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Ella McCrystle Rochelle Hope Mehr Duane Locke Kelley Jean White A. Lee Firth Joseph Lewis Susan H. Case Priscilla Barton DB Cox Ashok Niyogi S. J. Holland-Batt Tom Sheehan Lyn Lifshin J. R. Salling Jerome Kiel      Coffee in My Hair by Ella McCrystle I am my Celtic bloodline. Red ringlets streaked with white break free round my pale freckled face. My great-great grandmother, Jane Coffee, traveled pregnant on a scurvy-filled ship from Belfast to fatal coal mines of Western PA, bearing children who wouldn't survive. In pictures her hair escaped and ran amok. I smile at her face in my mirror, though at 35 she neared death, while I have years to go. The women with my blood, blue-white skin, freckles smattered on elbows, noses and knees, couldn't worry about hair with only sugar water to feed children and husbands killed in mines. X-chromosomes and fiery veins wrap round my straightened locks; yank me up, nag in a brogue, go on!  No matter what America has done to our men or me. My cells swell with their banshee wail— keening at the piano, over gravesites, on water, at the hest of great loves.  With unruly tangles that refuse to give up their obstinate ways, this Coffee whispers from my hair "M'dearie, there are more important things, than young Donovan actin' surly or rude. You've a place to fill, lassie; straighten your back instead of your hair. Get on with life. It won't be yours forever."     Delilah Dolorosa by Ella McCrystle The hairdresser had warned her many times before—about mixing Southern Comfort and scissors. But she swore, it only started with the split ends.   Voice Lessons by Ella McCrystle Standing at the piano, he points to his steel abs, and says "Breathe deep— from your diaphragm." Glancing at her belly, she gulps deeply and chokes. In a tenor laugh, he says "try again, lower this time, let your voice soar passionate and free from unfathomable underground." Averting eyes, she hoists corners of her mouth, plagiarizing a smile, knowing that she has never been free. Every breath costs, every swell of lungs, a tightening belt. Breath equals hope. Hope equals faith. She does not tell him, injuries have beaten her of both. Looking valiant in her unscathed mask, she must learn to inhale without remorse.   Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Tsunami by Rochelle Hope Mehr When to look, arms outstretched and free At the receding and beckoning arms of the sea. When to foam at the mouth As the meters increase, As the dry land opens up vistas between you and me. When to flee Before the wall of waves lashes its fury, While you stand there dumbstruck By its come-hither look. By its treachery. Miles and miles away, the earth shook. The waves roiled In the doomsday book. But all you saw was a placid sea.     List by Rochelle Hope Mehr These are the things that belong to the night: The coat rack, the lantern, the billowing flight, The twist in the alley, the hissing floodlight, The list into madness... The face ashy-white     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page     Al Fresco Café Poems #87 by Duane Locke When the last freight train frightened the straw Woven into the nests of wood chucks on the blued Gravel between the crossties edges, no more Did the pulverized cinders arise from wheel-polished steel To be wind blown into dark twisting complex dancers That caused the clapping of hands and metaphysical feelings. It was a mood that came unpredicted and brought A hyper-alertness, this defamiliarized occasion on The last delivery of cattle to slaughter houses. The sadness About the helpless cattle brought a musical relationship To the moment and was a dirge and lyrical epiphany. It made one transgressive, emitting crazed euphonious phrases.     Al Fresco Café Poems #88 by Duane Locke The emerald light, frog-shaped, on orange-toned naked flesh, Is its brightness an emanation From the dark green shape of a frog Far away on the silver-streaked Ebony mud of a bog. Magritte in his rendition of the traditional Theme of Three Graces overcame the false self To enthrone the reign of the concealed self And become an agent of his deeper self to Add A luminous frog To float on radiant, long gold-blonde hair, Destroying the fictional coherence Promulgated by the language of lies. From paint Came a metaphysics of presence To be reborn and reborn in the forms of the mind Not disconnected and inseparable from the body. Thus a terrestrial epiphany. A revelation of flesh, not clothed By lust and the language of lies. So Magritte knowing finally he had overcome The clarity and falsity of a single unified vision, Stood awed and transformed. He had been chosen by his arbitrary choice To construct an aura of existence.     Al Fresco Café Poems #89 by Duane Locke One flow in the flow of time Is not lost, What was destined to be lost Crossed Over to be my body and stayed incognito. Objects obliterated into events, Fragments. Fragments like and unlike herons, Fragments like and unlike willows, Fragments like and unlike willow shadows Were brought together By a perception severed from the past, Its alms, almanacs and Attic faith.   Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Untitled Poems by Kelley Jean White Nightfall, today’s leaving. I’m walking behind you. You’re leaving me behind again. Darkness. The noise is only the voices of strangers who watch me eat alone. Odd thing to miss— stray cat no longer begging in the parking lot rain all day—tonight my car wears a blanket of red and gold leaves raised whispers coming, renewed life beneath my hands; old gravestone rubbings     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Identity Parade by A. Lee Firth The days lined up In the sportshall; Hot to cold, Good to bad. As I remember From school, Bank holidays Would never be picked For the team.     Washroom by A. Lee Firth Next to the mirror: A break-glass hammer For emergency use only.     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Miracle by Joseph Lewis The purple flowers of the crepe myrtle and the patch of red sky at dusk— behind purple clouds much darker, almost as dark as the summer plums. The eye looks over the trees and houses into the jagged peaks of clouds, looking beyond the light that's fading for the opening of the stars.   Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       How the Universe Might End, We Think by Susan H. Case I lay awake last night, worried that the universe might end in as little as a few billion years. The carriage clock struck three. Not much time. It all goes too fast toward that ultimate catastrophe. But I open my morning paper and find thirty billion years more after all.  Or better yet, possible reprieve forever. Dark energy, that forceful empire might not rough up the universe, might shake hands with the enemy, gravity, across a metaphorical divide. They’d sit down for unending talks and we could all go on unending, with our more mundane glitches and fiascos. So tricky, predicting the behavior of a cryptic stranger.  To wonder if what cannot be explained will destroy us. To have to wait.     