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ken*again
, the literary magazine  
         
   

ken*again
is a quarterly, nonprofit e-zine presenting a
hearty, eclectic mix of prose, poetry, art and photography:
accessible, obscure, soothing, disturbing.

Wrap your mind around a good read.
 



 


Pam:  A Eulogy


Poetry


Pamela  Lark Beltran
To Pam  Robert L. Harrison
Hello Jack  Robert L. Harrison
When He Smiled  Robert L. Harrison
Getting Started  Robert L. Harrison
April Fools  Geoff Slavin
What He Wants  Aurora Antonovic
Quest  Aurora Antonovic
Houseguest  Aurora Antonovic
Dreaming  Scott Malby
Jack-O-Lanterns  Matt Finney
Cries For Help  Matt Finney
On Me  Matt Finney
Steps  Matt Finney
Leaning  Kelley Jean White
Letting go  Kelley Jean White
Lethe 
Kelley Jean White
Lombard 
Kelley Jean White
Loser
Kelley Jean White
Shale Universe  Thomas D. Reynolds
Elegy  Thomas D. Reynolds
Exit  Thomas D. Reynolds
My Father as Fossil  Thomas D. Reynolds
Prey  Thomas D. Reynolds
Over the snickering cat sills 
EP Allan
The Theater is Closed  EP Allan
re:  play  Mark DeCarteret
over (come) 
Mark DeCarteret
magic Jesus  Mark DeCarteret
Rummy Park 38 (Jigsaw)  Rebecca Lu Kiernan
Rummy Park 39 (Calla lily Dream) 
Rebecca Lu Kiernan
Rummy Park 40 (Incognito)  Rebecca Lu Kiernan
S'butterfly
  Elisabeth Blair
Instruction is Inclusion  Elisabeth Blair
lip venom (in four parts)   Morgan Lynn
Jazz Displacement
  Ernest Williamson III
A Bird's Eye View of Man  Ernest Williamson III
Poetic Rant #3  Ernest Williamson III
Night Ride Alice Folkart
Desert Guide  Alice Folkart
Nick's Eulogy for Jay
  Amy Ashton Handy
Dirt Journey  Amy Ashton Handy
High Stakes Wager  Amy Ashton Handy
The Rabbit Blinked  J. D. Nelson
only an hr & a half
   J. D. Nelson
Jazz & Russian Astronomy
  J. D. Nelson
toothpaste & kitchen matches
  J. D. Nelson
Gelatin Monkey Brush
   J. D. Nelson
Inaudible
  Angelo Giambra

Prose      

The Entitlement Program  Pavelle Wesser
A Journey to the Light
  Russell Ainslie
The Leap  Richard Meyers
The Bigger Picture  Paul García
The Speed of Scrutiny  T. R. Healy
Honor of a Woman   Dipita Kwa
Exactly What Time Is  Joel Van Noord
Private Dreams   Saro Bedian

Serial 

Remembering the Nam  R. T. Tracy

Art

Morning Glory  Robert L. Harrison
Coconuts 
Phil Nelson
Buddhist of Tranquility  Ernest Williamson III
Man Between War and Peace  Ernest Williamson III
The Artist as Vase  Ernest Williamson III
The Recreation of Self  Ernest Williamson III
Piano 
Katie Ross
Golden Temple 
Durlabh Singh
Redd 1  Durlabh Singh
Redd 10   Durlabh Singh
Moonshadows   Brian Osborn

And another thing... 

Jury Duty:  The Lipstick Case  Pamela Boslet Buskin


 

CONTRIBUTORS

 

Russell Ainslie (prose) is 32 years old and was born and raised in Croydon in South London, but has now managed to escape (though not very far) to Colliers Wood, near Wimbledon, also South London.  He is a civil servant, but please don't read anything into that, he is a nice guy, really.
Mr. Ainslie has always enjoyed reading and writing (apparently born with a book in his hand) and also enjoys sports (he is an avid AFC Wimbledon supporter) and socializing.  Russainslie@aol.com

EP Allan
(poetry) has an MFA in Creative Miss-spelling from the University of Wisconsin, Milwaukee.  He has won the American's Poet's Prize and the Cole Younger Poets' Award and has been published in over 40 magazines, both print and web based.  EP is an ESL Instructor currently working for Shikoku Gakuin University, Japan.  Recently, he has been published in an anthology, published a music CD, a tour guide DVD of Kyoto, and has started his own website:  http://www.epallan.com.  epallan@mac.com

