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

 

 

   

• "Hiyaa!"   Crispin Oduobuk

• Orange Peels  Sean Southern

• Dolphin Blue   Darren Francis

• Margi   S. L. Harryman

• Bus Ride   Jenny Rose Ryan

• Staying Connected   Shishir Mohan

• Tackle This   Gary Glauber

 

---

 

 

"Hiyaa"                                                                     

by Crispin Oduobuk                                                                          

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Man, I can’t!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

King Peter is shocked.  “Who told you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hiyaa!”

“That is it.”

“Teach me a new one.”

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

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

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

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

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

“And it works for the white men?”

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

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

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

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

“Oh!  All right let me have it.”

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

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

“In some trouble at the market.”

“And if Ehvaelyn tries anything?”

“Hiyaa!” Rufus shouts.

“That’s it, man.  Hiyaa!”

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“True?”

“True!  All because of Peter!”

“What happened?”

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

Rufus can hardly believe his ears.  “Really?”

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

“Man!  Obotama, sorry!”

“Thank you.”

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

“I swear,” Obotama says quickly.

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

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

“True!” Rufus says.

“Ah!  Peter!  Peter!  Why is—”

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

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

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

“Mind your business!” Rufus snaps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But it worked for me,” says Stephen.

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

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

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

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

“It’s not for girls!” says Rufus.

“It’s not for girls!” Stephen echoes.

“I don’t agree!” Obotama shouts.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” says Rufus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                                    
                                                    

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Orange Peels                                                           

by Sean Southern

                                                                                                                                              


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

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

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

“Oranges… Need!  ORANGES!… oranges…”

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

“Oranges… Oranges… Need Oranges… Oranges!”

“Oranges!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

                                                    
                                                    
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Dolphin Blue                                                                 

by Darren Francis

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

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

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

”I'm Lisa.”

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

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

“Sure.  Where?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

”Yeah, I met my best friend there.”

”Where was he tonight?”

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

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

“Where are you from?”

 “Huh?”

”You said that bar reminded you of home.”

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

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

”I'm glad I came here,” she says.

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

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

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

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

                                                                                               

                                                    
                                                    
 

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Margi                                                                   

by S. L. Harryman

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

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

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

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

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

Then I heard their voices.

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m locked in here." he said.

“Are you okay?”

“I’ve got to get out of this room.”

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

“Get out of here.”

“What?”

“Get out of here!” he whispered.

“You’re scaring me, please don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

I slipped out of my room and went down the hall.  Charles’s room was quiet.  “Charles?” I asked.

No answer.

“Charles, please.  Are you okay?

No answer.

“Fine.  I won’t tell you a secret then.” I said.  I walked toward the stairs and heard people talking.  I walked slowly down each stair and the laughter grew louder.  I saw the dining room filled with tall people in black clothes.  Large bouquets of yellow and white flowers were organized neatly on the table.  They smelled fresh and alive.

I walked toward Mother.  She was dressed in a black gown with her dull red hair nestled tightly in a bun on top of her head.

“Mother, are we having another party?” I asked.

Mother’s face turned toward me.  Her expression was solemn and cool.  Her eyes were looking down and away, when she said, “Your dear brother has gone on to heaven.”

I felt a coldness circle around me.  She grabbed my hand and it sent a chill through me.  Her hand felt like ice.  All at once, my mind flew backwards in time and I could see the summer I had gotten into a bees nest at Aunt Matttie’s house.  I had been stung several times on my face.  Mother made me strip down and sit in a tub of ice water.

“Come dear, lay back and let your head go under the water.  It will help the stings,” she said.  She pushed my face under and I felt the coldness soothing my face.  I felt some relief until I looked at her hovering over me.  The image of her face was blurry but I could make out a small smile.  I couldn’t breathe.  There was a sharp pain throbbing in my chest.  I reached out toward her and grabbed hold of her blouse.  Then all of a sudden, she let up.  I burst through the water and gasped for air.  When I looked at her, the color from her face was gone.  She paused a bit before she asked, “Now, doesn’t that feel better?”

Then I was standing there looking at her, remembering that Charles was gone.  She walked me to the stairs.  The coldness in her hands was an awful reminder of that summer day.  It was strange, I had almost forgotten.  She stared down at me and said, “ Get to your room darling, you do not look well.”