More Therapists Than... by Susan H. Case Anxiety neurosis, body dysmorphic disorder mood disorder, the disorder that comes from being disorderly, the dreams —trains classrooms dogs meals sex and the actual whims and ticks of the week that you focus on as if they were divining sticks to the real you, not this fragile imbecile sitting with wet crimped tissues, waiting for the therapist to say anything that doesn’t sound like you being spit back, wondering—how many more minutes?     Periodic Cicadas by Susan H. Case Nuisance insects.  A massive hatch good only for poets, for those who feed off recurrent irritant. Periodic spring, in the East, brace for infestation. Hundreds— the Big Brood, each acre of woods.  Screech as they crash into things. Clumsy, red-eyed, busy laying eggs in twigs. Which get heavy, fall to ground, under which the nymphs disappear for seventeen years, like in some myth.     Old Photos by Susan H. Case In this one you squint and smile at the unknown photographer crooked- gap-toothed coquette hiking up the ruffled skirt of your red organza dress with one hand as if there’s a hot party in your future, your still chub baby fat flirt knees showing.  Blonde hair not yet darkened, curled like the whole Shirley Temple thing came out of a box.  There are palm trees in the background even though we live in New York. I can see your needs in the frame: please thanks hug kiss bliss.  On the next page, you’re a squirt playing on the lap of a tired-looking elderly man. None of us can figure out who he is or what he’s doing there.   Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       What Goes Without Saying by Priscilla Barton Before language there was no word for moon, stars were the eyes of those who lived behind the sky, and art was the juice of berries spread with fingertips across the smooth stone of caves. We sit in the company of small words, mouths gone slack from the shaping and reshaping of syllables.  Cordially, we bless each other after every sneeze, but remain steadfast in this our deathwatch. I am afraid of sentences that begin with 'I need.'  Eyes closed, I drift into places left empty by words unsaid.  I want to be heard, but I can't define myself without sounding like a beggar. My tongue has turned to ash, and silence waits to kill me.  At a loss for words has become a permanent affliction.  You are almost gone, and we have been defeated by a language made extinct.   Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       just enough by DB Cox mondays— bound to the freeway fighting the inclination to run this way, that way ignoring distractions roadside attractions that might make you late for the workplace enclosed space of fluorescent hell that smells like an urgent memo a reminder to take a look at the color photo taped to the stone-gray wall of your cube that keeps your soul nailed to the fucking company floor stops you from screaming, dreaming about a getaway— simple kodachrome faces that give you just enough to keep coming here & going back again   Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Love Poems by Ashok Niyogi Lifestyle Change This mentally challenged sea lion Was afraid of the Pacific sea, Ostriches don’t go walk about, Their eggs sell en route to Joshua tree. Penguins in Berlin Import brides from Sweden, Orangutans have muted Their breast thumping mating call, Thinning mangroves and oily swamps Have dulled the glitter Of tigers’ eyes from Royal Bengal. I settle back into this lifestyle change, And test drive A BMW with ergonomic seats, I snatch at words from midnight blue, To tell my Love That I still can love.   Want I want I want, I pray everyday that I should want, I want your past, or else, I want your now Locked up in my callused paw, I want the long stemmed tulip That grows in your bathroom tub. I want you to promise me Your gray blond hair Dyed a flaming red, I want the holes your walking stick Will make in curbside snow. I want your leek and potatoes, Your orange sun in the kitchen window. I write because I want To articulate one complete sentence With words that only I will choose, Only you will hear, This gibberish of desire. Eventually I will be up for parole Oh!  What will I do, what will I do?   Afternoon Concocted games played on familiar terrain, Fingertips touching, eyes kissing, Calf muscles intertwined, Nostrils flared. Urgent, everything is urgent. The time for tattoos in dimmed light Climbing up the small of a dimpled back Is over and done. Now is the reign Of beads of sweat on upper lips. Slender fingers holding an unfamiliar cigarette, Burning pillows, Wooden shutters on windowpanes, A taxi stops and starts again, At the water hydrant children play, Soon it will be time for a cup of tea. Streaming hair in abandon on lacework, You could have held this moment, You let it go.   Evening Did your diamond catch the light From the lobby chandelier? Or was it my crystal tumbler that winked? Is the token for our overcoats In your bejeweled little purse? We have a box, we have a box, I can at least stretch my legs, And you have your eyeglass. Tchaikovsky is flippant today Like a small boat rudderless Near a desolate white beach. Fishermen have gathered up their nets, Under halogen streetlights, it will snow. You hold my hand And let the music flow, And all the while I play with words Up lighted through falling snow.   Pavement Dwellers They say ‘goodbye’ and go away, The rag picker couple is done for the day Before the day has begun. Hoarse and coarse They sip at each other’s earthenware tea. The couple pushes and shoves. The rag picker inventories their day, His woman lights the wood And puts on her blackened pot. A little rice in lots of water, Pickle discarded by ‘take-away’ stalls, Salt from an empty coffee jar. At last the tea-stall vendor wraps up and goes, Then begin the overtures, Hands into clothes with holes. Shadows, they look for shadows, The abbreviated coming together, Bone tired as they are. The woman runs her blackened nails Through his lice ridden hair After they are done.   Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       The Married Woman Speaks by S. J. Holland-Batt When I was a girl                she says, rubbing the Rorschach-blot of                swimming orange juice into the table-linen, I was in the hospital one Christmas, and I asked for a book about sex. I wasn’t embarrassed to put it on my list.      We sit opposite each other       at the round, cream table,       like two dark sperm       squirming around an ova. The nurse had the only strange reaction,                  she laughs, She was French, she thought it deplorable. But it was East Germany, not France.                   Her gold parrot, Mechthild, clacks mournfully,                   and she fingers three blue eggcups,                   arranging them into endless triangles. But this one,                   (She jerks her head                    towards the empty bedroom                    like a hooked salmon) I couldn’t stand him touching my vagina, at first. It gave me stage fright and I—shrank.                     