Aurora Antonovic  (poetry) is a Canadian writer and visual artist whose work has appeared over one thousand times in publications spanning eleven countries and five continents.  She currently acts as Canadian liaison for Muse Apprentice Guildaurora_antonovic@yahoo.com

Saro Bedian (prose) is twenty three years old, has been to college for two years and has spent a few years working.  He has not left his parents house yet.  He lives in Connecticut near the Eugene O' Neil residence in New London, a few towns away.  His family is of pure Armenian descent and has strong ties to his background.  Mr. Bedian is very interested in going back to see the old country and possibly live there, becoming an all-purpose artist.  He is a musician as well as a writer and enjoys other forms of art.   Bedian@hotmail.com

Lark Beltran (poetry) is from California but has lived in Peru for over 30 years with her Peruvian husband.  She is an English teacher, and has written for the Lima Times, the Mother Earth News, the World & I, and Aim and had poems published in Coelacanth, Scrivener's Pen, Ygdrasil and Ancient Paths.   wilbelt@terra.com.pe

Elisabeth Blair (poetry) holds a degree in visual art but is secretly a writer.  Her work has recently appeared in the September 05 issue of Acumen Literary Journal and the Autumn 05 premier issue of Be Which Magazineecblair@gmail.com

Mark DeCarteret (poetry) is from New Hampshire.  His poetry has appeared in numerous publications including AGNI, Atlanta Review, Caliban, Chicago Review, Cream City Review, Conduit, Phoebe, Poetry East, Quick Fiction, Salt Hill, and 3rd bed, as well as the anthologies American Poetry: The Next Generation (Carnegie Mellon Press, 2000) and Thus Spake the Corpse:  An Exquisite Corpse Reader (Black Sparrow Press, 1999).  Recently he had a poster (broadside) appear in Mudlark and a feature in Maverick Magazine.  He has new work appearing in Agenda (England), Ars-Interpres (Sweden), Forklift, Ohio, Hotel Amerika, House Organ, Le Petit Zine, and Pool.  Mr. DeCarteret's first book, Review—A Book of Poems, which according to Bill Knott was "filled with insight and outrage, monstrosities and miracles," was published by Kettle of Fish Press in 1995.  Before that, a chapbook, Over Easy (Minotaur, 1990).  A second chapbook, The Great Apology, was just published by Oyster River Press for whom he also co-edited the anthology Under the Legislature of Stars: 62 New Hampshire PoetsMarkDCart@aol.com 

Matt Finney (poetry) is a seventeen year old poet from Millbrook, Alabama.  He has been writing for six years and his work has been published in Thieves Jargon, Blowback Magazine, Zygote In My Coffee and Lit Vision.  synonymforhurt@yahoo.com

Alice Folkart (poetry) has few illusions, is over 60, married, and husband hasn't noticed that she writes.  She has been writing since she could and has lived in Los Angeles most of her life.  She cannot seem to achieve physical escape velocity;  however, her mind and soul are still making attempts.  Ms. Folkart's poetry has appeared in Niederngasse—arginalia and will be appearing in the spring issue of Mindfire;  short stories have been published by Long Story Short, and Nights and Weekends.    

Paul García (prose) has had two stories published in the North American Review. He lives in Maine and works as a translator.  traduzco@midcoast.com

Angelo Giambra (poetry) is a writer living in Largo, Florida.  His poems, short stories and articles have been published in dozens of magazines including Void and Galaxy Magazine.  He is currently working on a collection entitled "Spirits and Voices."

Amy Ashton Handy (poetry) is from many places:  Houston and Austin, TX, Durango,CO, King Salmon, AK, and most recently Naugatuck, CT.  Currently she teaches creative writing in Fairfield, Connecticut while working on her MA in English at Southern Connecticut University.  Last year a set of her poetry won first place in the SCSU Graduate Poetry Contest.  The contest was judged by Don Bogen, professor at the University of Cincinnati, who commented that “this poet finds power in images that are striking and apt.”  aashton75@hotmail.com

Robert L. Harrison (poetry and photography) is a poet, writer and award-winning photographer.   He has had over 300 poems published.  Mr. Harrison has been featured in the N.Y. Times and Newsday and local radioIn 2002, The Hofstra University Alumni awarded him the Esterbrook Award.  He has had photos at the Firehouse Gallery, Freeport Council of the Arts, Huntington Council of the Arts and the Chelsea Mansion.   He wrote a children's book (with Gene Fehler), Goblin's Giggles (Simon & Schuster).   harrisonbd@hotmail.com

