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J. D. Nelson Gerald So Kelley Jean White Janet Butler Linda Benninghoff

Doug Draime Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI Aurora Antonovic EP Allan

Michael Lee Johnson Joanna M.Weston Thomas D. Reynolds Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

  

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flax!  foxy read'r by J. D. Nelson flaw / and crocus, tanner n' that fox, redder / flash! say thank you to the bus driver, or don't say it. say have a good one, or don't. I'm OK.     nice work tonight by J. D. Nelson the jazz cracks like lightning thunder sky-war all is illuminated for a neon blue/white second & then the CRASH & rumble of Thor, somewhere.     Long enough for my coffee to get cold by J. D. Nelson My eggs are runny & my coffee is cold, dear.  I sat there for a few moments before repeating myself. My eggs are runny & my coffee is cold, dear.  Again, no response.  That's when I realized I was all alone.  I had cooked the eggs & brewed the coffee myself.  How long had I been sitting there?     Careful w/ that Clipboard, Dr. Whittington! by J. D. Nelson Prayer is good & fine like wholesome oatmeal. Loops come swooping down & now we can try the radio again. I'm emptying the containers of yogurt you sent me. I'm standing alone, asleep in my diamond boots. I'm glowing like a phantom snowflake, waiting for the beasts to begin bleeding. The radio is cutting in & out.     Day 128—fantastic speech by J. D. Nelson not 100% yet I'm a big ol' tarantula I'm the sun-baked earth machinery frightens me impossibly synchronized reality -- a horrible dream, somehow I'll design a time machine     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Seedlings by Gerald So I've lived alone so long, my trees grow arms and legs. In fallen leaves I hear their steps, and in the wind their breath.     Stars by Gerald So I only see them Tuesdays around 4 A.M., trying to catch the trash truck.     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Ice & Fire by Kelley Jean White just a brush fire, so I could go along stand at the edge watching men move, beat at weeds and smoking leaves a couple watched as well, thin, old, worn clothes but upright bearings:  I interested them.  after the hoses were rolled my father and I watched the black plot on their island smoke; they spoke to us, or rather to him, and we found ourselves in their little home for tea.  it was an ice house at the water’s edge.  we entered from the gravel drive into the structure’s center, a alcove of black iron spiraling up and down. up was the bedroom and windowless bath. as I took the downward stair he pushed a button–a skeleton tall as me leaped from the wall dancing.  another button, a monkey tipped at tattered hat, Punch clacked metal jaws, a dummy’s eyes clicked open the smile froze on rusted screws.  I was entranced.  a day of brushfire revelation.  I never saw them again.  once a picture in the paper, what I remember a visit by the Dalai Lama.  I would not have been surprised if they greeted angels or shook the flame of life itself     I choose a dream by Kelley Jean White When I peel a copper penny off the trolley track and the sky comes unbuttoned.  I have cloud earrings, I wave my arms like Nezha and charioted locusts spring to my heels.  I am become famine and oh my full body floats over the fields of burned wheat.  I.  I am the dark cloud. I am become the shadow.  Metal bands twist like eels screaming in my dark heaven.  Then I bow my head to thunder and give hot rain again.  I go home clean.  The lightning taste of metal in my mouth.     I did not see you surviving by Kelley Jean White your weakness strength the brave line you drew black around your eyes each morning the strength of waiting of keeping love against a fist of falling again and again willing to leap for love into arms that would not reach to catch you mother whose children failed to respect you wife whose husband made your love an ugly foolish thing scholar who forgot to read healer who held me when I refused to be held   Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page         Passages by Janet Butler Spirit fleshed born captive in life in times that shape the silhouette of thought in turn molding flesh to a here-and-now that, free as it momentarily seems, photographs, precisely, moments fixed, moments pinioned in winds that whirl the universe spirit formed to flesh and thus to death passage to what, perhaps, may be or not.     wow! by Janet Butler thin skim trim it thought lean, dense rolled in and on itself nuggets hard, against the filmy stuff of life that splatter a smatter of shades and tinge the ubiquitous with tints that wow! the startled mind to thickened sense life     birth II by Janet Butler a bud grows. a constellation of cells, an aching life-to-be drifts in harmonies precise, pre-ordained, in the belly of life. clusters grope and feed and slowly show in sprouts that blossom and push their dainty shoots through moist, dark caverns to drop in fruit to life.     looking back by Janet Butler We think we know it— that we live in minutes, hours, days, that pass and blaze and leave, even the mediocre ones, a shadow on the soul but, cleansed of pain and loneliness, begins, then, the necessary reconstruction the filtering, the distillation, until the pain that cut and scarred remains a quiet memory and, on looking back, seems hardly marred, now, by regret.     winter blues by Janet Butler days chill to autumn and a false abundance gleams on leaves brushed by the delicate breath of death. skies frost to arctic blues and bleaker hues of black and white tint melancholy days and waiting winter nights     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Other Voices by Linda Benninghoff I know now The dead talk to us. And I wonder Why the stones have been here so long, And words seem to fall Into water to be washed again Or turn into stories. It is the kind of November day I can walk for miles in, See the sky as a vista Of the entire universe. Cloud is layered upon cloud, Like in Mesa cliff dwellers’ houses, As if space could go on forever. Does it go on forever? Or does it stop abruptly Like a blank unnamed wall. "Why should life stop?" You seemed to say One day when we were walking Through this park The leaves auburn, red, yellow. Yet you propped your head up On pillows two years later And wheezed with every sentence. Still those words turn into stories And I grasp this sky Without being able to understand Why I am standing beneath it, Still talking to the dead.   Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page         Ivy  by Doug Draime Eventually when the dark green ivy dies out,    the sun shrouded by the dense smog of doom, they will find us beneath the dead plants living vigorously, our eyes full of mysterious light     I Was Told As I Was Sleeping In Mexico by Doug Draime There was light from the setting sun over my left shoulder dancing on my bare sunburned body. The tav set was muted on the news coverage of the war and my body started twitching like some kind of violent seizure. It lasted for several minutes, until the tav was turned off and my body abruptly fell into the soft, deep breathing of a sleeping, contented baby boy.     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Go Now...Come Back Later by Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI Do not stay in front of my troubles And rattle my private feelings Hereafter, do not touch my ideas Do not revive my memories Leave me to myself Go now... Come back later!   Me, I depend on my loneliness... I do not let other people trample My love so easily Leave me to myself Go now... Come back later!   Me, I am accustomed to the sky's irony It is of no importance That I am discovered in my sleep... I climb my trees myself I water my flowers myself Leave me to myself Go now... Come back later!   Do not stay in front of my troubles And rattle my private feelings Hereafter, do not touch my ideas Do not revive my memories Leave me to myself Go now... Come back later! French free verse translated into English free verse by Joneve McCormick—2006 Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page         Tribute by Aurora Antonovic he coaxed Italian from my lips my face’s shape pressed to form the words now, at his funeral, I deliver the eulogy with perfect diction   Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page         Under the Aeolian Sky by EP Allan The winds blow black water           miniscule countries of slick white ice                            their jagged mapless boarders jostling welding              into ice dunes upon the lake’s scalloped & driftwooded laced edge The silent trees                           huddle in themselves their rough aged ebon bark ringing the still sleeping spring sap                  The snow pushes over the abandoned cicle bearded slide         & glacés the lonely sagging seats of sea-saws & swings               & discarded bent beer cans with perfect unanimity                 The boarded windows which once served snow cones                     & chocolates & saw dust hotdogs rattle             in January’s death knife winds                      & wait for sweaty pudged 6 year old fingers to push a crumpled george                               or abe up to the counter’s splintered lip     & squeak in the approved tit-mouse manner “a StrawBerry Slushy please” & under this Aeolian sky one granddaddy long legged man encased in thermal blue black rubber pull over boots & worsted wool knit trimmings broods from black UV sun-proof glasses ringed with white rheumy frost                       upon summer’s desolation                   & laughs his thin high c laugh riding the winds between the abandoned July beach trappings & out into                 the empty blue beyond     Leavings of the Previously Departed by EP Allan There is something so forlorn about looking for apartments                         entering those square box rooms with someone else’s greasy pace marks                   darkening the carpet                 the yellow stench of nicotine smearing amber tears down the depressed plywood walls                         the exhaust fan above the unwashed stove        lumped with grease and fuzzy grey dust It’s all there in the silent empty rooms                        the spirits of departed tenants lingering               the ghosts of their desperate calculations                     the TV lulling their stupefied minds asleep                      the stench of old socks the stale sloshing bottoms of beer cans constant end to end cigarettes clogging their lungs a pasty cancerous black & the heavy aroma from hastily fried oil dinners              sawed through by the persistent drip drip         drip                  of carelessly closed bathtub taps plunking                through their insomniac nights 1 silver plop                   at a time punctuating the furtive scurry of roaches     Nichole's Creek by EP Allan Walking                  my nervous footsteps quickly tapping the way my death leads           under a snowy canopy of temple cherry blossoms flaring over an exhausted brown wall                    I realize I’m not here in this time slipped moment                not even seeing the onrushing cement truck of spring but I’m still                    buried in Wisconsin remembering the dark cedars planted in toy soldier rows reaching silent aromatic green fingers into such a pale sky the bleached blue is almost but not quiet grey                              artesian water welling out of a pipe driven into moss black rock an icy dark pool framed by light amber cedar leaves fading into a heavy bracken the bent              dented tin cup dangling from the pulpy wet stump of a root the way the water tasted never           anywhere in the wild spinning globe                             has water tasted that alive or the way the light refracted into a ghostly infinity off the curious still birches                   & if you listened you could hear their white sylvan breath                        as the wind tugged their branches awake     Guilt by EP Allan Me a high school student still fresh on the manic roads driving a blue sieve so rusted one could watch the asphalt slipping black below                      How that day has remained its summer cloud dotted sky the dark emerald elms towering in opulate Arabian arches the sudden grey bullet loping out from the bristled hedges my brakes biting shrill & that unique bone                                & metal scrunch of tissues snapping blood the car shuddering still as if it were revolted by impact & deed the four paws reflected in the rear view mirror frantically trying to escape the riveting sear disappearing over manicured phosphated lawns For one hour I circled fruitlessly searching yard after dead catless yard visions of newspaper clippings swarming up my mind “Veterinarian’s Son Hits Cats To Give Father More Business” finally to return back to the clinic only to be greeted by my deed sprawled upon the stainless steel operating table                                  4 white laundry line ropes splaying its 4 thin grey legs in a crucifix                      its jaw gaped open in a fractured Frankenstein horror “Oh my gawd that’s the cat I hit”           “Not so loud Rozo            the owners are in my waiting room”                          For over 2 hours I watched my father wire those thin bird bones                            back in place sweat trickling silver beads down his balk skin head the language a constant blue stream                   blood droplets spurting bullets as the metal drill bit bored a hole                      for a cage to hold what was left of its mouth in place long enough                       for tissues & bone to do their reconstructive programming nature intended sans day dreaming high school drivers But that was just the start for 3 months it would be me who would clean the shredded blood & urine soaked newspaper from out the merciless aluminum cage bottom me who would have to feed it milk formula from a black rubber ball eye dropper me who would have to watch it grow trustful                          & actually welcome my presence as if I were the administrating angel of head scratches & mercy                              & not the inquisitor who placed it in its wire mask          & of course the triple digit fee dug from out the woman’s shiny black purse paid not is assaugance but in a slathering of guilt & finally my father’s new greeting as I returned home         “Well what did you hit for me today”     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       A Poem Of The Night by Michael Lee Johnson a poem is a thought of  flowers near frost, dangling stiff bitten by the vampire of late fall, hanging desolate near dusk from a pot on a patio porch- with a yellow bulb light beaming conspicuously outward over chilled yellow green glazed grass. While my cat Nikki hunches over a coffee, table, toasty & warm, nose pressed super glue to the window on guard for passing birds, cars- utility vans with large bubble eyes.     If You Find No Poem by Michael Lee Johnson If you find no poem on your doorstep in the morning, no paper, no knock on your door, & your life is poorly edited but no broken dashes or injured meter & you don't wear white dresses late in life embroidered with violet flowers on the collar; nor do you have burials daily across main street, & no one whispers in your ear, Emily Dickinson— you feel alone— but not reclusive- the sand lady still sleeping in your eyes— wiping your tears away— if you find no poem on your doorstep— you know you're not from New England.     She by Michael Lee Johnson Somewhere she has lost her shadow. and now she stands still with nowhere to go.     Moon Sleep by Michael Lee Johnson I stick my hand out toward the sea roll out my palm I offer a plank, a trail for you. Follow out into the water & the salty stars. When you stretch out & give your heart to the final moment to the glass night sky, draw me in sketch my face on the edge of the moon— sad & lonely over ages of moon sleep.     Boat In A Pond by Michael Lee Johnson Boat in a pond abandoned without oars tied to a steel post floats on top of an artist palette, rocks sideways with wind, edges slightly west, the sun sets.     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Cemetery by Joanna M. Weston the dead lie orderly graved and flowered blanketed green genteel my singing bones wild in springtime twist, impervious to raised heads     Static Art by Joanna M. Weston A bus passes in the desert without noting my outstretched hand Its full load of passengers wave from windows toss laughter to the wind leave me holding an unused ticket two candy wrappers and a suitcase beside wheel-ruts that lead nowhere     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       My Father On His Way to School by Thomas D. Reynolds Dirt road winds through Ozark hills, No more than a rock-strewn mule path. The backfire of a chugging Studebaker Startles a scraggly band of banty hens Just as rusted sunlight breaks above The blackened hulk of an abandoned cabin. A line of padding feet stretches beyond the bend, Threading past the jagged stones and black snake Looped and pressed into the red clay earth, Preserved in the act of slithering from the bogs, Stunned by the rubber of loaded sawmill trucks. My father bends down while the others disappear, Staring into the misty but still fierce obsidian eyes, Detecting the indomitable anger and feral brutality One needs to survive among these mountain crags, Threading from shelter into the malevolent air Through barren trees empty as skeletons, Up until that last second cursing the gray sky.     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       A Good Day at Ninety by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal At bedside she smiled, but did not say anything. Her eyes spoke volumes, just like her smile. It was a good day.  I sensed no fear. I heard she used to think someone was trying to harm her, some wicked voice. She was not eating at all when she first came in. She's eating more now and drinking fluids. No longer combative, and smiling, at ninety years of age. I don't think I'll ever make it that far.  She has fifty years on me.  I bid her so long and leave.     At My Best by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal I'm at my best when I'm sleeping. I don't have to do anything. I'm at my best when I'm dreaming. In dreams I can do anything. In a deep sleep I could be there instead of here in this tiny cubicle, this open coffin.     Good & Bad by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal Made-up by my mind, I hear two voices, one good & one bad. The good one tells me jokes and good things. It makes me feel well. The bad voice brings me to the brink of death. I search for razors. Before I know it, I have cut myself. The good voice just laughs. It says, don't worry, the blood is holy. Drink from it. This is God's blood. The bad voice laughs too. It asks for my life and my soul.     Fight by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal for A I should just keep quiet. I don't like to fight. Someone always wants to fight. Someone has to bring the knife and worse their hateful words. It is best to keep quiet and not let those who like to fight, fight.