Outside: the low whine of a                     garbage haul grinding up the street;                     the sudden bawl of an ambulance. In the end,                      she sniffs, I saw a shrink about it.  He didn’t help. You just gotta deal with it.  One of those things.. What do you do?                       She shrugs. The stain spreads,                       covering the whole room,                       the whole                       domestic                       world.     Trans-America Pyramid by S. J. Holland-Batt I snapped the trans- america pyramid,              morning,              frisco,              it was,                                six              below and              clear; so              much so,              the sky              was ghost-              white as              chattering teeth: mouths across the city               were               gabbling & feeding               themselves,               the bay breeze slamming yachts sideways,               a powder-               blue Cadillac               a smudge               in one corner, but I was there & it was               moving, the               elms were               ticking dryly,               the waves               making               little               smacking               gasps, the hills and world were rolling on: cancer & schools & monstrous death              were bolting              down              Columbus              Avenue: a quick green juggernaut rushing up my back.     To Henri Rousseau in Heaven by S. J. Holland-Batt I see you, douanier, grinning and slapping a fatted thigh in heaven. Maximilian leering magnanimously beside you, gently cajoling you to regale how amongst poncho-clad peasants in Mexico, you raised your wet sword that gleamed like a porpoise, and brought about his corona.  Or, perhaps, you join those other eccentrics of the fin de siécle:  half-crazed Jarry tottering unsteadily on his bicycle, (rifle at hand); sombre, pear-shaped Apollinaire, cuckolded by an imposing blue Marie Laurencin, or impassive, moon-faced Brummer, cigarillo perched in the fork of two exaggerated, dangling fingers. Or, more likely, you are still douanier, squelching inked stamps, all the while frowning, loathing your cubicle, coughing croakily with a wheeze, and scribbling on papers. But!  Even so, in heaven, you must staidly plough through flat-faced leaves, followed by a crowd of gamboling lions, (one chomping an oozing white antelope, mouth in a square grimace, blood rushing through a graze), in a queer forest of smooth trunks with thousands of rubber-trees parting for feverish eyes, thick anacondas, flying black beasts with flicking pink tongues, skies on fire, scavenger-birds circling, naked women and milk-scum moons, and you, douanier, amongst them all, fixing it with your imperfect eye, and daubing, daubing, for surely in heaven, if not on earth, time is an eternal weekend.   Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       In Soundless Defense by Tom Sheehan Tonight the stars   Are like nails Hammered home        On black gauze. Eyeless, my father   Rocks upon the porch With the music of leather   Against a softer wood. Now and then a creak   As apt as punctuation As he turns seeking for sound   To identify. I know there is no sound   From stars hammered home, No sound at all   Even in sharp listening for, And yet he hears   The sanctuary of stars.   Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       I Think of My Grandfather by Lyn Lifshin on a cramped ship headed toward Ellis Island. Fog, fog horns for a lullaby.  The black pines, a frozen pear. Straw roofs on fire. If there were postcards from the sea there might have been a Dear Hannah or Mama, hand colored with salt. I will come and get you. If the branches are green, pick the apples. When I write next, I will have a pack on my back, string and tin. I dream about the snow in the mountains.  I never liked it but I dream of you tying a scarf around my hair, your words that white dust     If My Grandmother Could Have Written a Postcard to Odessa by Lyn Lifshin She would write her name in salt, salt and mist, an SOS from the ship sea wind slaps with night water.  Somehow I’m dreaming of Russian pines.  I don’t dream of the houses on fire, babies pressed into a shivering woman’s chest to keep them still.  Someone had something to eat the color of sun going down behind the hill late summer, orange, with its own sweet skin.  They are everywhere in America.  If the roses ever bloom in our town of darkness, just one petal in an envelope would be enough     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Storm Cellar by J. R. Salling The backlit sky wraps around us, a stage curtain in a dark drama, the wind machine professional, powerful. A child's stray homework paper, pock-marked, plastered against the fence. I know it's not our child's, not our child's. He stands forever on the other side, teasing the dog who snaps at its invisible foe. My eyes squint, attacked by a volley of leaves and dirt and grit. "Hurry!" my wife screams from below, fearful of the darkness, the solitude, as the earth defies its uniting force. Hair lashing, striping my immobile face, I pretend to hear but the monstrous roar, hoping to catch a ride on a passing oak     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Spiders and Screws by Jerome Kiel A few words overheard, a bitter-sweet smell And the child within remembers childhood scenes. A little shop on a corner we called The Oil Shop; Cracked, aging green paint on weathered windows, A few faded packets, carelessly displayed, And gathering dust in the daylight. Large brackets, dull door hinges, Tins of paint, brown packets of plaster, Bottles of strange coloured liquids, Clean, fat brushes, oiled carpenter’s saw, Mingle with varnish and sandpaper, Spiders and screws. Small, white cardboard squares, fountain pen prices, All share the same pound sign flourish. The step at the corner is worn, dipped, And the door, solid, old, Finger marks on ancient glass squares And a dulled brass handle, Await the next hand. One small push—and ping! The age-worn bell gurgles its throat, Announcing your entrance. The dark interior immediately wafts A cocktail of smells; Carbolic soap and creosote, Methylated spirits and mysteries, Turpentine and tar and timber. The dark, cave interior has a path From door to the dirty brown counter, Through spades and galvanised buckets, Rakes and chicken wire. On this sun-streaked, dusty floor, they are all virgin clean, Waiting for a job to do. Hung from the ceiling, there is a multitude of saws, Shears, watering cans, Hardware to remind of intended tasks. The honest, pine floor, dirty with generations, Echoes a hidden cellar full of other dark mysteries. Behind the counter, The small pine drawers are dark and polished With years of the touch of thick, hardened fingers. Inside the drawers are door knobs, hinges, Catches and clamps, bolts and belts. And the two, ageless, thin-faced men talk quietly, And smoke endlessly, Their brown overalls, stained with oil. Both absorb and give off the ancient smell Of the shop’s goods… ...One day beyond yesterday.       Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page