T. R. Healy (prose) was was born and raised in the Pacific Northwest.  His stories have appeared in such online publications as 3711 Atlantic, Plum Biscuit, Verbsap, and Wild Violets
laurel462001@yahoo.com

Rebecca Lu Kiernan (poetry) has published in MS Magazine, Asimov's Science Fiction, North American Review and numerous books and magazines in the U.S. and Australia.  Her first collection of poetry, "Sex with Trees and Other things Equally Responsive" was published by 2 River Press. Her erotic prose, "The Man Who Remembered Too Much" was published by Canada's Ygdrasil. She is the founding editor of the literary magazine, GECKOgeckogalpoet@hotmail.com

Dipita Kwa (prose) was born on the 2nd of July 1979 in Tiko, Cameroon, and was raised by peasant parents in the village of Mondoni.  He obtained a B.Sc in Economics from the University of Buea and is among the twelve first participants of the Crossing Borders Programme in Cameroon.  He has written seven unpublished short stories—one of which won a silver trophy in short story writing at the University Festival of Arts and Culture (UNIFAC2001) but was never published—and a few poems.  He is currently working on two novels.  titann5@yahoo.com

Morgan Lynn (poetry) lives, teaches, writes, translates, and surfs in the San Francisco Bay Area.  She writes, exaltedly and carefully, inspired by such writers as Carolyn Forché, Rachel Blau DuPlessis, and Adrienne Rich, and is currently working on a translation of Alejandra Pizarnik’s poetry.  She believes that art helps her do everything with more passion and more sincerity.    mblynn@gmail.com

Scott Malby (poetry) digs deep for bones along the Pacific Coast in Coos Bay, Oregon.  He'll promise you anything if you scratch him in the right place.   beowolf2@harborside.com

Richard Meyers (prose) was active in the Berkeley, California civil rights and free speech movements of the early sixties.  He went to India to serve in the Peace Corps for two years after which he continued in India, Central and South East Asia for another four years working as a teacher of English.  He has published two volumes of his collected poetry, The Journey's Loom and Striptease of the Soul for Gondarva Press.  His other works include the novels The Journey That Never Was Made, Alms For Oblivion, Under Indian Skies and A Maze for Infidels.  Prolific in all genres, his short stories, essays and plays include Rivers of Babylon, Dark Rituals and Last Train to Simla.  His poetry appears in numerous journals and anthologies.  Currently he teaches English at City College of San Francisco.  richieindiaaum@yahoo.com

J. D. Nelson (poetry) lives in Colorful Colorado.  His poems have appeared in many small press publications, both in print and online. Visit J. D.'s website for more information:  http://www.MadVerse.com    milehighstyle@yahoo.com

Phil Nelson (cartoons) is an amateur doodler who likes to draw pictures of himself frolicking on the beach.  He taught himself to read by staring vacantly at Marvel comics and paperback collections of Peanuts.  At the age of 6 he created a crude comic strip called Coconuts as a rip-off of.....tribute to Charles Schulz.  He attended the Philadelphia College of Art from 1983 to 1984 or 5 when he was forcibly expelled by the students and faculty because they were all jealous.  After despairing away in dank, sweaty, poorly-ventilated print shops for 20 years, he decided to try drawing again.  He is still trying.  http://coconutscomics.com  LauraMeeko@aol.com

Brian Osborn (art) is an artist and satirist.

Thomas D. Reynolds (poetry) received an MFA in creative writing from Wichita State University and currently teaches at Johnson County Community College in Overland Park, Kansas.  In his work, he combines his interests in history, folklore, Midwestern life, and poetry.  A chapbook of his poetry titled Electricity was published by Ligature Press of Topeka, Kansas.  Publications which have accepted his work include the following:  New Delta Review, Alabama Literary Review, Aethlon-The Journal of Sport Literature, The MacGuffin, The Cape Rock, Potpourri, American Western Magazine, The Green Tricycle, 3rd Muse Poetry Journal, Tryst, Prairie Poetry, Strange Horizons, and Miller's Pond Poetry Magazine.   tomrey8@yahoo.com

Katie Ross (art) lives in Millbrook, Alabama.  She is 17 years old and attending high school.  She  has been drawing since before she can remember.  katie88r@yahoo.com