I hurried up the stairs.  I knew something was wrong.  Just then I heard something familiar.  It was the humming.  I walked over to Charles’s door and sat down on the floor.  I started to cry.  I leaned gently against the door and it creaked open.  I stood up, pushed on the door until I could see in.  The humming stopped.  I walked in the room and immediately felt something warm brush past me.  All of the windows were closed and the shades pulled.  Next to one of the windows was a chair.  In it sat my brother, wearing a navy blue sailor suit with his hair neatly combed.  His face was as white as the walls, his eyes were wide and dark.

“Hello, Margi.” he said.

“I thought you were in heaven, are you just visiting for the summer like the Cratchen sisters?” I asked.

“Come closer.”

“Why isn’t your door locked?  Are you all better?”

“Mother let me out.” he replied.

“I’m glad.  Now we can play.”

“We can’t.  We have to go.”  With that said, he stood up from his chair.  His body was smaller than I had remembered.  His legs were very thin and covered with dirt.

“Come on,” he whispered.

I followed Charles out of his room and down the stairs.  We moved fast, sailing through tall people in black clothes.  They kept on chattering and never noticed us.  Charles led me to the back door of the kitchen.  I remember feeling happy thinking that we would play together, forever.  He gripped my arm firmly and pulled me down the garden path.  My dress snagged on a rose bush, its arm-like branches scratched my legs.  I cried out but Charles never turned around, instead he kept on moving, faster and faster, until we came to the mouth of the forest.

“Charles, where are we going?” I asked.

He pulled hard at my arm, pushing onward through the narrow pass further into the forest.  We passed several trees with black moss on their trunks.  Glimpses of the sunlight shot down through the leaves and I thought we were going to heaven.  Finally, we stopped and Charles looked around, frantically.  His dark eyes were searching for something.  I was out of breath and nervous.  I kept thinking mother would find us and we’d be in a fix.

“She won’t find you," he said.

“What are we—?”

“ I have to show you something,” he interrupted.

He looked at me, dropped to his knees and began digging.  His hands clawed at the dirt.  I peered over his shoulder and held my breath.  All I could see was a white tip of something.

“Come here, I can’t touch it,” he said.  He stood up and pointed at the ground.  I got down and put my hands into the dirt.  The dirt was warm, almost hot.

“Charles, what’s going on?” I asked.

I looked over my shoulder and he was gone.

“Charles?  Don’t leave me out here!” I screamed.   Then I got an answer, the humming had returned.  It was louder than it had been in my room.  It snuck past a few trees and I could feel it watching me.  The hairs on my neck and arms pricked, my stomach knotted.  I looked back down at the pile of dirt my brother had dug with his own hands.  Then I just started digging.  I didn’t care if my white dress was getting dirty.  I brushed the dirt away and pulled the white object out of the warm and rotting soil.  It was a sailboat.  I pulled it out and brushed it off with my dress.  Something caught my eye, where I had unearthed the boat lay a small hand.  It was porcelain similar to that of Lily doll.  I decided to keep on digging.  My hands cramped and they were caked with dirt.  I sat back and looked at the dead toys.  Most were old and smelled rotten, like dead animals.  There were wooden soldiers with missing arms over in one pile and in another there were several dolls.  I’m sure they had once been beautiful like my Lily, now they were falling apart and a few were missing eyes.  I found pink baby rattles and a half dozen, tattered teddy bears with beetles crawling over them.

I picked myself off the ground and stared at everything that lay before me.  I didn’t know what to do or where to go.  I listened and realized the humming had never stopped.  I was scared, so I ran along the trail my brother had dragged me through.  I pushed back the branches at the edge of the forest.  Like teeth, they scraped and grinded at my arms and legs.  I broke through them and saw the house.  I ran up to the back door and opened it.  I knew she was there behind it.

There mother stood with her guests—like statues, staring at me with their beady eyes.  Something else was there with us, whispering a low melody and swimming in the air around our bodies.

“Mummy—I saw toys in the ground.  Charles—where is he?” I panted.

She looked at me with empty eyes and walked toward me.  She stooped down and picked me up, pressing hard into me.

“My Lord, child where have you been?” she asked.

“I’m sorry,” I cried.

