stiff in black hands clasped tight eyes fixed on the abysmal reality she sits quiet under the yews loss hangs loose from the branches in her heart grows desire to stretch sorrow straight to the blue sky At a distance cars race down honking hurried feet to workplaces behind her three boys fly their kite blazing yellow and orange against the blue   Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Masque Malaysia by Thomas Paul SternerHowe What I desire so a masque without a face the cloak of destiny wrapped around this place the perfect seeing glass for all I come to know a masque without a face what I desire so What I would strive to see a face without a masque a garment tossed aside is all that I would ask a pillow for your head somewhere inside of me a face without a masque what I would strive to see Where I would learn to live and hang them on the wall these faces on the stage before the curtain call a new voice in the choir some tenderbit to give and hang them on the wall where I would choose to live Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Sometimes I Dream by Ron P. Nhim Sometimes I dream of riding on the open trail with John Wayne, roping cattle, hustling, rustling, riding them in rawhide, and eating beans out of chuck wagon.  Or, riding along side Gene Autry or The Lone Ranger, sharing dreams and secrets with Tonto, sleeping out in the woods, doing things in the open prairie, catching the bad guys, playing the hero in the Wild West.  Of course some other times, I would dream of the cute Señorita in El Paso that always faithfully waited for me or of dancing the three steps with the Yellow Rose of Texas, flirting and charming her off her feet.  But John, Gene, The Lone Ranger, and Tonto are all gone now and I am too old to ride on open trail.  And the señorita and the Yellow Rose of Texas suddenly turned into butterflies and gone in the wind and our love was transformed into a mistake. Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page

 

 

   

• "Hiyaa!"   Crispin Oduobuk

• Orange Peels  Sean Southern

• Dolphin Blue   Darren Francis

• Margi   S. L. Harryman

• Bus Ride   Jenny Rose Ryan

• Staying Connected   Shishir Mohan

• Tackle This   Gary Glauber

 

---

 

 

"Hiyaa"                                                                     

by Crispin Oduobuk                                                                          

ey, Rufus, where are you going with all those oranges on your head?  And how come you’re not in school today?”  King Peter, so named because he’d conned a classmate into calling him a king, slackens his pace as he comes near Rufus on the broad leaf-strewn village path.

“Man, King Peter, why are YOU not in school today?”  Rufus says, a half-smile dancing about his lips.

“Man, forget about me.  Where are you going?”

“To the next village to sell these oranges,” says Rufus.

“ALL these oranges?  Man, they are much-o!”

“Yes-o, it’s the big market day at the next village.  You know, once a week Ehvaelyn and I have to help our parents do one thing or the other.  Like today I’m off to the market and Ehvaelyn’s in the farm with our mother.”

Nodding his head like a wise old man, King Peter says, “Well, what can I say?  You people are trying.  Really trying.  But say, man, can I have some oranges?”

Rufus laughs, rocking gently.  “King Peter! You really are A KING!  What?  Old man!  You didn’t even ask for one but some!”  Rufus rocks again.  “Man, sorry you can’t have any.  My mother counted them and she knows exactly how much money I’m supposed to have with me when I get back home.”

“Man, why are you doing things like this?” King Peter asks.  “Four only.  I’m sure she won’t miss four.  Well, make it just three.  Three is good.”

With his mouth wide open, Rufus stares.  “Come,” he says softly, “am I talking to the deaf?”

“Do man, help a human being,” King Peter pleads.  “Tomorrow it may be my turn.”

“Man, I can’t!”

King Peter puts his hands together in a begging gesture and looks at Rufus with really hungry eyes.  “Only three.”

Rufus is still very surprised.  “Didn’t you hear what I said?” he asks.  “I said—”

“Yes, yes, yes I heard you,” says King Peter, cutting in.  “But I’m telling you she won’t remember.”

Rufus is doubtful and doesn’t hide it.  “Ha!”

“When you get home you tell her they got missing.”

“And how did that happen?  Anyway, she said if any misses I should miss with it too.”

“Do now, man.  I’ll let you use my slate,” King Peter says, giving Rufus a sad-dog look.

Rufus, his eyes wide open with shock, stares at King Peter without saying a word.  Rufus can’t imagine that King Peter would let anyone use the precious writing slate that he’s been using all alone since his arrival in Forneeso Primary School.  Eventually, Rufus finds the words to tell King Peter of his doubts.  “True?”  Rufus asks.  “Will you really let me use your me-alone slate?”