Durlabh Singh (art) is a poet/artist based in London and has been published widely in over 300 publications worldwide. His latest book of verse is CHROME RED (ISBN 1898030464).  durlabh@durlabh441.freeserve.co.uk

Geoff Slavin
(poetry) is a good Long Island boy with a checkered past and is learning to swim without his beachball.  He is a psychotherapist living in Albuquerque, New Mexico.  geoff.slavin@att.net

R. T. Tracy (serial) was a newspaper man before deciding to risk self employment as a free lancer a number of years ago.  He is currently employed by a large insurance company as a security guard.
RICHARDTTRACY@AOL.COM

Joel Van Noord (prose) lives and works in Utah.  polyrgam@hotmail.com

Pavelle Wesser (prose) has published poetry and sci fi in webzines.  pavelle@emailaccount.com

Kelley Jean White (poetry) was born and raised in New Hampshire, has degrees from Dartmouth College and Harvard Medical School, and has been a pediatrician in inner-city Philadelphia for the past twenty years.  She has nearly 2,000 poems accepted or published by more than 350 journals including American Writing, The Café Review, Chiron Review, Feminist Studies, The Larcom Review, Minnesota Review, Nimrod, Poet Lore, Rattle, and Whiskey Island Magazine, as well as several chapbooks and full-length collections of poetry:  The Patient Presents I am going to walk toward the sanctuary (Via Dolorosa Press), At the Monkey-Feast Table (Zebook Company),  Late (The People's Press) and Against Medical Advice (Puddinghouse Publications.)  Ms. White received a Pushcart nomination for an experimental piece (from Gravity Presses) in 2000, her first year of submission,  and again in 2002.  She has read her work throughout the Philadelphia area and in Delaware, New Hampshire, New Jersey and New York and is a featured reader during the 2004-2005 Free Library of Philadelphia reading series.  She has been identified as a "Peace Poet," reflecting her active membership in the Religious Society of Friends (Quakers) and for involvement with Poets for Peace locally, nationally, and internationally.  Her book, A Gilford Offering, was published in October 2004.   kelleywhitemd@yahoo.com 

Ernest Williamson III (poetry and art) discovered his loves for painting and playing the piano at the age of 19.   He has earned a B.A. in Creative Writing from the University of Memphis as well as the M.A. in English from the University of Memphis.  Currently Ernest is a doctoral student in the field of Higher Education at Seton Hall University.  Ernest is a versatile artist who has had poetry published in over 45 poetry magazines both in online and print journals. View more of Ernest's artwork here:      
www.eyeoftheart.com/ErnestWilliamsonIII    budicegenius@yahoo.com

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Pamela Ellen Boslet Buskin
Apr. 17, 1945—Feb. 4, 2006

Pam

by John Delin



saw Pammie in a class play in 1953, at Split Rock School, Syosset, Long Island, New York.  It was her second grade class performing "Goldilocks and the 3 Bears."  I believe she was Goldilocks.

And, also in 1953, she must have been watching as I, 10 years old, came to bat against the Robins, her brother's team.  I faced pitcher Rocco Serena, aged 12, on Syosset's first Little League opening day.  Her brother Robin was playing first base.  To me, Rocco looked like a mean grown-up as I swung in vain at three straight pitches.  I'm sure Pam cheered at that!  Years later, Pam showed me old copies of the Syosset Advance.  One had a 1955 record that showed me fourth in batting at .435.  That made me very happy.  It made her happy to make other people happy.

Pammie and I loved the Syosset of our childhood.   It was a place where one could escape from often difficult life in the home and just hang out all day with other children or alone, leave in the morning and not come home until evening.  Later, as shy teenagers, we couldn't wait to leave Syosset and were drawn to, and became part of the Beat/Hippie/Peace generation and the counter-culture of the 1960's.  But we never forgot Syosset.

In 2000, Pammie suggested we do a web site with old pictures and memorabilia of this small town where we grew up.  After nearly six years, Syosset Scrapbook  is rich and personal history and contains over 1500 images, many from Pam's collection (she saved everything).  Do a Google search on  "Syosset":  Syosset Scrapbook ranks only behind the School District, the local newspaper and the Chamber of Commerce.   She particularly loved our Guestbook, as people, many now scattered all over the country and world, posted their praise of Scrapbook and often reconnected with each other because of it.  

As a rule, she had the ideas and I helped implement them.  John:  "We can't do that.  It's a great idea but impossible."   Pam:  "Yes we can.  You always say that.  I'm sure we will figure it out."  She was usually right.  We made no money and reported to no one.  I continue Syosset Scrapbook in her memory. 