 

 

   

Mouse Immortal  William Gladys The Meaning of Tuesday  Andrew Kingston Seasons  Frances Mackay Estrella's Walk  Skeeze Whitlow

The Beanstalk Revisited  Rob Rosen The Fred Mart  Zan Nordlund Caught in the Act  Jerry R. Nedelman The House on Bretton Heights  Tom Sheehan

 

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Mouse Immortal                                          

by William Gladys                                                                          

                                                                                   

here Mouse Immortal originated from is not known, but having lived in the grounds of Halo Hall, and the mansion after it was built, for more than nearly two hundred years, it is hardly surprising that he became intimately but clandestinely involved with the comings and goings of any family that lived there.  This anecdote relates to the time when the occupants of Halo Hall were a self indulgent clique of affluent aristocrats, who had made fortunes by cruelly exploiting indigenous native labour around the world.  Mindfully, it also relates to their financial bankruptcy and social demise.

Mouse Immortal is tight lipped about his origins.  Assiduous research on my part and colleagues has yielded nothing constructive, although rumours point towards his being present in England during the time of Beowulf.  It was also hinted although not proven, that he may have worked as an agent with Geoffrey Chaucer the poet, spying for England in 13th.century France.  Indeed because of his alleged involvement with Chaucer and their enthusiastic importation of port and wine, it is highly probable that Mouse Immortal’s later rebuke of alcohol consumption misrepresents the truth, a point referred to on page three.

Mouse Immortal cannot be considered an ordinary rodent, a perhaps obvious declaration avowed with humility and candour.  Over many years, he has witnessed and privately recorded the lives and deaths of many of the human inhabitants at the Hall, some of whom had died tragically.  In a lucid example he admitted responsibility for the death of a male heir, registering neither remorse nor regret, but immense pleasure.  The heir in question, Master Harry, still considered it his absolute right to implement the anachronistic Droit de Segneur and sleep with Betty the beautiful servant girl who was to marry Stephen the groom later in the year.  Over threats of dismissal, he heard her weeping should she not acquiesce on the pre nuptial eve.  Like the most perceptive of lawyers, he reviewed and resolved the state of affairs quickly and brilliantly, chewing on putrefying badger flesh in the early hours, and gnawing imperceptibly at Harry's leg so as not to wake him while he slept.  In a few days, the maleficent had died from a brisk infection of his internal organs, leaving the servant girl and her lover groom free to consummate their love in marriage.  Out of respect to the family of the deceased however, Mouse Immortal attended the funeral at the local church.  A poignant and noble act, conveyed with the utmost modesty dignity and respect, but naturally no tear was shed.

This disclosure illuminates a small part of a complex nature and personality; a desire to protect the under privileged; and passion to pursue justice but arrestingly imbued with humility and kindness.

Although Mouse Immortal had never been inside a lawyer's office, signed any documents appertaining to the Hall, or paid even a minimal peppercorn rent, the entire rambling abode was accessible to him.  He would visit rooms whenever he pleased; the warm luxurious drawing room, the remote and chilly servants' quarters in the attic, the well stocked but cold, damp wine cellar in the basement, accessible to the dining room above.  He confided that at times, he had been tempted to imbibe, especially when the stock of ageing Nuit St.George prevailed, but having succumbed once, the memories of which were painful to recall even fifteen years later, he had vowed to abstain forever.  (A comment that seemed somewhat disingenuous in view of his alleged involvement with Chaucer, and their importation of fine port and wine in the 13th.century.)

He was able to see into each room and listen to conversations in soothing comfortable warmth from the confines of his beautifully constructed hideaways, each lined with moss, and hay.  During the cold winter months he particularly enjoyed his domicile behind the open fireplace in the drawing room, where he was able to glean "secret" information about the comings and goings of the family or slumber contentedly when the occupants had retired to bed.  Not surprisingly, over the years, scientists and probing souls have sought to authenticate his immortality.  To those who doubt, I recommend they read his historic revelatory memoirs and diaries dating from the early 19th Century, and later restructured editions of 1890, 1935 and 1981. What better substantive and authoritative proof could anyone ask for?  Indeed, how can such gems of literature be disputed as genuine when they exist for the scholarly to read, albeit in restricted form while preserved in temperature controlled rooms at universities and other admirable institutions.  Each book signed by him has been catalogued by eminent academics as bona fide.  Furthermore would I or any publisher wish to damage an unblemished reputation by falsely claiming something to be genuine when it wasn’t?  It is most unfortunate however, that his early poems and songs handed down by word of mouth; appear to have been forgotten.  Regrettably this is also the case for his earlier manuscripts, but thankfully, my discussions with him revealed new and astonishing historical facts, and these I have recorded in a footnote to page five.

Moreover, a foremost issue in his life relevant to this anecdote referred to above, occurred in 1860.  An occasion that generated enormous change, upheaval and trauma for him and from which he took an unusually long time to recover.  Immortality is not a state without emotion.  How ironic therefore, that the disturbing episode referred to in the previous paragraph, was recorded in perpetuity a year later in 1861 by the Pre-Raphaelite artist Robert Braithwaite Martineau, in his painting The Last Day in the Old Home.