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Sakura  Natasha Brown Cock Up  William Gladys My grandfather's war   Saskia van der Linden Fifteen Love  Will Orr-Ewing

The Jacket  Rob Plath A Moment of Your Time, Sir?  Peter Inson The Town Square  Quentin Poulsen.

 

 

 

 

Sakura                                              

by Natasha Brown

                                                      
   
hey called him `The Doctor`, yet he was not within the medical profession and had earned the nickname simply because he had the sort of manner that the villagers associated with those in medicine.

The Doctor was a repairer of all things clockwork and a general belief had circulated a while about the suburb that he had the ability to fix things simply by looking at them.  He was one of the temperate, good-natured, individuals who seem to be able to get along with the most abrasive of characters and was always willing to lend a hand when it was needed.  He also had a secret.

At least, that was the general consensus of all those that knew him well.  How did such a belief originate?  Simply because, despite the fact that our community is a small one, no one quite knew where The Doctor lived, or where he went between two and four o’clock each afternoon.  For a while everyone believed that he was moonlighting for another company and keeping the activity quiet because he loved his job in the clock shop and wished to keep it.

This belief was shattered when the local gossip Harriet `happened` to ask The Doctor if he was pursing another profession.

“Clockwork is my life, Miss Jeens, and boring as it might seem to one such as you, it is all I will ever want in life.”  

With such a clear negative, the rumour of another job had faded and soon the whispers turned to the possibility of a significant other.  The Doctor was, after all, handsome, had a secure future and, supposedly, was heir to an impressive fortune.

Yet after a month of snooping into The Doctor’s every habit, Harriet proclaimed, “The man leads too disorganised a life for a woman to of had any hand in it.”  And that was the end to that particular rumour.  Eventually it became clear that no clear solution was to be found and when even the esteemed Harriet Jeens gave up in her pursuit of The Doctor’s secret, the matter seemed to have been laid to rest.

Two years after the faded interest in The Doctor I was taken into his employ as an apprentice.  Watching him work was fascinating, and I found sometimes that despite my knowledge of the intricate workings of clocks and their mechanics I was still at a loss as to how The Doctor managed to fix certain problems.  He would always smile in his gentle, relaxed, manner and setting a parental hand to my head he would inform me, “One day you too will learn how to do these things, Jacob, but first you must learn to let go your preconceptions and look at the world with a fresh eye.”  It was one of the many little bits of sage, yet oddly oblique, pieces of advice that he gave me during my first year with him and it stuck in my mind simply because of the odd sadness that had been in his voice as he had said it.

The mystery of The Doctor’s accommodation was quickly solved when I found a raggedy blanket and a pillow in one of the recesses near the basement of the building and I was so saddened at the discovery that I failed to pass it on into the hands of the gossips.  The mystery of where The Doctor went for two hours each and every day was not so easily solved, for my shift lasted only until one, thus I had no need to be in the shop past that hour and thus I could not `accidentally` stumble across the solution.

In the end it was The Doctor himself that gave me the first clue.  I recall that it was a Sunday afternoon and that, as was usual, the line of jobs had faded completely and that The Doctor was using the time, as was his custom, to balance the accounts for the week.  A chorus of different chimes had announced the hour and The Doctor had glanced up to the clocks before he, enquiring, “I could do with stretching my legs, Jacob, would you care to accompany me?”  It was more than a little unusual for The Doctor to leave the shop before two and I will admit to being a little curious as to what was so important that it merited such a change in his routine.