Pam was a writer, poet and editor.  I wrote imagist poetry in the 60's and later wrote occasional fiction and features.   In 2000, she suggested that she and I do a revival, on the web, of ken*, Syosset High School's literary magazine.  Her husband John suggested the title ken*again.  Syosset alumni contributors were rare so we soon went worldwide.  Our standards were simple:  we published what we liked.  ken*again continues in her memory; I publish what I like and what I think she would have liked.

From time to time, I  persuaded her to use her own work in ken*again.  We archived past issues and some of Pam's fine work is available here including her magnificent novella, Blue Balloons.

In 2002, she was stricken with a return (after eight years) of leiomyosarcoma, a rare and deadly cancer.  Even though she subsequently endured major surgeries, radiation treatments and heavy pain medications, she went on with her life with no complaints despite constant pain.  Over the next few years, we continued our web projects as if nothing were wrong.  I often accompanied her to some of our favorite places:  craft shops, discount stores, Home Depot, Costco, yard and estate sales and postcard shows.  She had a keen eye for cool things.  In one estate sale attic, she found two Norwegian sweaters for me, worth hundreds of dollars, which I bought for five dollars each.  Pam and I believed that "being in denial" was very helpful so we rarely spoke of the future.   

Two weeks before her death, she wistfully told me, "We had fun."  I replied, "Yes we did, but we are still here."  Then Pam said, "You are a strange person."  My first reaction was to ask, "How am I strange?"  But after that loaded question, she just smiled.  I added, "Well, I take that as a compliment."  She smiled again.

A few days after that, my wife Janis and I visited her.  Janis had never seen her wonderful and unique home in WoHo (a name coined by Pam for Montclair, New Jersey).  She gave Janis a tour of the house.  We then took Pam for a drive.  When I said goodbye to her, still denying reality, I told her I would see her soon.

The last time I saw her was in her hospital room on February 2nd and she was in a deep sleep, her family with her.  Time and illness could not diminish her intellect, youthful appearance and beauty.

There is only the present, the past is gone and the future is unknown.   And memories of her, her achievements and her gifts to others exist in the present.  In that sense, Pam is still here with us.

 

       

       

      

 

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The Entitlement Program   Pavelle Wesser
A Journey to the Light  
Russell Ainslie
The Leap
 
Richard Meyers
The Bigger Picture
  Paul García

The Speed of Scrutiny   T. R. Healy
Honor of a Woman
  
Dipita Kwa
Exactly What Time Is
  
Joel Van Noord
Private Dreams
  
Saro Bedian

 


 

 

The Entitlement Program                                        

 by Pavelle Wesser



rista cursed softly at the city’s lack of parking.  No wonder she rarely ventured beyond the suburb in which she lived.  It was Lou who had suggested she set up this appointment, and she had complied.  After all these years of marriage, part of her still remained in awe of him.  She circled the block yet another time before deciding to park in a narrow alleyway.  It was a tight squeeze and highly illegal, but what of it.  She of all people was entitled to a parking space.  Grabbing her pink patent leather purse, she exited her luxury vehicle.

The heels of her new pumps clicked decisively on the sidewalk as she approached a glass-plated building that reflected the afternoon sunlight.  Krista reveled that she had reached the point where luxuries such as this were effortlessly hers.  She clicked up the building’s steps and paused a moment to stare at the logo of the bleeding heart on the double front doors.  Something about it struck as repulsive; for one thing its deep red color gave it the appearance of real blood.  She shrugged and pushed through the doors.  The cool air ruffled her hair as she crossed the marble foyer and approached the receptionist.

“I’m here for the entitlement program,” she said curtly, pursing her lips together.

The receptionist said graciously:  “They’re expecting you on the first floor.”

The elevator that took her up opened into an oval office.  Krista was so preoccupied staring at the glass walls which reflected a bluish hue from the overhead light that she failed to notice the man sitting opposite the long conference table.

“Hello,” he said, startling her, “I’m Boris, please have a seat at the other end.”

“Aren’t I entitled to sit wherever I want?” Krista asked.

“Naturally,” Boris smiled.  “Let’s start over.  Please sit where you wish.”

Krista sat at the original seat Boris had offered her and smoothed her skirt:

“So how does this work?”

Boris folded his hands:  “You’re entitled to complain for as long as you want, and I listen.  How’s that.”