“Why wouldn’t I let you use it?” King Peter asks, smiling in a friendly but shy way.  “But man, you really are a first-time-comer-to-this-world!  Grown-ups always say things like that, but they don’t really mean it.  It’s just to scare you.  Anyway, you can tell your mother that a big fight caused trouble in the market and in the middle of the trouble someone knocked over your tray and you lost some oranges.”

Rufus puts the tip of a finger to his lips and thinks about this for a minute.  Then, looking worried, he says, “Suppose she goes off to ask someone like Mama Barna who’s always everywhere in any market?”

“Don’t worry, there’ll be some trouble in the market.  That is as sure as the sun rising.  Just say a fight happened.”

Rufus is still looking worried.  “If she doubts me she’ll beat life out of me.”

“And be left with a dead child?  Don’t be afraid, she won’t.”

“But Ehvaelyn might beat me, man,” Rufus says, the creases increasing on his young face.  “These are really her oranges.  She’s the one that climbed the tree and plucked them.  The money is supposed to be used for her new Sunday dress.”

Suddenly King Peter is angry.  “Man Rufus,” he says, “every time I hear talk of that twin sister of yours beating you, it pains me a lot.  Are you yam that you allow her to pound you anyhow?  You must stop letting her beat you up anytime she likes—you are a man!”

“King Peter,” Rufus says with a sheepish smile, “you don’t know Ehvaelyn.  She’s very strong-o!”

“Strong what?  She’s a girl!  Man, if you set that thing down for a minute, I’ll show you a few Chinese tricks to wipe her out anytime she looks for your trouble.”

Rufus is intrigued by this new idea.  He’s very interested to learn more.  “Really?” he asks, his eyes lighting up.  “What are Chinese tricks?”

“It’s a secret way of getting strength with white man’s juju.  I know it and if you set that tray down I’ll show you.”

“True?”  Rufus can’t wait anymore.  Bending a little, he says to King Peter, “Please, help me bring it down.”

With the tray down on the ground, King Peter immediately gets to work.  “Watch now.  You stand with your legs planted firmly apart.  Then you set your hands in front of you like this and bring out your strength.”

Watching as King Peter demonstrates, something flashes in Rufus’s mind.  “Em, King Peter, I...I don’t have strength.”

King Peter is shocked.  “Who told you?”

“Well, it’s just the way my mother brought me into this world,” Rufus explains with a sad look.

“Oh!  The-mother-that-gave-birth-to-me!”  King Peter exclaims, his hands raised in mock surrender.  “RUFUS!  So all this your tallness comes from standing on your mother’s upturned yam-pounding mortar?  I bet you are also leaning on the pestle.  If you like I can help you bring a ladder from our house so that you can continue to have more tallness for nothing.  You probably believe the river is made of Anokia’s piss, don’t you?  What?  This is how you allow that Ehvaelyn to be beating you like a drum and then you cry like a xylophone.  Look, Man Rufus, you have strength!  God gave it to you.  Are you not a man?  God gave every man strength.  Why won’t he give you your own?”

Not really sure why, Rufus offers an explanation he’s heard before.  “They say Ehvaelyn took my strength in the womb.”

“It’s not true, don’t let them deceive you!  The fact that you are a twin doesn’t mean—anyway, that’s not even it.  Look, if you stand like I’m standing, keep your hands like this and bring out your strength—”

“Like this?” Rufus asks, trying to stand like King Peter.

“No, no.  It’s like this,” says King Peter, striking a defensive pose.  “If someone attacks you, you shout ‘hiyaa!’ and at the same time you block your attacker with your left hand while you kick him with your right leg.  It’s easy, just watch me.”

Rufus watches the move then tries to do it himself.  “Is this the way?”

“Er, no,” says King Peter, getting ready to repeat the move.  “See how I do it.  And don’t forget to shout ‘hiyaa!’“

“All right.  Hiyaa!  Like that?”  Rufus has now carried out the move.

“Man, you’re fast!” King Peter says, obviously impressed.  “Yes, you’ve got it.”

Rufus grins and gets ready for more.  “Show me another one.”

“All right,” King Peter agrees.  “Put your left leg forward and then throw a wicked blow with your right hand.  Hiyaa!”

“Hiyaa!”

“That is it.”

“Teach me a new one.”

“Man, that’s enough for now.  Give me the oranges.”

A shadow of doubt briefly troubles Rufus.  “Man, are you sure this thing works?”

King Peter laughs and clasps his hands with satisfaction.  “Look,” he says, “this thing you’re taking as a joke works for white men!”