“Don’t worry, lad, we’re just stepping down into the basement for a few moments,” The Doctor had remarked upon noticing my change in expression.  I had felt a little more myself at that and I had gladly followed the Doctor down into the basement.

Always before that day, that particular area of the shop had been out of bounds, The Doctor claiming that what lay below was `unimportant` to the job in hand.  Thus, as my feet set onto flat ground, my breath was all but taken away by the splendour of what lay in front of my eyes.  For in every space of the tiny basement was a little clockwork trinket, constructed of the finest gold and painted with kaleidoscope of colours.

“These toys are my hobby, Jacob, built with my own two hands and filled with the emotion that I feel the strongest at the time.”

Standing onto the tips of his toes he pulled a little clockwork bird from the ceiling and pressed it into my hands before informing me, “This bird was built the day that I met you, lad, and thus he is filled with happiness.”

I recall that looking at the tiny thing I could almost feel the contentment that had been in The Doctor’s heart as he built him and I that I had found find myself smiling, both because the emotion was strong enough to influence me a little, and also because I was proud to have been the inspiration for such artwork.  I did not let the bird go as I looked closer at some of the other creations in the basement and when the chime from above us announced that it was one, The Doctor informed me, “Take it with you, Jacob, for it is yours in all senses but one.”

For a week after that The Doctor did not talk to me, nor pay much attention to me at all and each night I came home wondering what it was that I had done wrong.  At the ending of the week, I brought the bird back to him and he had smiled a soft, pitying smile before informing me, “I can not now take it back, Jacob, for your love of it has tainted it and made it something other than what it used to be.”

I did not understand, then, what it was that he was trying to tell me, yet by the next week he was again himself and thus, the significance of the words lost, I halted in my search to understand them.  
I did not see the workshop in the basement for another month and by that time the magic of the space had faded enough that I lingered but a few moments.  By that point The Doctor’s health had been on a steady decline and the running of the business has been left almost completely in my hands.  Sometimes he would make suggestions or ask little favours of me, his voice muffled always by the thick layer of blankets that were wrapped about him.

The day that I returned to the basement was also a Sunday and I had just bade my farewells to our last customer of the day when he had called for me.

“What do you need, sir?”

“There is a little clockwork key on the table in the basement, Jacob, fetch it for me, would you.”

“Certainly.”

As I have already said, the basement felt, somehow, different and once I had found the key, I all but ran back up to my employer.  I recall that he ran his fingers lovingly over intricate details of the key before he passed it into my care,

“This is the key to my greatest masterpiece, Jacob, and into it I have placed the very heart of me.”

“I do not understand, sir.”

“I know and I am sorry that I must push this on you before you are ready, but time is running away with me.”

I was confused by his words, and as my fingers gripped a little tighter to the key, I had asked him,

“Is there anything else you need of me, sir?”

“I need you to move the grandfather clock that sits near the basement entrance; behind it you shall find a door and behind that you shall find the thing that this key fits.”

The grandfather clock in question was a mighty thing made of what appeared to be oak and I recall that I could not quiet believe myself capable of moving it on my own.  However, I had only to pull it a little before it became clear that the thing was little more than a façade, which had been attached to the wall on a set of well-oiled hinges.  The door behind had also been well tended and, despite its obvious age, it swung outwards with a relative ease.  Behind was what appeared, on first glance, to be a beautifully carved marble doll, dressed in the fabrics of a rich silken kimono.  At the small of her neck, behind the mass of her thick black hair, was a keyhole and, pulling her away from the wall, I had begun to wind her up.

It took at least two hours before I heard the soft click that announced that she was wound to her fullest potential and,  releasing my grip upon her key,  I stepped back out into the shop.  There was a faint whirring hum as her spring began to unwind and for a moment I believed that nothing would occur.  Then a faint light blossomed in the black of her eyes and one fine fingered hand lifted to brush her hair away from her shoulders.

“Who are you?” she enquired, her voice a whispered beauty that was human but for the faint rasp at the end of each of her words, the mechanical imperfection marring her perfection a little.

“Sakura, come here.”  The command was strong despite the evident fatigue in The Doctors voice and both the doll and I found ourselves unable to ignore him.  The doll curled herself up at the feet of her creator and The Doctor reached out to touch her lovely face before he told her, “I have spent my life building you, Sakura, have given over the chance for friends and family all so that I might make you as perfect as I can.

“Yet I have nothing left now inside of me but hate, shame and fatigue…emotions that would mar your perfection and make you ugly.

“Thus I have to let you go, my beautiful doll…thus I must hope, as my master before me, that my apprentice might give you what you so desire…”

“Will you also fade away, Daniel, as Orion before you?”

“I fear so, for all that I had I have put in you.”