“I can’t wait,” Krista sucked in her breath before embarking on her tirade:

“I realize that Lou has achieved ungrounded success but just because we’re filthy dirty rich it doesn’t mean happiness is ours, or at least mine.  For one, Lou is so busy he’s ceased completely to have relations with me.  I think he’s getting it from his secretary, the whore.  I’m so disgusted, I’ve started sleeping in the guest room.  I told Lou that it’s because I like to keep the temperature low and it would make his teeth chatter.  It’s true, you know.  I suffer from perimenopause, and at night I sweat something terrible.  Sometimes it’s just my legs, and I wake up thinking I’ve peed in the bed.  But that’s ridiculous, I tell myself, because the last time I did that I was five, and now I’m pushing fifty…”

The phone beside Boris rang sharply:  “Do excuse me,” he said.

“Can’t you turn that thing off?”

“Yes, I will ask her,” he said into the phone, “It could be hers.”  He hung up.

“What’s wrong?”

“The car parked in the alleyway, license plate number JDL 222.  Is that yours?”

“Yeah, it’s mine.  What about it?”

“It’s blocking the path the trucks pass through.”

“Well, I’m not moving it.  I’m entitled to park wherever I want, and I am not through complaining.”

Boris sighed:  “As you wish.”

Krista sneered:  “You only wish you could afford a car like mine, Boris?”

“Excuse me?”

“It’ll never be yours.  Hours heaped upon hours of listening to people complain will never buy you my vehicle.”

“Pardon?”

“$75,000—that’s the Kelly Blue Book value of our car brand new.  And we paid cash.  You better believe my husband makes big bucks.”

“I don’t think I…”

“What, hear me?  Are you damn deaf, Boris, because all you’ve been driveling in response to me is ‘what?’ ‘pardon?’”

“No, I am not deaf,” Boris responded.

“Then maybe we’re sitting too far apart from each other on this here conference table, Mister.  Why do two people in a private meeting need such a large table anyway?”

“It’s for group bitch sessions.”  Boris was apologetic.

Krista got up, walked around the oval table and sat on Boris’ lap.

“I’m afraid this is against the rules,” he said.

“I’m entitled to do whatever I want.  I need things, Boris.  It’s why I complain.  It’s a response for deeper needs that aren’t being satisfied.”

“I’ll have to ask you to get off now.”

Krista stayed perched on his lap.  She placed her head in her hands and started sobbing:  “It’s just not fair.  All this money was supposed to make me happy.  But I’m not, I’m not, I’m not.”  She lifted her tear-streaked face, reached out to touch Boris’s cheek with trembling fingers.

“Uh, Ma’am.  This sector of the entitlement program does not offer the thumb-sucking services you appear to require.  I would refer you to the second floor.  In any case, it’s my lunch break now.”

“My needs should be more important to you than lunch.”

“I’m entitled,” said Boris, pushing her off his lap.

* * *

She sat in the circular office on the second floor.  She believed the woman’s name she sobbed to was Sheena though she hadn’t paid particular attention to the introduction.

“And I went to the club,” Krista wept, “the one we paid a hundred grand a year to belong to, I mean we had to have referrals up the wazoo to get in there.  Anyway, these two ladies were having a conversation about someone they knew who’d had a heart attack.  I kept trying to join in but they closed me out.  They left me there on the cold, hard sidewalk and took off together for a round of tennis.  I went home and I said,

‘Lou, after all the hard work and time you’ve put into your career there are still people out there who won’t accept us, who don’t respect us,’ and Lou said ‘I have to call my secretary now,’ and he left the room.  I know he’s doing things with her, but I’m getting old and flabby and…”

Sheena nodded in understanding and picked up her desk-side phone:

“I’m not sure,” she said into it, “but I’ll ask her.”

Krista lifted her tear-streaked face.  “Oh, what is it now?”

Sheena smiled reassuringly:  “Would that be your vehicle parked in the alleyway two doors down, license plate number JDL 222?”

“Why, yes, it would be,” Krista replied stiffly.

“I will ask you to please re-park it in a legal spot.”

“I most certainly will not.  How dare you interrupt my session with this crap.”

“I just wanted to apprise you…”

“See my purse,” Krista pointed, “Don’t think for a minute that it’s vinyl.  Pink may be a tacky color to some but it’s patent leather all the way.  Got it at the national handbag show held only once a year at the Jacob Javits.  Cost $1200 not including the matching wallet.  I don’t care how much sex your boyfriend has with you, young lady, he will never buy you a purse like this— Never—Do you understand?”