“Really?” Rufus asks, his eyes wide with surprise.

“Where did you think I learned it?  Let me tell you. I learned this thing from the white men I used to see in the cinema in New Town.”

“And it works for the white men?”

“All the time!  It even works for me too.  Once I beat three boys in New Town, me-alone, using these Chinese tricks!  Now, can I have the oranges?”

This information seems to be enough for Rufus.  “Alright,” he says in an agreeing tone.  “But man, you’ll have to make do with two.  And don’t forget the slate.”

“Two only?” King Peter can’t believe his ears.  “Two only?” he repeats.  “And to think I’ve taught you enough Chinese tricks with which to finish an army!”

“Man, try and understand,” Rufus explains, arranging the oranges in his big tray.

“Oh!  All right let me have it.”

“Here.  Tomorrow in school I’ll use your me-alone slate-o!”

“No problem.  Don’t forget; your tray got knocked over.”

“In some trouble at the market.”

“And if Ehvaelyn tries anything?”

“Hiyaa!” Rufus shouts.

“That’s it, man.  Hiyaa!”

***

The next Monday morning, Obotama, a girl in the same class as King Peter and Rufus, runs down a sandy, tree-lined village road to meet up with Rufus on her way to school.

“Hey Rufus,” she calls out happily.  Then as she comes nearer, her voice becomes less cheerful.  “Rufus, why is your face all swollen and blackened.”

“Obotama, leave me alone,” Rufus snaps in a sulky tone.

“Sorry!  I didn’t mean any harm.  I thought you and I were friends.”

“Well, actually...” Rufus sounds sorry too.

Obotama catches the tone of his voice.  “What happened?” she asks, as they stroll down the road together.

Rufus takes a deep breath.” I went to the market at the other village to sell oranges for my mother,” he says.  “Someone knocked over my tray during a fight and I lost two oranges in the trouble.  My mother understood and said no problem, but Ehvaelyn said I’d eaten the oranges and she beat me up.”

“Man!” Obotama exclaims.  “She must have really worked on you!  Sorry-o!”

“Thank you.  Come Obotama, why are you passing this way to school, isn’t it rather far for you?”

Obotama shakes her head regretfully.  “In fact it is.  But if I go through the nearer route I may run into KING Peter.”

The way she says the KING with anger and disgust makes Rufus curious.  “Oh?  Are you running from him?”

Obotama sighs.  “Man, I have to!  See, I got beaten too.”

“True?”

“True!  All because of Peter!”

“What happened?”

“It’s that Peter’s greed!” Obotama begins to explain rapidly.  Everyday I pass by his place to deliver the day’s bean-cakes to my mother’s friend who sells them for us, he must talk me into parting with one or two.”

Rufus can hardly believe his ears.  “Really?”

“Man, Rufus I’m telling you!” says Obotama.  “See, two days ago, he talked me out of three!  Imagine that!  Three bean-cakes!  Normally I can lie that one or two fell down when I ran quickly so as not to be late for school and it’ll be all right.  But that day my mother insisted that I show her where they fell off so she could see for herself.  Well, I took her on a fruitless search.  Then afterwards I said that goats might have eaten the fallen bean-cakes.  My mother nearly trashed me to death saying she knew I, and not goats, had eaten them.  She called me a thief and beat me so bad up till now my bum still hurts.”

“Man!  Obotama, sorry!”

“Thank you.”

Suddenly, Rufus stops.  “You know—come Obotama, swear you won’t tell what I’m about to tell you.”

“I swear,” Obotama says quickly.

“See,” Rufus begins slowly.  “I never had my tray knocked down in the market.  King Peter talked me into giving him those oranges.  He said he’ll let me use his me-alone slate.”

Obotama’s hand flies to her mouth.  “Say ‘true!’“

“True!” Rufus says.

“Ah!  Peter!  Peter!  Why is—”

From a smaller pathway, another classmate of theirs, Stephen falls into step from behind.  “Hey, Rufus and Obotama,” Stephen says, “since when did you become husband and wife that you’re walking together to school?”

Obotama’s eyes flash instantly.  “Look here, STEP HEN!” she shouts.  “I don’t want your lip!  Is that your ‘good morning’?”

Stephen is shocked.  “Obotama, I’ve told you before; my name is not Step Hen and I won’t take it again!  Can’t somebody tease you a little?  Rufus, what happened to you, did Ehvaelyn beat you again?”

“Mind your business!” Rufus snaps.