“Then I will say goodbye, Daniel, and I would say also thank you, both for loving me and for trying to make me real,”  the doll remarked as she leaned forward to press a kiss to his forehead.

The Doctor smiled then and pulling her head to him he looked to me and said,

“Jacob, I must again apologise for making this burden yours so very soon after you have come into my world and yet with my life flickering out you are all the hope Sakura has.

“Thus I will tell you all that I can of her origins and of the want that drives her…drives us all in a way.

 “My master was a great clock smith and he loved his work so very dearly that his life passed him by without him truly realising.

“He reached his forties and realised, suddenly, that he had achieved nothing great or remarkable with his life.

“Wishing to do something before death claimed him, he travelled the world, learning all that he could of his trade in hopes of making himself the greatest of the greats.

“One evening he came into the company of my father who boasted to him that his son, myself, had the talent to make anything he could think of out of any material he named.

“My master was intrigued by the boast and took my father up on it.

“He asked that I make him a wife of the finest marble and in return he would teach me how to breathe a little life into my works…how to make mere mettle a little more simply by letting a piece of my emotions into everything I created.

“I made Sakura for him using his technique and for a while it was enough for him to have her there…to have me there also.

“But then Sakura asked him what it was to love, to laugh…to simply feel and suddenly his happiness was gone.

“For while his beloved wife was not happy he was not happy and so he began to implement all the things he had learned on his long journey…began to work into her as much of his love as he could.

“With each alteration Sakura grew stronger while my master grew weaker and eventually he began to fade.

“Before his end he passed to me the care of Sakura and for a while it was a responsibility I took very seriously.

“But then my mind began to wonder and I began to think of living my life a little…of making my own mark on the world.

“I learned a great deal from making the toys in the basement and I placed that knowledge into Sakura when there was opportunity.

“Each time she improved,  the temptation to spend longer on her became greater and once I had found you I could no longer resist.

“She is still not perfect and yet it is but a small effort now…I have spent my time writing as much down as I can of the knowledge you will need and I believe you shall do well.

“Look after her, Jacob, for she is both my legacy and the legacy of my master.”

His eyes had closed then and after a moment of laboured breath he was gone.

“What is your name?”  The doll enquired, the endless black of her eyes turning to regard my own.

“I am Jacob.”

She smiled then and I knew, somehow, that she would always be just a little bit beyond perfection…that behind the beauty and the innocence of her smile lurked a dark heart that fed upon the light of innocence.  Yet even knowing this to be the case I found myself returning that smile and wishing, with the very heart of me, to give what I could to keep it there upon her face.

Found that, despite myself, I had been snared, as The Doctor before me, into Sakura’s illusion.

 

                                                                                                        
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Cock Up                                    

by William Gladys 

Advertisement:  2 COCKERELS:  1 Lavender Pekin and 1 Belgian Barbu d’Uccle.  Telephone 01258-830521

ot far from their shared Earth in one of England's oldest woods, two dog foxes were in animated conversation.  “………moreover the roadwork will be starting soon, we have no choice but to move and quickly.”  “But I don’t see why we should go brother fox, our family have lived here longer than the trees that surround us, it’s so sad, and unfair!”   “Of course it’s sad and unfair, something you have been repeating for weeks now,” first fox replied, “but that’s life and we have to make the most of it.  We’ve agreed it’s vital we explore other living areas and put down new roots.   Now you go south, and I’ll follow a westward route and meet you back here in three days time.”  As he trudged south an indolent younger fox grumbled about his brother’s domineering attitude, and how much he missed the attention of his older sisters second and third fox who were killed only six months ago. 

In the distance the metallic thuds of heavy equipment and the stench of labouring men were getting closer day by day.  When they met three days later, the intrusive heavy machinery and men’s shouting was all around their old home.

“It was a waste of time,” said fourth fox,  “couldn’t find any place to my liking, and I’m starving.”  “Well after three days of searching that goes for me too, but I’ve found the perfect place.  Now be careful; there’s a man over there with a gun,” he nodded in the direction of a site hut, “so let’s get going before we’re seen, and keep low!” 

With first fox leading, they skirted many dangers on route.  Once they were spotted by some dogs on a farm but quickly outran them.  At a major road, he made an impetuous fourth fox wait for half an hour until it was safe to cross.  At a wide fast flowing river,  it took over an hour to persuade his foolhardy brother to take the plunge.  Eventually, they arrived at the edge of a forest of mixed deciduous trees.  At the insistence of first fox, they lay low observing the area for anything likely to cause harm.   Once it was safe, they padded silently to the interior of the wood and went to ground in an abandoned Earth.  As a despondent fourth fox fell asleep, his brother ventured out to hunt for food.  