The artist Martineau was a friend of the family and had, according to Mouse Immortal, recreated a not entirely accurate scene of the family during its day of reckoning at the old house.  For some extraordinary reason Mouse Immortal did not appear in the finished work.  (This altered or second inferior painting as Mouse Immortal referred to it, can be viewed without hindrance at the Tate Gallery in London.)  He assured me that he was present throughout, when the preliminary sketches were made, and was resting behind the clock on the large cabinet in full view of the artist.  Sorrowfully he acknowledges that his image was removed later but is unable to put a precise date as to when.  (It was awareness of this snub, arrowed straight to his heart which hurt him the most, he told me.)  For ease of understanding therefore, and out of respect to Mouse Immortal, I have included on page six, a contemporary reconstruction of the original work before he was so callously erased from the scene.

Nevertheless, the altered masterpiece exhibited at The Tate Gallery, without my eminent acquaintance, encapsulates in perpetuity a folly responsible for the ruination of an established and prominent family.  The painter Martineau has captured, on canvas, a historical and infinite moment of tragic foolhardiness.  He portrays the opulence, self indulgence and privilege that this family had been enjoying, as well as the destructive power not only of excessive alcohol consumption, but also inherited idiocy plainly visible in the upper class physiognomy.  Even at the eleventh hour, the feckless aristocrat continues to look at life through a tinted glass, and is incapable of comprehending the dire situation his behaviour has created, betraying not only his family but those who depended on him for employment.  Around him and his heir, the evidence of his inanity piles up:  auctioneers labels on items of furniture, a list of available apartments to rent; the loyal but deplorably subservient retainer receiving the keys to the Hall from his former employer.

And Mouse Immortal?  After centuries of constancy, he, like the former inhabitants of the Hall had to adapt to circumstances and attitudes that were changing rapidly.  Very occasionally however, nostalgia would creep in and he would shed a tear or two, recalling past glories and a charmed existence, where unassuming canines would leave him alone and irritating cats were never tolerated.  The wearisome news for him however, was that the latest owners of Halo Hall were doting towards a particular feline species and bred Abyssinians, one of the oldest types of domesticated cat, allegedly descended from the sacred cat of Egypt.  To Mouse Immortal however, a cat was a cat was a cat.  Being eternal, he naturally had nothing to fear, but there lingered nevertheless, an innate and irascible sense of abhorrence for them, an attitude which I feel is entirely reasonable under the circumstances.  Undoubtedly, the unpleasant malodorous urine they would release and incessant body fur,—even though this breed had a short coat—would guarantee him countless sleepless nights weighed down with wheezing and sneezing.  Essentially, he would have to cope with the irritation and intrusion as best he could and, as expected of such a gifted creature, cope he did.

Footnote, of Historical Magnitude:

During one of his summer vacations in the 20th.century, Mouse Immortal revealed that he had stayed in the northern county of Yorkshire, England.  It was there that he met the celebrated wood carver and furniture maker Thompson who, enamoured with such a splendid mind, body and perfect profile, carved for posterity Mouse Immortal’s image.  In dedication and appreciation on his especially fine pieces of furniture and as a consequence this craftsman was renowned thereafter as The Mouseman.

 

 

 

                                                                                                        

                                                    
                                                    
 

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The Meaning of Tuesday                               

by Andrew Kingston                                                                          

he skylights were deep yellow so that on sunny days, the garage was butter coloured.  Most of the time, throughout the year, there would be at least one vehicle idling between runs  One bright golden morning, a minibus was turning over next to the inspection pit, its exhaust unhealthily hanging in layers.

Pete patrolled the doorway.  He was angry and exasperated.  He paced and peered inside and back out again to the hapless sight of Lumber, the poker-faced, simple-minded mechanic.  Lumber was trying to defend himself, although he was clumsy and unconvincing.

“The way she was heading this morning, it’s a good thing she’s not around,” he said, pushing into the palm of one hand with the grubby index finger of the other.  “A good thing.  She was………. well, I don’t know what she was up to!” he blurted.  “Running around the yard, with all the oil and everything.  Knocking things over.  All sorts.  Didn’t know what was going to happen next.”

“You should never let her out of your sight, you bloody idiot half-wit,” Pete replied sharply.  He’d asked Lumber where the girl was and all he got was a load of drivel about why it was good her not being here.

Lumber looked forlorn.  “She’d’ve been more trouble here than wherever she’s gone,” he protested.

“Which is where exactly?”

“Duck pond.  I think.  She’ll be alright and back before elevenses,” Lumber said.  “Just you see,” he added, trying to sound bright.

Pete stopped pacing and threw down the rag he’d been scrunching and un-scrunching.  He turned away from Lumber and towards the inside of the garage.  “Would you ever stop that bloody noise!” he called in, zealously waving his arms.  There was a pause and a muffled shout before the minibus engine cut out and quiet flooded around them, carrying just the vaguest hints of more distant traffic and a couple of startled crows above.

Lumber could see Pete gritting his teeth and getting ready to shout.

“Bloody clown, Lumber!  You just cannot—can not—let a seven year old out on her own.  It could land us in all sorts of trouble!  Take your lunch break, right now, and go find her.  Pray to God she’s not come to any harm.”

There was something magical in the air.  Unknown and exciting.  She could smell it on the breeze; she could taste the salt and shine in the clear and smoky daylight.  She’d been up to the park a hundred times with Lumber and sometimes with the other mechanics and drivers, but today was different!

She happily swung her bag of broken bread.  Brightly coloured cars crashed past her.  ‘Smithy’ sat at his usual spot.  Part of her wanted to go and say ‘hello’, but she worried he would smell bad.  Her uncle wore clothes like Smithy and he smelled awful.  And besides, Lumber called Smithy ‘pervert’ and said she should never, ever go anywhere near him.