“Don’t bite my head off,” says Stephen.  “But man, you need to learn some of King Peter’s Chinese tricks.  That’s what you need to whip that sister of yours.”

Rufus almost shouts on Stephen but stops himself in time.  As calmly as he can, Rufus says, “You’ve done well. You hear?  I say you have done very well.  But thanks for nothing.  I don’t want any of it.  The cost of learning King Peter’s Chinese tricks got me into trouble.  And when I tried to use them they didn’t work.”

“Are you sure?” Stephen asks, his eyes shining in wonder.

“Hey, what are Peter’s Chinese tricks?” Obotama asks.

“They’re not for girls,” says Rufus.  “But they don’t work either.”

Stephen sighs and gives Rufus a tired look.  “Man, Rufus, I ask you again:  Are you sure?”

Rufus is about to lose his cool.  “Man, look at my face and answer that for yourself!”

“But it worked for me,” says Stephen.

“What are Peter’s Chinese tricks?” Obotama repeats.

Rufus is suddenly interested.  “Man, Stephen, are you telling the truth?”

Laughing,  Stephen skips a step ahead and turns to answer.  “Of course, I’m telling the truth!  I nearly killed Lazarus yesterday.  And it’s the Chinese tricks that helped me.”

“What are—?” Obotama begins but the boys won't  let her finish.

“It’s not for girls!” says Rufus.

“It’s not for girls!” Stephen echoes.

“I don’t agree!” Obotama shouts.

Rufus ignores her and faces Stephen.  “You’re sure it worked for you?”

Stephen laughs again.  “Man Rufus, when you see Lazarus, look in his face for your answer.  I fed him sand!”

“Why won’t you boys—” Obotama begins to say but is interrupted again.

“But why didn’t it work for me?” says Rufus, giving Stephen funny look.

Stephen stops to demonstrate.  “Wait.  Did you do like this?”

“Yes,” says Rufus.

“And did you do like this; ‘hiyaa!’ like that?” Stephen asks, showing off another move.

“I did,” says Rufus.  “But wait, I don’t think I shouted ‘hiyaa!’“

“Rufus, tell me—” Obotama begins to say but Stephen cuts her off.

“Now you know why it didn’t work!  Look, King Peter told me you must shout ‘hiyaa!.’ And I’m sure he must have told you too.  The strength is in ‘hiyaa!.’  Not in your kicks or blows.  That’s why you must shout ‘hiyaa!’ from the bottom of your heart”

Finally, Obotama loses patience.  “Will you boys tell me what is going on?”

“Obotama wait!” Rufus says.  “Stephen, show me again—”

Stephen begins to hurry up.  “Man, it’ll have to be later, can’t you see He-Goat is out with his cane catching late-comers?”

Hissing, Rufus hurries up too.  “What kind of teacher is that He-Goat?” he asks.  “Why can’t he take it easy like the others?”

Laughing lightly, Stephen replies, “He’s the teacher sent by the Devil—”

Obotama starts to run.  ”Come you two, let’s run!”

“Stephen,” Rufus says, “you’ll sure show me the ‘hiyaa!’ later, won’t you?”

“I will if He-Goat doesn’t ‘hiyaa!’ me to death first!”

                                                    
                                                    

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Orange Peels                                                           

by Sean Southern

                                                                                                                                              


he light swung round, away then near, always round, round and around.  Shadows rose and fell against the blind-white walls; shapes lived, drew breath, felt the hope of life and died suddenly into the light as it swung in that slow, looping circle.  Endless.  The light hung by a single cord, and the ceiling creaked with the twists, groaned out a moaning sigh with each long loop while water gathered in a pool above the stove, drip-drip-dripping down into a splashing sizzle onto a pan left bone-dry beneath the fleeing mist, beneath the fading breaths that rose back to the air.  The drops fell in a monotonous and continuous tandem, drip-drip-sizzle, pricking the moaning of the ceiling, stinging the living and dripping shadows with the softness of dew and the heated steam of hope torn into reality.  Beneath the moan, the boy eyed his fruit, an orange held delicately in his caressing palm.  His fingers stroked the hard flesh, felt the ridges and lumps, the imperfections, felt them again; he sighed and pulled his thumb across the rind.  His eyes grew glazed as he pondered, lost in some distance as they peered into the imagined, smooth and wet, tender insides of the orange.  Tender.  His eyes, his hopes, his mind saw the flawed rind peeling away, revealing the smooth perfection that lay moist underneath, that lay waiting underneath.  drip-drip-sizzle…

“Oranges…. need Oranges… Need!  Oranges!”