I was scared and wanted to run, but I knew it was too late.  Mother carried me to my room that afternoon.  I remember standing at the window with a blanket wrapped around me.  I heard someone whistling—maybe it was humming, I’m not sure.  I saw Dr. Keating walking up our sidewalk just like before, with his black case swinging at his side.  I ran over to the door and it was locked.  That’s all I remember.

I assure you we are all still here.  The things you see at night are nothing compared to the song that will come for you.  In the end, the melody takes us all.  Out of the mouth it comes to wrap its chords around our necks until we submit and become its lungs.

 

                                                    
                                                    
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Bus Ride                                                                           

 by Jenny Rose Ryan

stared out the bus window at the passing yellow grasses.

   Have you ever heard of Sweet Betsy from Pike
          who crossed the wide prairie with her husband, Ike,
with two yoke of cattle and one spotted hog,
  a tall Shanghai rooster and an old yellow dog?

The song rang through me repeatedly, forcing me to stare at the monotony out the window, or, at my hands, which were cracked and bleeding from late-autumn night walks when I tried to decide what to do.

Some people like the prairie.  Some people find its numbing sameness, its tranquility in the waving grasses, comforting.  Not me.  It chokes me.  On the prairie, there's nowhere to hide, except single, mocking trees six miles away—much too far to run toward when you're tired or trying to get away.  The bus was the tallest thing for miles.  Even in the shallow irrigation ditches, a person stood tall compared to the rest of the land.  The sky heavy sky thudded against the earth, its breast beating hard against the wheezing land.

When you're afraid of your shadow, it's important to have a space where you can retreat.  Even burrow a hole into the ground.

Mom once told me about a drive her sisters and her grandmother took across the prairie, on their way to California to visit grandmother's husband.  They sang the Sweet Betsy song, inserting their own phrases.  Sweet Betsy became Sweet Lucy and the world seemed hilarious.  They weren't running away.  They were moving toward something new and exciting—a vacation.  And the oppressive prairie was just sand in their hands.  They sifted right on through its needlelike grasses.

In a small gas station near the Nebraska border, a curly-haired young man leans against the counter.  His eyes are rimmed gray and his glasses slide down his greasy nose.  He pushes them back, regularly, with a single, ink-stained finger with torn cuticles dangling and bleeding.  His ingrown toenail butts against the inside of his boot, and, to see that he's paying attention, he presses harder into the steel toe until the pus breaks through the skin and soaks his holey sock.  He doesn't want to care as it stings.  He wipes sweat from his chin with his shirt-collar, sucking on the salty fabric as it pulls away.  He sees the bus approach and lights a cigarette, flinging the matchstick to the tile floor.

I shifted in my seat, from one numb hip to the other, deciding if I'd get off at this stop, or if I'd wait until the next.  I pushed my face against the window, leaving an outline in oils, pores and dead skin.  It looked like a ghost, and I knew no one would steal my seat if I got up.  Who would want to stare across the prairie through that mask?

As I walked toward the gas station, I thought about cigarettes, and how sometimes I missed stinging menthols corrupting my lungs.  Maybe I'd grab a pack or two, to waste some time as I continued west—like Sweet Betsy and so many before her.  I don't delude myself into thinking I'm a pioneer of anything.  I just needed to get away.

I walked into the convenience store, running my hand along the cinder-block wall, flaking mint-green paint toward the floor with my fingernail.  The clerk looked up from the counter, where he seemed to be staring at his reflecting in the polystyrene sheet covering lotto examples.  He raked his hand through his hair, sending dust and dandruff into the afternoon sunlight.  The particles rained, invisibly, to the floor.

I meandered through the snack aisles, looking for something substantial to take up the growing space in my belly.  He cleared his throat, snuffled.  Everything looked too bright, too packaged and too dirty.  I walked toward the ancient, rolling hot dogs and the microwaveable sandwiches, glancing out the window toward the still-empty bus.  As I walked toward the back of the store, I glanced over a framed map near the restrooms.  In a large, red marker, someone had written, "You are here" over the town's name.  Beyond that, I held no conception of time or place.  I felt the waving grasses close around me.  It was like the grasses and the regimented, chain gas station competed for the title of most mundane and most soul-sucking.  But I don't believe in souls.