Sheena opened her mouth, closed it.

“Did you want to say something?” Krista snapped.

“I’ll summon the thumb,” Sheena said.

“The what?”

Sheena pressed a button and a thumb attached to a spring descended from the ceiling.  It stopped when it was face-level with Krista.

“That’s positively disgusting.” Krista remarked.

“Suck it.”  Sheena commanded.

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s been sterilized.”

“Well not enough for me.  I could never trust that thing.”

“Why?  I’ve sucked it.  So have many others.  Now you can, too.  You’ll like it.”

“You make me sick.  Women pushing fifty do not suck thumbs.”

“Well, you came here for the thumb-sucking program, didn’t you?”

“I most certainly did not.  I came for the entitlement program.”

“Well, you flunked out.  Didn’t Boris explain that to you?  You’ve been reduced to thumb sucking.”

“I will never.”

“Don’t be so sure.  Boris told me you had deep needs that weren’t being satisfied.”

“Why, you slut!”

“I would reconsider this opportunity if I were you.” Sheena leered.

“I will not.  I never want to look at anything so positively disgusting again, and I’m done here.”  Krista stood up.

“I just want to alert you…” Sheena was saying, but the glass elevator doors had closed thankfully behind Krista, who felt frail and drained beyond her ability to cope.  She rested her body against the glass wall.

“And have you enjoyed your hour of entitlement?” the receptionist smiled as Krista left.

“Absolutely not,” Krista growled, “it’s been the worst hour of my life.”

“Oh, not yet,” the receptionist laughed, but Krista had already exited the building.

* * *

She kicked debris out of her way as she walked gingerly through the alleyway toward her luxury vehicle.  It fit so narrowly within the alley that she would barely have room to squeeze through.  She stood behind it, fishing for the keys in her pink patent leather purse.  The loud roar of an engine startled her and she whipped her head around, acknowledging in horror that she wouldn’t have time to move out of the oncoming truck’s way.  She put up her hand as a supplication for it to stop and in doing so dropped the car keys she’d just procured into the squalid filth of the alley.  She glanced down and noted her new pumps covered in nameless slime.  She looked up and had a split second to register the logo of the entitlement program soldered onto the hood of the approaching truck.

She opened her mouth in a primal scream that never emerged as the truck crushed her against the rear of her new luxury sedan valued at $75,000 in Kelly’s reliable blue book.  She heard her bones splinter under its enormous weight and her vital organs squash like ripe pumpkins.  And then, in an unfortunate finale, the truck’s hood collided with her skull and crushed her mind’s matter into the blood red of the bleeding heart.  In that last fleeting moment, Krista understood that her sense of entitlement, like a phantom floating through her life, had taken full possession of her senses and ultimately killed her.  In that very same instant, it is worth noting, her husband Lou hugged his secretary back at his office and sighed.  He breathed a word of thanks to the Heavens that he had been granted a new life with the woman he loved.  After many years of hardship, he reasoned, he was duly entitled.

 

 


                                                                                                        
 
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A Journey to the Light                                         

by Russell Ainslie  

                                                                       

he child was cold.  Even with the filthy piece of rag that used to be a cherished blanket wrapped around him, the bitterness of the weather penetrated to the very marrow of the child’s bones.  The smooth hardness that surrounded him collected the cold and radiated it outwards, like a perverse sun.  But the darkness was worse—worse than anything.  Anything except…no, the child could not think of that: not now—it would be too dangerous; he had been told, and he understood.  Oh, yes, he understood.  Noise was fatal and now the child knew exactly what that meant.

How long had the child been enveloped in this frigid darkness?  It seemed forever, and yet timeless.  Time has no meaning when the blackness is all-pervading—this was another bitter truth the child had learnt since the day when the fires raged and the sickening, hollow sound of many boots marching on frozen ground rang through the small village, drowning out all other sounds.

Events had happened with dazzling speed.  One minute, it seemed, life was as it had always been—hard but good.  Work to do, friends to play with, a loving family and a warm fire to come home to; but the next, Chaos reigned.  Life would never be the same again, if indeed it could be preserved at all.  The village was no more, a flaming ruin where people screamed and died, where men in grey uniforms fired guns indiscriminately into the tangled mass of people, blank looks on their faces and blood on their hands.  It was there, standing in the ruins, that his mother’s friend had snatched him up and bundled him into the blackness with desperate entreaties for him to be quiet, for God’s mercy keep quiet.