His friend sat opposite him in a chair, slightly tilted, his back to the wall, eyes half-closed.  The neck was bent to the side, only rising as the air puffed through the throat, giving life to the vocal cords, the thin lines that let free the questions, let free the sounds, let free the mumbles, let free the gasp.  The friend’s head swung up on occasion, thrown in a blind, open begging.  This friend was drunk.  His friend was drunk and craving, asking for the taste, yelling for the smooth, wet flesh beneath the hard rind.  Through his friend’s wet mumbles, the boy’s eyes remained hidden and distant behind the glaze, searching for more, for something beyond the friend’s hopes, beyond even the boy’s cherished desires and dreams.  Head turning upward, the boy watched the light rise and then fall as it looped; he then watched his friend’s shadow rise and fall as the lamp swung round, watched his friend live, breath, and die in the light.  drip-drip-sizzle…  The boy slid his hand across the white formica table, pulling the sweat from his palm; the wet streaks slid dry across the solid white, and then his hand slapped down hard.  He reached to the ground, pulled up a tray of sand and set it on the table.  He placed a few rocks there.

“Oranges… Need!  ORANGES!… oranges…”

His friend pinched his nose at the drunken dreams while his mouth slid slowly open, the mouth mockingly open, black and empty.  The boy glared at his friend and shook his head.  Scream, he wanted to scream into his friend’s ear, tell him about a perfect orange, tell him about the inside, the sweet, the sweet, but he knew his friend would only hear him in a dream, hear him as some phantom who may have breathed, who may have spoken, who may have passed as a shadow.  He shook his head.  The boy placed a small rake near the tray while he held the orange in his right hand.  His thumb rubbed the hard rind, felt the rigid flesh against the soft skin, and then his fingernail cut a thin line, tore a smooth scar into the wasteland atop the imagined calm, perfect sea, tore free the scents beneath, tore free a glimpse, a hope.  His thumb rubbed back and forth and plunged beneath, exploring, digging and tearing, rising and falling, pulling open the hard outside, freeing the soft inside warmth that squeezed against the buried thumb, held the shape of the thumb, and nestled wet, deep, and dark against his skin.  To his mind, he could only look to his mind to peel away the layers of thought, to see his thumb held sweetly in the flesh, to understand the deep darkness waiting below that corrupted rind.  For a moment, only a moment, there was the possibility beneath the question.  But what else?  What was beyond the first touch, the seeming answer, the first possibility, the first judgment?  The boy took a breath and closed his eyes for a moment; his tongue ran across his upper lip and then was sealed away as his lips pulled tightly closed.  He breathed in.  Released.

“Oranges… Oranges… Need Oranges… Oranges!”

“Oranges!”

He was blind to it, blind to the dark, blind to that deep unknown beauty, that deep unknown perfection.  He dug deeper, pushed harder into the hole, groping for any answer, only dreaming of what he saw there, dreaming of the smooth tender warmth, and suddenly, suddenly nightmaring of the shards torn free, torn into new beginnings, into new possibilities, new answers.  Groping.  Hoping.

He pulled free, held the orange up to his eyes, and saw that hard rind corrupted by a stab wound.  He took a breath.  He set the orange on the table.  The boy watched the rolling white light cast a circling shine against the orange rind, against the torn edge of the black hole dug by a thumb.  The light circled, bathing the orange skin, changing orange to white, painting a sharp valley and then looping to the next ridge, the next cliff, the next bruise upon the rind.  The boy’s shadow rose and died in the loop of the light, and then the white skin rolled back to orange.  The black hole stood murky solid.  The boy smiled at the wound and closed his eyes.  A breath.  He opened his eyes again, turned the orange over, squeezed it, and watched the juice fall, watched it flow and spray a dark splash against the sand and onto the rocks of the tray.  He picked up the rake with his other hand.  He pulled the rake through the wet sand, deliberate circles, zig-zags, then random turns, spirals, spirals, swirls, and finally one slow and dying fade to the end of his reach.  The boy stared at the moving lines, followed the swirls, followed with the turn of his eye.  He watched the lines blur, watched them melt into a disarray, watched the sand and rocks and lines and stains melt away, melt into a smooth darkness.  His mouth dropped open.  His gaze pulled straight and his hand began to tremble as he stared at the dead dry sand.  His eyes began to nervously blink.  He carefully placed the orange on the once wet spot; the hole faced upward.  He stared into the hole, a hole that offered only darkness, offered only empty hopes, empty promises.  He stared.  His head shook.