The guy behind the counter was clearing his throat more often now.  His knuckles were covered in paint and ink.  I wanted to mention the bright pink institutional liquid soap in the bathroom and remind him he could use it.  But I didn't have an ID on me and I wanted cigarettes, so it wasn't time to be rude or condescending.  I imagined that his home was covered with piles of dirty clothing, food and spilled ashtrays.  Maybe the brand-new carpet beneath his bed was blue, while the rest was a dull gray, flaked with crayon dust, charcoal bits and ground-in potato chips.  Maybe giant, black flies lived under the sink—where most Midwesterners store their garbage cans.  The cleanest place was probably the toilet.  The dirtiest, his bed.

He looked at me through smudged, taped glasses, trapping me to my spot in front of the lotto examples.  I forgot that I held a plastic bottle of orange juice in my hands, and it bounced to the floor, rolling underneath the stand of day-old doughnuts and fritters.  As I retrieved it, I grabbed a Danish.  I wondered why he looked at me like that, peering, questioning, and I paid for my cigarettes, my food and walked outside to the bus.

My seat was still there, unoccupied by anything but a worn copy of Weekly World News.  I grabbed the paper, scooted toward the window with my shoulder leaning on the glass, and drank my juice.  The bus started with a chugging grunt and we were on our way again.  My head lolled forward with every lurch, and I drooled juice onto the front of my shirt until I had sense enough to sleep.

 

                                                    
                                                    
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Staying Connected                                                            

 by Shishir Mohan

looked around hurriedly, inspecting my surroundings.  I had an hour before they started boarding my flight.  I unclipped my cell-phone from its holster and smiled—three calls and I would be done for the day.  Then I could finally sit back, relax, and enjoy my flight—read the Wall Street Journal, indulge in salty peanuts and cold beer, and plan for the upcoming football weekend.

I turned on my cell-phone, only to find that the wretched contraption had run out of juice.

“Damn!” I hissed angrily, disgusted with myself.

To have a mobile phone and not be able to talk is nothing short of heresy.  I needed to find a power outlet—quick.  My trained eyes spotted one with a seat and a side table next to it.  Oh yeah!  This was prime spot.  Not only could I now charge my cell-phone, I could also plug in my laptop and get some work done.  I checked out of the corner of my eye for any approaching usurpers; a portly gentleman was gunning for the same spot from the other side.  I darted towards the electrons, snapping the cord into the socket with one quick decisive strike.  The heavy-set man looked at me beseechingly.  I shrugged him off with a smile.  What can I say, buddy?  It’s a cruel world out there.

Giddy with victory, I turned on my cell-phone and dialed the office.  My secretary was on the line.

“Hey Jenny, how’s it going?”

“Could be worse.” She sounded gloomy.

I was about to follow up with an instinctive, “What’s wrong,” before I checked myself.  No, I was not going there again.  Last time I had done that, I had been subjected to an inordinately lengthy monologue about her husband’s ex-wife.

“Hey, could you tell me my important messages and then transfer me over to John for a second.”  I was trying my best to keep our conversation limited.

“Sure.”  She sounded uncertain, as though she wanted to tell me something, but decided against it and started relaying me my messages.

All of a sudden, the red headed guy sitting next to me, unleashed a shrill scream.  “Stop that,” he shouted, gesturing with his arms towards me.  “Stop talking on that stupid phone,” he screamed.

I looked at the man, flabbergasted.  He looked like Rodney Dangerfield, with the red hair, the upturned nose, and the perpetual sneer—yes, the resemblance was striking.

“Excuse me?”  I was at a loss for words.

He was shaking his head from side to side, much like an excited poodle.  “Didn’t you hear what I just said?” he shouted, his large bulbous nose turning redder by the second.  “Stop talking on that phone.”

I told Jenny I’d call her right back.  Hopefully she hadn’t heard the entire exchange.  If she did, I could see a good many of my office brethren vicariously enjoying the episode at our coffee machine.

At the moment though, the object of my attention was the red headed guy.  “All right, why can’t I talk on my cell phone?  Is there some kind of a rule against it?”

“I don’t want anyone around me talking on the cell phone.  I hate the infernal contraption!” he shrieked, frothing at the mouth.  “Can’t you go somewhere else?  There are lots of empty seats around.”