She didn’t think Smithy was a ‘pervert’ and felt bad, especially when people shouted at him.  No one she knew had a good word for him.

Still, it was her first time out on her own.  Whatever her sympathies and even if he didn’t stink, and even if no-one could see her……  She crossed the road in good time.  Smithy called out but she walked on, swinging her bread in time with her footsteps.  It was a quite beautiful day.

The park was at the bottom of the hill and she started skipping down, singing and looking forward to feeding the ducks.  She picked up speed, swinging her arms until they started hurting, skipping faster and faster until she was nearly tripping over herself.  Just in time, she grabbed the last post in the iron fence and swung in to the park.

The tarmac around the lake was deserted except at the far end where a small boy and his grandmother were pointing through the fence.  The silence and emptiness worried her and she sensed something wrong.  Everything was eerily quiet until suddenly, on the periphery of her vision and on the other side of the fence, she was aware of a huge kafuffle involving three desperate cats who had appeared from nowhere.

Her heart leapt into her throat.  She called out but the little boy and his grandmother couldn’t hear, or paid no notice.  She started shouting and waving her arms and ran towards a nearby gap in the fence, before sliding through and scaring the cats away.

She felt brave and anxious and her breath caught.  She’d scratched her leg piling through the hole in the fence.  The duck was blinking and its wings looked all wrong and bleeding.  It was barely alive, but the other ducks didn’t seem to notice.

Lumber walked at a furious pace, feeling angry and guilty.  He felt a pang of disgust and his hackles jump at the sight of Smithy, until he reasoned if he was here, on the bench, he could hardly be anywhere else and up to no good.  He felt relieved, then indignant.  What kind of harm did Pete possibly think could have come to the girl?!

“Fiddler!” Smithy yelled.  Lumber didn’t shout back like he usually did.  He didn’t want to be put off, not by Smithy, or by the wind blowing grit where his ankles were exposed between the tops of his socks and the bottom of his trousers.

He didn’t know why it was up to him to look after the little girl.  He didn’t mind, most of the time, although sometimes, she was a pest.  A right ‘pain in the arse’ as Pete would say.  He cursed to himself.  He hated and would never forgive himself if anything went wrong.

He should never have let her out of his sight, let alone encourage her to leave the garage.  He had told her to go off and find ‘the meaning of Tuesday’ and come back and tell him all about it at lunch.  He just wanted her away from the yard for a while so that he could get on with some work.

It wouldn’t get done now.  Pete would have to wait.

He rounded the iron rail fence and couldn’t see her; or at least not straightaway, not until what looked like a pile of clothes between the border fence and the lake stood up and started crying.

“What’s wrong; what’s wrong?” he flapped, hurrying the hundred or so metres over to her.  He wasn’t a large man, although he had a large man’s bearing.  The little girl flung her arms back towards the water as he approached.  Only when she stood to one side did Lumber see a pile of feathers and a barely moving body of a duck next to it.

“There there,” Lumber said, making soothing noises.  He vaulted the fence and landed heavily.  The duck was in a bad way.  He scrambled back over, telling the girl to ‘stay tight’ before disappearing and returning with a cardboard box.  All the while, the little girl sobbed quietly before crouching and reminding herself how badly the duck was hurt and renewing her noise.

Lumber picked the duck up in his box and took a firm hold of the little girl’s hand and walked them back to the garage.  The duck’s eyes opened every now and again, but things didn’t look good.

Pete wasn’t happy to see Lumber, or the girl.  He certainly wasn’t interested in the duck.  When Lumber suggested he should at least make sure it was comfortable, he was given short shrift.

“You do that in your own time.  It’s a day off your holiday!”

“A bloody duck,” Pete muttered as he turned round and wiped his oily hands on an old hand towel.

“Is Pete angry?” the girl asked once they’d found a clear space for the bird in the workshop.

“No.  Not really,” Lumber smiled.  He knew where to look for whiskey and heated a little over the stove with some milk.  He took some of the little girl’s bread, cubed and stale as honeycomb, and floated it, before the chunks absorbed the mixture, bloated and sunk.

Lumber found a stool for the little girl to stand on, but undertook the operation of feeding, or trying to feed, the duck himself.  The duck took a little before falling asleep again.

As the afternoon wore on, the duck started looking wild and panicky.  Lumber tried to impress an air of cautious wisdom for little girl’s benefit.  “He’s scared now, but that’s a good thing.  Better scared and have the strength to be scared than to be sick and dying.”

There was a fizz behind his eyes as he said the word ‘dying’.  He hated everything it had come to mean, especially in the last six years, during which time he had watched his wretched mother losing her grasp, dying a little more, every day.

To the little girl, the idea of death was unexpected, new and completely unknown.  Totally ungraspable.

“Can we take him back?” she first asked at about half past two.  By the time she asked for the third or fourth time, it was clear the duck was on its way to a recovery.

“I don’t know,” Lumber said wisely, even though he’d already decided.  It was a trick rather than an outright deception.  He stroked his chin.  “Oh what the heck,” he followed up, grandly shrugging his shoulders. The little girl squirmed with joy, but tried to hold back and show her maturity.

“Not for an hour or so though,” Lumber added.  He wanted to get home to Mrs. Lumber at the usual time and not have to explain the whole day’s events to her.

“Well of course not for an hour,” the little girl added, as if anything else was ridiculous.

Half an hour later they had walked past Smithy’s bench and were rounding the park railings.  Lumber held a coat over the box where the duck lay sulking and worn out from the excitement and the whiskey.