“Oranges… I NEED Oranges!  Oranges!  Need Oranges!”

He heard a voice as if from down the hall, as if from through the wall, as if from inside the wall.  The boy’s forehead creased while his lips pulled tight, and he plunged both thumbs into the orange and pulled apart the rind, pulled open the hard, rough shell, the hard protective shell.  He tore away pieces, shards of rind, strips of inner flesh; the juice, the juice squirted out, all over, once in his eyes, so wet, so wet.  The orange, the orange, the flesh of the orange, the insides of the orange, the inside flesh, the inside beyond, beyond the flesh, beyond…  Where?  He tore.  He tore his orange.  His hands clung to the evidence as strands of orange flesh huddled beneath his nails.  He pounded his fist.  Pound!  Pound!  Pounded the orange into the sand, spread the rocks across the remnants of the rind, squeezed the shreds of the deep wet flesh between his fingers.  Beyond?  Beyond the flesh?  Where…  Where…  He didn’t know; he pulled sand across the orange with the rake, attempted to smooth lines against the inside of the peel though his hands trembled.  He stared at the lines, the almost round lines that scattered somewhere between the rake’s intention and the flesh of the peel.

“Oranges….  Oranges…  Need Oranges!  Oranges!”

His friend stood, eyes only slits.  He fell forward; his face hit flat on the table.  His eyes half-open, his mouth bleeding, his hair dripping with sweat, he mumbled out the question, mumbled out the need for an answer, for hope.

“Oranges?  Need….  Hey Buddy, I need an orange.  When are you going to just taste it… sometimes you just have to savor the taste…”

The boy pursed his lips together and flipped shards of orange-flesh with his fingers.  He took a deep breath and dumped out the tray onto the white table, scattering his orange in the sand, scattering some dark spot from a desperate cause.  He shook his head and showed the tray to his friend.  The half-opened eyes stared at the tray and then at the orange flesh, the orange peel buried in the sand on the tabletop.  The friend picked up a piece of the peel and held it close to his drunk-glaze eyes.  His friend stood up straight.  His friend dusted off the peel a bit.  He shoved the sand drenched peel into his wet mouth and began to suck at the flesh, to let his eyes roll as he savored the taste.  His friend smiled and sat down.  His friend smiled an orange-full smile and fell asleep and smiled and dreamed.  The boy sighed.  The boy pulled the flesh of the orange close, pulled the hard shell and the flesh into a single slow and full mound, a single and slow warmth in his hands, and cupped it gently, feeling the wetness and warmth and sting of the juice against his skin.  His eyes closed.  The boy’s head settled slowly down, settled into the palms of orange-warm hands, and the spinning visions in his eyelids danced.  Light flashed and faded away into a glimpse of an orange, into a glimpse of an orange and an orange peel, into darkness.  The light faded into darkness, and the boy looked, looked into the darkness and felt distant, felt distant and cold and alone.

 

                                                    
                                                    
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Dolphin Blue                                                                 

by Darren Francis

HERE ARE NO STRANGERS, JUST FRIENDS WE HAVEN'T MET YET

says a sign above the bar.  Dykes in cowboy hats push past me in a knotty scuff of elbows.  I run my fingers round the rims of successive pint glasses.  One of several places where I drink and watch the money go, where the music is louder than my head.  I met my friend Ridley here.  Am wary because other friends drink here too and I don't want to be with anybody I know, but after a drink that idea falls from my head.  The flash of someone I want streaks past, someone I ought to be fucking.  Shoulders and thighs so three-dimensional.  Midnight is where the day begins...  I light another cigarette, sometimes take each drag as far as it will go, just to see what will happen.  Some songs are the perfect hollow cavity.  ”Of course with computers we no longer even need bodies,” a straggling voice observes.  I don't want to be with anybody, just somebody.  Drunk to give me bended limbs, a body I can turn to me and cracked lips that can whisper me.  Ghostrider by Suicide starts and I make my way to the dancefloor, through the transvestite couples, dressed up in each other.  People are warm parcels around me.  The blood is thick in my temples.  Like the stars stars stars in the universe.  Just movement of light and sound.  Alcohol is a vaguely rectangular shape inside me.  I move my body a little to the music then return to the bar for another drink, push down the soft skin on the back of my hand and it springs back into place, leaves me perplexed by the hot part of me that cools for alcohol and for nicotine.  I never asked for this body, just grew up inside it and learned how to use it and even sometimes like it.