“Well, the only reason I’m here is because of that power outlet,” I snapped angrily.

“Well, go find another one.  I’m sure there are more around.”

“Why can’t you go and find yourself another seat?  I’m sure there are plenty of seats in the airport.”  My blood pressure was rising.

“I was here first!”

“I don’t care,” I shouted.  “I’m going to stay here and finish my . . . ”

But before I’d even completed my sentence, the man had slipped into a series of rapid-fire convulsions:  his face had turned beet-red, his lips were contorted with rage, and hundreds of pulsating veins had suddenly burst forth on his forehead.  I thought he was about to have a heart attack.

He started yelling.  “Why don’t you guys just leave me alone?  For heaven’s sake, give me my space!”

My pride, however, refused to concede defeat to a certified nut case.  “I’m going to stay here and use my cell-phone,” I declared, stomping my feet, much like my four-year-old boy.

He looked uncertain for a split-second, surprised by my unexpected bout of childish fit.

“Yes.”  I sneered.  “Now, what are you going to do?  Call the security?  As far as I know, there’s no rule against using cell-phones in the airports.”

“It’s not about the rule,” he shrieked.  “It’s about what makes sense.  Cell-phones are destroying this place.  You can’t even breathe anymore without hearing someone on the cell-phone.”  He was pacing up and down, running his hands nervously through his shock of red hair.  “I want my space!  Please, please . . . go find another place.”

I was about to tell the guy to move to some other country to find his personal space—maybe a place like India with a billion people breathing down your neck, but refrained.  There was no point in exacerbating the situation.  I wasn’t going to get anywhere with the guy.  Besides, I had work to do, important calls to make.

“All right, all right, you win,” I said smugly, unplugging my cell-phone.  “Here, have your space.  Enjoy.”

A few minutes later, I had discovered another power outlet, cunningly concealed behind a garbage can.  Fifteen minutes later, I was done with my phone calls, and ready to embark on my emails.

Well, as it turned out, email was a bad idea.  There were fires burning everywhere:  my boss had sent me an urgent email; a couple of my clients wanted to talk to me right away; one of the engineers on my team had just quit; and to top it all, Jenny, my secretary, the one I had just talked to, was about to sue John for sexual harassment.

“Christ!”  I moaned, staring at the merciless screen with a growing sense of helplessness.

So, the next half an hour turned into a mad frenzy of activity.  I was alternately on the phone or on my laptop putting out fires—talking to my boss, reasoning with my clients, placating the people who reported to me.  I thought I was going to lose my mind.

And just when I thought I was all done, my cell-phone started ringing again.

“Damn it!”  I shouted, yanking the contraption, cord and everything, out of the socket.  “I hate you . . . you infernal thing!  Leave me alone!”  I screamed, as though it was a live monster.  “Give me my space!”

No sooner had I uttered the fateful words that the realization dawned on me.  The crazy redhead was absolutely right.  We, humans, have lost our entity.  We have become slaves to our own electronic might.  The cell-phones, and palm-pilots and personal computers now rule our lives.

They were boarding my flight; the call had gone out for the “First” class, and the “Diamond,” “Gold,” “Silver,” and other “precious metal/stone” members.  I was standing in line, waiting for general boarding when, on an impulse, I decided to thank the madman who had opened my eyes.  I ran towards the lounge area where I’d last seen him, but he wasn’t there.  I inspected the two closest departing gates, but there was no sign of the man.  It was as though he had delivered his message and disappeared.

On the flight home, I ruminated on my latest enlightenment.  I even coined a new term for our contemporary culture—“technology serfdom.”  At work, or home, no matter where you go, it’s all about “staying connected.”  But are we really connected?  Are we really closer to each other—to our family members, our colleagues at work, or with our other fellow human beings?  Are our hearts and souls more in tune now, as a species?  The more I pondered over the questions, the more the answers disturbed me.

I headed home from the airport, buoyant with wisdom.  I didn’t use my cell-phone to call home or to check for my messages.  What was the point?  Natalie knew when I was coming and as far as work goes, it could wait till next morning.  I got home and relaxed on the couch, chatting with my wife and my four-year-old son.  And I didn’t turn on my computer and check for my emails.