The duck didn’t think he would be taken back so soon and in such a state of disarray.  Not for one minute.  The first he suspected was when the smells and background sounds around the bumping dark started becoming familiar.  Surely not, he thought.  He’d been found out as a weakling at the pond and removed from the group.  To be dropped back so soon would be disastrous.

Suddenly, the lid was off the box, letting fresh air and light flood in.

After a minute or two of swaying around and ‘quacking’, the duck started hoping perhaps—just maybe—the people who had bought him back were waiting for the heat to wear off.  It would take some time though.  The vibes he was getting from the other ducks were determined and ugly.  They stood their distance, none of them looking like they were prepared to approach him.

Twice the man tried to get the little girl away, but twice she pulled him back.

The duck thought furiously, trying to project out to them.   “You must stay!” the bird’s brain screamed.  He looked round and for a second, his hopes raised.  His colleagues seemed to have lost some of their interest.  If only a few of them jumped him when he was finally, inevitably left by his rescuers, then he might—just might— stand a chance.

He started waddling and limping back towards the fence and slipped where the grass petered out in to tarmac.  Only when he steadied himself did he realise his former rescuers were sneaking away.  As she turned the corner, the little girl waved.  Then she was gone.

Next day, the sky was more brittle and had the sulky look of the oncoming winter.  The little girl skipped on her way to the garage.  Her head was full of activities for the day.  She’d drawn a picture for Pete to make him less angry with Lumber and decided the two of them—her and Lumber—should return to the pond, at lunchtime, to visit the duck.

Soon she was at the road which led off, in one direction, to the garage, and in the other, to the park.  She started worrying.  Lunch was hours away, and what if Lumber couldn’t go?  She turned in the direction of the garage, but swiveled round, ruefully.  She had to see that the duck was still okay, and after a moment’s hesitation, decided to pop up past Smithy’s bench and on to the park to see.  In her heart she already knew...

 

 

                                                                                                        

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Seasons                                                                  

by Frances Mackay

                                                                                                                                              

une stepped onto the hard baked soil.  It had been another restless night and her baby was almost due.  She put her hand on her stomach and smiled as she felt the ripple.  "Soon, baby, soon", she crooned.

She sighed as she looked out at the parched land.  Dust storms had brought the dunes closer.  They were now encroaching on to their pastures and had piled against the sparse windbreak.  Don, her husband,  had taken what was left of their stock to the ‘long paddock’, the traditional droving trail used in times of drought, and she’d had little word in the last weeks.  She was going to have to handle the birth by herself.

Rusty, the old heeler bitch, walked the yard with her.  Together they stopped and watched the sky change to rosy colour.  June fondled Rusty’s ear, an ache in her throat, as a small wind caused an eddy of red dust to whirl across the flat ground.  Leaves and grit buffeted the pair.

Bush bees were already busy and the flowers of the tall cactus glowed, reflecting the light.  Their beauty wouldn’t survive the heat and would be shriveled by mid-morning.

June winced and arched her back at the low, grinding pain.  As soon as she was able she turned back to the house and smiled at the unopened buds on the cactus.

 

 

                                                                                                        
 

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Estrella's Walk                                                         

by Skeeze Whitlow

n due time, I heard through the scuttlebutt, word of a most amazing creature.  An Indian Goddess.  With iridescent beauty holding forth, standing proud, high atop a lush green hilltop in Armuelles.  Our destination!  And this Goddess’s name was Estrella.   Estrella.

So this was what it was all about:  Estrella.  They spoke of her with reverence.  Beauty untouchable.  Estrella’s light feminine mannerisms captivate.  A ray of hope shines from above with the mention of this Goddess.  Genuine seven crowned Chiriqui.  Her dimensions consummate apparition like karat fixates diamond.  Blameless vitality shifts through spectrum.  Bizarre shades of night.  The earth, created for her amusement; water conceived so she might have somewhere to walk.  Well formed bare feet, exquisite in their arch.  She moves through dreams.  And upon them.  Every ethereal grace rewards those touched by Estrella.

A glimpse of her as she wanders down toward the sea, on midnight strolls with a sleek panther who comes in out of the jungle to nuzzle against the firm of her thigh.  Momentary pleasure indulges as they, two together, amble along the noiseless depth of riverside’s mist.  As if in dance, she’d sway; he’d stretch velvety paws of guile.  Heel and paw glisten over shiny slate, over garlands of flowers draped along the bank.  Sashaying through low fronds brushing against the calves of their legs.  Touching the wily innocence of this night.  Clinging vines reach for river’s succor.  Before glowing orchids of Espirito Santo the atmosphere smacks of forever.  They absorb the water’s bubbling gurgle.  In plain sight, reptilian alertness.  El Grande Zappo.  The sensitive eyes of all God’s creatures.  Below nesting birds of paradise, the cat’s haunching vertebrae slithers to the tickle of brazen fingernails.  Down to the river’s mouth, they step, often carelessly setting foot within the tempting flow, keeping clear of large round phosphorescent boulders.  Dappled moonlight gleams.  Down to the gushing mouth where white crests of algae-laden sea lap against this peaceful flow, against these deep reflective pools which began their trickle and fall from craggy mountains, clear as day, rolling down through leafy hillsides to vast grasses, dipping to banana plantations.  Estrella’s native land.  Top soil takes on new meaning.  Still waters span loamy banks.  Aqua elements meet, touch and mingle.  Rich dark silt sweats out nutrients.  Shallow roots caress.  Palms touch the starry starry sky.  Thin trees, overgrowth of vine.  Shoots and sprouts, scrubby bushes, blossoming bijous.  Tiny scurrying things thrive here.  Off to the side of the pummeled footpath.  Beneath lush cover—small eyes blink.  Noises coo.  Magic escapes in effervescence.  Memory bubbles.  To a hallowed opening in this suffocating jungle flora.  The melding of fresh water and salt, a frothy bubbling point where the flow’s clarity is engulfed.  Clouded.  Enraptured.  This land’s sweet nectar gives way to the sea’s stiff breeze.  Estrella bids the famished black cat drink.  Lowering its head, the panther dips its tongue into brackish liquid.  Slurping, lapping up juices of life.  Sublime juices, pledging elusive powers.  His sleek black whiskered mouth stitched with incisors; nimble pink lapper one notch above silence.  Need pulsates like spanning rings.  Desire craves this vicinity.