The bumps and bruises of constant motion had imprinted itself onto the child’s skin, marking it in ways that could be felt if not seen.  The pain had numbed somewhat after an impenetrable amount of time had passed, but not totally abated—each fresh jolt of the cart set his nerves afire and he had to bite his lip until it bled to keep from moaning aloud every time the cart rumbled over a pothole in the road.  What the child longed for most of all, apart from wishing the men in uniforms had never come to his village at all, was the chance to get out of his confinement, to stretch his legs and feel the sun, however pale and weak it was at this time of year, shining on his face.  To turn that small, delicate face up to the sun and dream of better times.  A small tear trickled from his eye and rolled down through the grime on his face, leaving a partially clean track behind, a track which was invisible in the dark.

Suddenly, the child heard voices, and the cart drew to a halt, with bone-shuddering abruptness.  A ball of fear cramped the child’s stomach as the sound of boots came running up to the cart, and a voice in a harsh foreign language shouted a terse command at the people riding up front.  Familiar voices answered back, sounding desperate and horribly tired.  There was a sound of a struggle and the box was rocked backwards, then a single shot rang out and a woman screamed.  The child could not understand what the voices were saying as his box muffled them too much, but he suddenly understood he was going to see the sun once more, after all.

 

 



                                                                                                        
 
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The Leap                                                  

by Richard Meyers                                                                          



want to make the leap.  I want to be catapulted into the evolution.  I must be one with the power of the new creation.  Then I might complete the transmutation from human to divine.  It is time to realize the shining of the Indigo Light in which I may read the lost sacred texts of the mystery schools and unfold the scrolls of the Essenes.  I am weary of stumbling over the obscure pages of the Akashik Chronicles never accessing the whole truth.  These old wizard strategies for slipping between parallel realities must end.  Those promises abandoned me years ago.  I made choices I believed in, but they failed to create the complete shift that would shape the outcome of a truly new reality.

I traveled far in hopes of the great change.  I went to the forgotten libraries of Peru and Tibet.  I returned with secret knowledge that I thought along with the technology of mass prayer might alter the dark conclusions of recent history.  Some say our prayer gatherings turned Clinton’s planes back from the planned carpet bombings of Bosnia.  We may have saved the life of the Dalai Llama, but we were ineffectual in preventing the starvation in Sudan and Ethiopia and the genocides in Cambodia and later in Rwanda.

Once again the light surrounding my life is divided; my fingers of godly feeling cannot hold against my thoughts still lingering in clouds of duality.  My emotions feel unguided.  There is always the interruption, waves of refracted illuminations that break the unity in thought that should drive feelings in the direction of unbendable light.  My eyelids were once rosy blinds through which revelation glowed.  Now I open my eyes to glossy hospital walls where brothers lie failing to have made peace with one another.  So often individuals in their lifetimes repeatedly sing the dirge of estrangement and disharmony.  So how can we expect an outcome of accord and fulfillment collectively?

In the mornings the newspaper arrives on the lawn covered in blood.  I unfold it and out falls monster teeth and hate bites and well-sharpened deceits, then the depleted uranium and bird flu viruses and abruptly come the flashes of unprecedented disasters like tsunamis and hosts of hurricanes and earthquakes and some very unnatural occurrences caused by unheeded global warnings.  The planet is burning from the inside, sending waves of calamity against our feverish and fragile lives.  The earth has surely lost its glue.  Great enterprises of pitch and moment, like the bard wrote, have gone awry and ordinary truth has lost the name of action.

Geologically the earth is shifting, the magnetic field changing direction, the weather altered.  Psychic energy is accelerating towards a cycle of unprecedented consciousness.  Surely a Shift of the Ages is at hand.  Apocalypse, now is upon us!  Just unfolding the pages of the entertainment section I find crack pipes and tattoo parlors and festivals of the fantastic and occult followed by numerical records of the number of deaths in battles all over the world, conflicts unparalleled in scope, predictions of doom far darker than those of Nostradamus and Cayce.  By nightfall while the troubled world prepares for sleep my front lawn is strewn red in blood.

But my house is so quiet, sunken in sleep.  The neighbors awake numb from the “shock and awe” of an existence flung headlong into cataclysmic upheaval.  Are there new beings of unique intelligence being born in this tired world, those perhaps superhuman, charged with energy of cosmic light, somehow altered in DNA structure, children of a new order prepared to channel the message of asce