Before I could even speak my character was decided.  From a father who had dreams of being a gynaecologist, spent hours with books and studied photos of female genitalia, traced pages with hands lined and crumpled with fossil trilobites.

”I'm Lisa.”

Glasses and a crazy fluff of hair.  Face like the queen of diamonds.  She scurries at the floor, a bag somewhere, digs for change and for cigarettes, digs for the third world.  I order more drinks.  Stand by the bar turning bank-notes in dry hands, it's only printed paper.  The only instinct left is Lucky Strike.  I hate spending money but love the taste of it, love an earth in my hands.  Lisa ducks up, lights a cigarette and smiles.  I sort my coins as we talk.  She talks, mostly.  I nod to give her punctuation, always thinking, which words do I use now?  I never understood smalltalk.  How does it happen? Where does it come from?  How do you do it?  Never much of a conversationalist.  It always seemed just a precursor to sharing beds with strangers.

“I think I want to go,” Lisa says.  “I'm getting bored with this place.  You can't even hear your own thoughts. You want to come?”

“Sure.  Where?”

“I don't mind.  I'm kind of staying with friends at the moment.  Where's your place?”

We walk out through the in crowd.  I pull Lisa close and she smells like New York.  In the taxi to my flat we exchange star signs.

”I'm a Leo,” Lisa says, “you can kiss me if you want to,” and I do.  Her lips hot and dry like sirocco.  My arm around her shoulders and she strokes my fingers.  Feel like I could change her life, for now at least, could be a star too far.  I want a soul that shines the bluest light, whatever or not that means.  Lines of river streak like anything.  Black sky crossed with satellite trails.  Kiss her face.  Touch her complicated skin.  I just want something I can cry for.

“I wish I could be the moon,” Lisa says, her voice scratching to falsetto.  ”Silver and perfect and far away from anything.  Or a star so distant that nobody has named it or even tried to catalogue it.”

Back to my flat.  Only four walls.  Just the foundations of light.  I drop a tee-shirt over the bones of a two day old takeaway.  Push a candle into an empty wine bottle, Lisa tries to light it with her cigarette; forgets, laughs, strikes a match, then we hold by candlelight.

“Do you go to that bar a lot?” she asks.

“Yeah, I guess, kind of.  It depends what you mean by a lot.”

“Well I've never been there before, that was my first time, it reminds me of the bars back home.  I like it.  It's so easy to meet people there.  You can talk to who you want and they don't judge you by your clothes or by your accent or any of that stuff.”

”Yeah, I met my best friend there.”

”Where was he tonight?”

“He's dead, it was a long time ago, or it feels like it.”

”Oh, I'm sorry.  That sounds really dumb, like it was my fault.  You know what I mean.”

“Where are you from?”

 “Huh?”

”You said that bar reminded you of home.”

”Oh, I'm from nowhere in particular.  I was born in Auckland, but I guess I'm from all over the place.”

I can smell rain in here.  My head everywhere but now.  Wax splashes like globular clusters.  Satellites over the Persian Gulf.  I watch Lisa's silhouette squirming free from jeans.

”I'm glad I came here,” she says.

Everything contained here.  Her twisted eyes and dolphin-blue skin, fading to white on her limbs.  Candle flickers in bottle-neck.  Time compressed like language.

 ”I always wonder,” she says, “when the wax melts, where does it go?”

Holding her, another person's skin, slight on mine like stockings.  Touch her hipful body.  Two moles tight together like binary stars.  Explore her skin cell by cell like microworlds.  We flirt with the idea of condom then forget it.  Lose tethers and our bodies drift together, knowing and untouchable.  Having an orgasm inside another person's body is such a weird idea.  I follow lines of lovers like blips up and down her skin.  Cells break off in mutiny to my fingers, not from any body I intimate with.  I rest on the cushion of her belly, the candle dies, and Lisa sings me to sleep in early morning sun.  The golden age is a fiction.

”Go, thou art healed,”she says, and laughs.  Bare sun warms the floor to my feet.  I turn, watch her halfasleeping, hair on my pillow shines bright as elsewhere, lights a liquid path to angel.  Then I blink and it's just Lisa and a room and me, no realer than the light that compiles her image upon my retinas.

                                                                                               

                                                    
                                                    
 

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Margi                                                                   

by S. L. Harryman

know you wonder why I am here and why I cannot leave this room.  The things I must tell you, do not weigh them lightly.  I was once very much like you.  So I must also warn you of the evil and its song.  Its chords are wrapped around us all.  Out of the mouth of the forest comes a melody breathing fury, the house and all who are in it—become its lungs.