Estrella parts with her midnight paramour.  Puma, lord God of fear and respect.  She’ll walk with him tomorrow night.  And ever more.  Her ankles kick.  Sand and salt sift through urging toes.  Dry beach luminescent against crashing waves.  Frothing traces of brine.  The wind tugs her hair, a knowing smile glistens; she outshines.  Her muscles flex.  Shadowy flanks curve.  Eager feet prowl.  In search of dawn.

Yes, this is what I overheard from the beaten and world-weary sailors as they made their ways back and forth from the meal table.  I was mesmerized.  Stunned.  My anticipation shot up through the overhead.  All I wanted was to meet this woman.  Yes, I needed a Goddess like never before.

 

                                                                  

                                                    
                                                    

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The Beanstalk Revisited                                                      

by Rob Rosen

ake awoke with a start at the sound of pounding on his bedroom door.  “Jake!” his father bellowed, repeatedly, until Jake flung his legs out of bed and lumbered over to the door.

“It’s Saturday, dad.  I don’t have to get up early today,” Jake said, groggily, as he opened the door.

“Yes, but I do and today is your mother’s birthday.”

“Step-mother,” Jake corrected.

“Semantics,” his dad replied.  “In any case, I’m sure you’ve conveniently forgotten to get her anything, so here’s fifty dollars.  Go buy her something nice.”

His dad handed him the bills and was off in a flash.  Jake could think of a million other things that he’d rather do than go shopping for a present for his stepmother, like poking his eyes out with hot pokers, but he knew he had had no choice in the matter.

When his real mother was still alive, birthdays were more fun than Christmas.  Now, very little excited Jake; especially anything that had to do with the woman his father married.  Still, he did have fifty dollars, and that could buy a whole lot of things besides just a gift for his evil, old stepmonster, as he liked to call her when nobody was listening.

So Jake showered, dressed, and rode his bicycle down the street to the local pawnshop.  Mr. Harrington kept a wicked, cool collection of comic books that normally Jake could never afford to buy.  But normally he didn’t have a wad of cash burning a hole through his jeans.  And though Jake never did care for Mr. Harrington, he certainly liked his comics.  He eyed them hungrily as soon as he entered the store.  Mr. Harrington was on him in two seconds flat, as kids like Jake were forever trying to steal those particular items.

“No reading in the store, young man.  You want it, you buy it,” Mr. Harrington admonished.

“No sweat,” Jake replied, and flashed him the money.  Mr. Harrington eyed him suspiciously, but stepped a few feet back to let Jake explore the collection.  Mr. Harrington liked cash more than he hated kids.  It was merely a matter of priorities.

Fifteen minutes later Jake was at the counter with several hard-to-find issues.  Each cost ten dollars.  That was five comics:  a boon for any twelve year old.  But just before Jake paid for them, he remembered his stepmonster.  She’d never believe the comics were for her; and, more importantly, neither would his father.  So, with much thought, he dwindled the stack down to four and asked Mr. Harrington what he could buy with ten dollars for his stepmother’s birthday.

Mr. Harrington looked around his store reverently and replied, “Son, you’re lucky to get those comics for that price.  You know, ten dollars doesn’t go very far these days.”  Jake looked around the store as well, but all he saw was a bunch of junk.  Who’d want this stuff, he thought, let alone pay ten dollars for any of it.  But just before he started to return another comic to the rack, Mr. Harrington pulled out an item from beneath the counter.

It was dusty.  It was banged up.  It was on the small side.  And it had a funky angel-like thing along the side.  But, Jake noticed, it was marked for ten dollars.

“Bingo,” Jake said, with glee.  “What is it?”

“What is it?”  Mr. Harrington said in mock surprise.  “This, my little friend, is a harp.  And a very special harp at that.”

“Then why’s it marked for only ten dollars?”  Jake asked, already leery.

“Because it can only be sold to a very special young boy.  An adult could only appreciate it for its beauty, but a child can make it truly sing.”

“Sing?  You mean play, right?”

“No, for the right person, this harp will sing.  My lad, do you know the story of Jack and the beanstalk?”

“The fairytale?  Sure, I know it.  My mom used to tell it to me.  When she was alive.”  Jake looked down at his sneakers.  He hated talking about his mother like she wasn’t there anymore.

Mr. Harrington nodded.  “Yes, the fairytale.  Though like many fairytales this one was rooted in truth.  This, my boy, is the actual golden harp that Jack stole from the giant.  And it will sing, but only for a child.  Or a giant, but they’re harder to come by these days.”

“Oh come on now,” Jake said.  “You’re pulling my leg.  It’s just an old brass harp.  Fairytales are fairytales, nothing more.”

“No siree.  Lots of stories are based in some way or another on real people.  Take, for instance, Dracula.  You know Dracula right?  Well, he’s based on a real live person:  Vladimir the Impaler.  Ever heard of him?”

“Sure.  I suppose so,” Jake said, thinking that Mr. Harrington was even crazier than he first thought.  “Still, Dracula ain’t no giant beanstalk or a singing harp.”

“Okay, how about Cinderella then?  And her evil stepmother?”

Ah, Jake saw something concrete in that example.  He knew they existed.  “Fine,” he finally said.  “I’ll give you fifty for these comics and that crazy old harp.”

“You got a deal, m