On his return he woke his brother calling, “You can sleep all night once you’ve got this rabbit down you” adding, “I’ll keep a lookout while you’re resting.” As he bolted his food, an ungrateful fourth fox belched noisily and looked away, “Rabbit again, I’m bored with rabbit, rabbit this, rabbit that, I want something different, something different…” as his mumbling trailed off into a shallow and troubled sleep. 

The next day first fox returned from a mid morning hunt with a brown rat.  Tossing it towards his dozing brother, he said firmly “It’s time to eat, you’ll need all the strength you can muster for the journey ahead now that I’ve found something that will  benefit both of  us  for a long time.” 

Following a circuitous route, it took the brothers over two hours to reach Lilac House.  Concealed in the long grass at the edge of a field, first fox made a meticulous study of their surroundings.  “The farmhouse and outbuildings are to the left, no scent of dogs, that’s a bonus and three chicken coops to the right.  The hedge behind them will give us cover should we need it,” he whispered.  While his brother worked out the plan of attack, easily led, impetuous, lazy and not over bright fourth fox said nothing, and thought about the good times in the past. 

“Now this is what we do,” explained first fox.  “In the first and third coops  are our day to day rations,  White Leghorns and Sussex Light Buffs, pleasant flavours but both a bit on the stringy side, but today, we’ll give ourselves a well earned treat.  In the middle coop are two bantam delicacies, right.”   “ Alright, if you say so,” replied fourth fox with affected interest. 

On the door of the middle coop someone had fixed a small plaque which read:  Lavender Pekin— Confucius, Belgian Barbu d’uccle—Renée.

First fox continued, “At the bottom on the right side is a loose board,” he pointed to the spot.  “You pry it open; I’ll climb inside and then make a gap for you to follow.  You take Confucius the ‘blue’one, and leave Renée to me.  Once we’ve got them don’t hang about, make a fast exit.  OK?”  “ Don’t fuss so, I know what to do,” sighed fourth fox, “I’ll be right behind you.” 

Getting in and out was easy, and first fox returned quickly to the forest’s edge, but not so his brother, who perhaps overcome by his mouth watering comments or the sweet smell of Confucius, we will never really know, began to devour his prize immediately. 

First fox witnessed it all. 

As the sickening sound of a single shot rang out, fourth fox lay dead.

In the forest, first fox waited tearfully until it was safe to come forward.  Then, discarding the carcass of Renée, he went forward and gathered up the lifeless body of his brother and carried it back to their new found home where it was buried beneath a budding sapling beech.  

 

 

                                                                                                        
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My grandfather's war          

by Saskia van der Linden 

                                                                         

hey were such great fun, those days.  He was in the prime of his life and having a hell of a time.

The Germans couldn’t stop him, either.  He’d jumped off the train when they sent him to work in the German factories, as they did with all the healthy young men in Holland (who weren’t Jewish).

For a whole night he had to hide in a river, because soldiers were patrolling the woods.  He saw a man turn grey in just that night.

Such fun!

The next day, he managed to escape through the woods.  After many hours he arrived back home, but even there and then he wasn’t safe.  A healthy young man who’d refused to “do his duty” as the nazis saw it, risked the bullet.

Such fun!

For the duration of the war, he had to dress up as a woman.  “And quite a pretty one at that!”  He claimed he got lots of whistles from German soldiers whenever he went cycling with his young wife.

Such fun!

Soon, there was a shortage of bike tyres which made cycling quite hard to do.  These German soldiers would comment on his strong legs (What a healthy young woman!) and smile at him.  He’d wink back and they’d come chasing after him, at which point he’d double his speed.  My grandmother would be stiff with nerves by then, so he’d have to pull her along.

Such fun!

It was the type of story we children would ask to be told over and over “again!”

It wasn’t until I got much older that I heard my grandmother’s story about the war.  By then, my grandfather had started to add a few more details to his.

Take the cycling, for instance.  They didn’t just cycle for fun or to exercise.  They cycled because they were on desperate food hunts every day.

As for the German factories, it was as much a risk to stay on the train as to jump off it, as the men who were sent there often didn’t return, having died from exhaustion.  (I’d also learned by then what had happened to the Jewish part of the population.) "And what about that man who’d turned grey in one night, grampy?" "Well," he sighed heavily as at last he taught us the truth— that man was... himself.

—from the novel Stockholm Syndrome © 2006 by Saskia van der Linden

 

 

                                                                                                        
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 Fifteen Love                          

by Will Orr-Ewing 

y father phoned recently.  We spoke harmless generalities about my job and about my marriage.  Just before he hung up, he asked me—as if it was the most casual suggestion he could think of—whether I fancied a game of tennis.  I didn’t know what to say.  He was eighty-one years old.  We hardly ever spoke, let alone socialised.  I tried to remember the last time we had played, about thirty years beforehand.