First, I will tell you about my brother Charles.  He was two years older than me, and a wonderful story-teller.  He loved toy boats.  Mother made sure he had plenty of new ones, mostly because his old toys seemed to disappear.  The sad part of my brother’s life is that in the end, he was left alone in his room.  “Your brother is ill, darling.  He cannot come out anymore.”  Mother had said.  I missed him, so I snuck out at night just to listen to his tall tales of monsters.

Sometimes he would tell me things—strange things.  He said he saw people walking in and out of the forest and hearing strange sounds.  “Out of my window, I can see it all.” he said.

Dr. Keating whistled his way to our house, every other morning—toting his large black bag with him.  That morning was like any other, I suppose.  Dr. Keating’s visits were more frequent in the last month.  Mother said Charles was recovering from influenza and the doctor was in to check on him.  She walked him past the parlor door to the stairs.  I watched them from behind the green velvet chair.  Dr. Keating always followed a couple steps behind her because her skirts were always in the way.  They were heavy and billowy like wreaths of cotton balls.  They marched up the stairs and turned left to the west wing of the house.  I waited until I heard a door close, then I ran up the stairs into my room.  My eyes stung with the first wave of tears.  I flung myself on the bed and buried my face in the pillow.  Then I heard the screaming.

It was awful.  My chest tightened and it was hard to breath.  It sounded like an animal caught in a trap, screaming and fighting its way to freedom.  There was a weight of fear upon my chest and it was pushing me farther into the bed with each terrorizing scream.  My poor brother was caught.

Then I heard their voices.

“I’m sorry, again Mrs. Harrington.  You have been unjustly cursed with the loss of life.  I will make sure he recovers promptly.” he said.

“I must pray to the Lord that he will overcome this evil sickness.  I will walk you to the door.”  Mother said.  I strained to listen, hoping to hear good news about Charles.  The last time I had snuck out to talk to him was almost a week ago.  He didn’t want to tell any more stories, he just asked for his toys.  I sat next to the door and did my best to comfort him.  It was strange for him to be so sad.  Charles had always been playful and happy.  When he was well, he used to run around the yard with his boats and splash in the mud puddles.  When his cheeks got too red, Mother would worry herself silly.  She’d wrap him up in a blanket and carry him to his room.

I heard Mother and Dr. Keating stepping quietly down the stairs.  If it hadn’t of been for the quiet, I wouldn’t have heard the humming.  It was strange to think that just minutes before I had heard the blood-curdling screams.  The humming was high pitched, like a dreadful scratching.  It drifted under my door and whispered across the room.  It felt like a strange breeze ushering in a secret.  I sat up in bed and listened.  The melody slipped into my ears, it was similar to the tune mother whistled when she picked up our toys.

The humming continued and I decided to follow it.  I grabbed Lily, my porcelain doll and opened my door.  I stepped out and tiptoed down the hall.  When I got closer to the door, the humming stopped.

“Charles?” I whispered.  I took hold of the glass doorknob.

“I’m locked in here." he said.

“Are you okay?”

“I’ve got to get out of this room.”

My legs began to shake a little, I was afraid mother would catch me talking to him again.  “Charles, tell me a story.  I like the one about Africa and the elephants.” I said.

“Get out of here.”

“What?”

“Get out of here!” he whispered.

“You’re scaring me, please don’t.”

Just then I heard mother coming up the stairs.  I told Charles I loved him and ran into my room.  I sat down on my bed and grabbed a lesson book.  My hands were shaking but I tried to relax and repeat my rhymes.  Three blind mice.  Three blind mice.

Then the door of my room swung open.  Mother’s eyes were cold and gray.

“Were you over to Charles’s room again?” she asked.

“No Mummy.  I just—I just heard my name.  I thought it was you and then I ran back into my room.”  I said.  I felt her angry eyes hit my face, searching for some other answer.  Finally, she shut the door and walked down the hall.  Later that night, I heard a door open and close several times.  I couldn’t muster up the courage to open my door and look, so I stayed in bed with the covers over my head.

The next morning I crawled out of bed and fumbled around until I noticed something was missing.  Lily doll was gone from my bureau.  I put her there because I was afraid she would fall out of bed at night.  Charles was locked in his room, no way would Mother let him out.  My Father was in England, Mother had told me that he believed business was more important than raising the brood.  I didn’t quite understand that, I just missed him a lot