***

Dad was a magnificent tennis player.  He had this terrific, youthful energy on court.  "A ball’s never dead," was his motto and he’d say it after dashing or diving for a return.  He was consistent and steady too.  "Dependable—on court and off", as my grandmother said.

In Dad’s eyes, tennis had a sort of moral force.  "All life’s virtues can be learnt on court, Charlie," he said, "fair-play, self-discipline, and—above all else, Charlie— doggedness.  The wise man is a 'Steady Eddy.'  Exactly the same in life."  He said this softly and paternally, with a smile; he was never hectoring.

We had our own court back then.  Our house was called The Stables—a grand, reassuring building with the only tennis court in the village.  I can’t recall him losing even one set on that court.  He played every Sunday morning with a rotation of men who lived nearby.  I sat swinging my legs under a rusty chair, keeping score and fetching any balls that were hit out.  "Ach, too good Hilt…"  Dad’s opponents would say, or they looked over to me shrugging, "your father’s too steady, Charlie."  It all confirmed what he often repeated:  constancy and doggedness—these were the paths to success.

Dad worked in London during the week; he joined my mother and me at the weekend.  He spent much of it tending to the court, nurturing it so that it had the feel of an arena.  And he infused the game itself with such contagious, boyish enthusiasm that I got a tingle of butterflies just setting foot on it.  "It’s confirmed," he’d announce, "Hilt versus Hilt has been put on Number 1 Court this afternoon. Darl,"  he’d call to the kitchen, "we’re on Number 1 Court!" (If we were placed on Centre Court, then a bow to any attending Royals was duly expected.)  During our games, he gave an excited running commentary:  "First blood, Hilt Senior", he’d chirp, or "great shot from young Charlie Hilt.  What a talent this lad is."

We played all the time; he said he preferred it with me.  My mother watched too back then.  If I won a point, she’d laugh and say things like, "Ooh, he may beat you one day, Darl" or "Careful you don’t tire the old man out Charlie!"  In summer, she’d bring out a jug of water (when it had been drunk, Dad would call "Time"); and in the winter, she’d scuttle inside before the last game to prepare tea.  Every time, Dad beat me comfortably.  "You know what they say", he’d remind on each occasion, "the hardest person to beat is your father".

But as I grew older, I slowly got better.  One winter—"off-season", Dad called it—I helped him shape a practice wall.  We painted a face on him, and hands, and legs; Dad drew scores above each one to make them targets.  "You always wanted a brother, Charlie", Dad laughed when he was finished.  We decided to call him Ned.  I spent long afternoons playing against Ned, deep into the purplish-blue dusk until his features became murky and the ball—arching in parabolas between us—no more than a ghost among shadows.  I was exhilarated by the idea of improvement—that sense of the human body as instinctive, capable of being enhanced.  When it came, puberty seemed almost a confirmation of the same process.

I was improving against Dad too.  Around that time, I won my first game:  "Damn," he chuckled, after my drop-shot eluded him, "you’ll lose your inheritance with shots like that."  And the weekend before I went to boarding school—at 13 years old—I won two games:  "Just four more games, Charlie," he said, evidently proud, "I’m watching my back."  At school, I dreamt of our court—waiting lushly for me behind the barn.  But every time I came home, Dad continued to beat me.

***

I suppose life at home began to change around Christmas that year.  I remember it snowing so much that the court, which winked in the snow like a lunar lake, became unplayable.  Then Dad caught a cold so we couldn’t visit my grandparents as we usually did.  It was strange to see him quiet and restful, with a rug on his knees.  I missed his customary running commentary that normally made Christmas so exciting.  Maybe my mother missed it too; she didn’t seem capable of filling the strangely deafening silence.  Mealtimes were especially difficult.  The somnolence of that large house was unsettling.  Every scratch of my head, every clearing of my throat was made to seem mannered—as if I were being watched, or even filmed.

One day, just after New Year, my mother stumbled awkwardly into the quiet of my room.

"What’s wrong?" I asked, loudly.

She came over to where I was sitting and looked me straight in the face.  Her breath was heavy with alcohol.  She gave me a sad look, then reached out and clasped my biceps.  "You’re getting so big and strong," she said.  In the car on the way back to school, Dad was silent and preoccupied.

***

When summer came, there seemed to be a return to normal.  As usual, Dad took the first two weeks off work and we played tennis throughout.  I had managed to play at school, and our games were even closer now.  My mother was right:  I was taller and stronger, and my shots had more power as a result.  But Dad’s constancy continued to triumph.

After those first two weeks, Dad was there again on Monday morning.  "Just having another week off, Charlie," he said.  "Beats playing with Ned, I hope", he added as an afterthought.  Dad left on Sunday night but he returned late on Tuesday; I remember him lumbering downstairs in his dressing-gown.

"Have you got another migraine Dad?" I asked.  He was