“Daddy, daddy—Stop.”  Little Dave applied the brutal twist to my ear.  As usual, he wanted me to stop talking to “his Mommy,” formerly known as my wife.

“Yes?” I asked, grimacing with pain.

“Mommy and I got you a present for your birthday.”

“Oh, really!”  I turned around to look at Natalie.  “What is it?”

I was hoping she’d bought me that super-light titanium tennis racquet I’d always wanted.  I had mentioned it to her a few times, but Natalie wasn’t good at remembering things—especially if they happened to be on my sporting goods list.

Little Dave was mumbling some unintelligible gibberish, trying his best to describe the present.

“Honey, what is it?”  I could hardly contain my excitement.

Natalie went into the bedroom and re-appeared with a small package.  Like a small child, my heart dropped when I saw the box.  It was too small to be a tennis racquet.

“C’mon Daddy, open it!”  Little Dave loved the part about opening presents.

I tore open the package, barely managing to repress my groan of disappointment.

“What’s wrong, honey?  You don’t like it?”  Natalie had sensed that there was something amiss.

“Oh, no.  It’s great,” I replied quickly, cradling the sleek gizmo in my hand.  “This is good stuff.  I love it.”

“Well, I got so tired of you talking about those slick wireless cell-phones with web access, that I decided to get you one for your birthday.”

“Yes, you finally did it, didn’t you?”  I said absent-mindedly.  I was thinking about that redhaired guy at the airport and my newly found enlightenment.

I gazed at the luminous blue contraption in my hand.  It was light and shiny, smooth as the shimmering rocks on a moonlit riverbed.  I looked at it again.  It was awesome.  I waited for a few minutes till I could take it no more.  I had to check it out right now—at this very moment!

I dialed my office to check for my messages.  My emails were next.

Like I said, it’s all about staying connected.

    
                                                    

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Tackle This                                                                         

 by Gary Glauber

mazing.”  That was what we heard rumbling through the stands every Saturday morning as parents and friends watched in wonder.  Jackie would bob and weave, collect tacklers, then defy odds to tumble ahead a few more yards.  He was the Barry Sanders of high school, a combination of cutting moves, incredible leg muscles and an ability to spin out of a jam.  Each time an opponent thought he had him, he was wrong.  They’d bunch up in what seemed a certain tackle.  But Jackie’s legs kept moving.  That was the amazing part.  With Jackie, it was as if his forward momentum was something outside him. 

“Tackle this,” he'd taunt them. 

He set an all-time rushing record that season, yet wasn’t overly large or muscular in the style of those whose thick necks identified them a hundred yards away.  In school clothes, you couldn’t tell him from the next swarthy guy.  Not until he was on the field.  

I'm not sure why he befriended me.  We met in Mr. Lee's Industrial Arts class.  Maybe he felt sorry for someone who could botch up the building of a simple coat rack; we'd been friends ever since. 

Jackie first amazed me in Ms. McGee’s junior English class.  She'd asked that we read a book, any book, and report on it.  Jackie claimed he had no time to read.  So at lunch, an hour before the week's deadline, he was writing. 

“There,” he said, tongue sticking out as he finished, “my new masterpiece.”  He shoved it cross the table for me to see.  

“The Werewolf Principle?”  I asked. 

“Pretty good, huh?”  Jackie looked pleased with himself.   “By Tobias Jefferson.  I made it up.” 

Since reading a book was out of the question, he'd taken the liberty of inventing one.  I read it and had to admit it sounded convincing.  The plot was farfetched enough to sound plausible, about a guy who became a werewolf because he had family issues.  But I didn’t think there was a chance in hell he’d get away with it.  McGee was a bear. 

“McGee will be all over this.  Think she doesn’t check the books?” 

“She’s got how many classes with how many kids?  No time to check ‘em all.” 

“No way, Jackie.  Can’t be done.” 

“Bet you lunch,” he said. 

A week later he had a double cheeseburger with fries.  I was buying. 

“Though I’m not familiar with this book, it sounds intriguing and you really capture the tone of it.  A thorough and fine job,” McGee had written. 

“Werewolf principle, my ass.”  I said. 

“Best book I ever read,” he responded. 

I tried out for the team, more to realize my father’s dreams than my own.  I even survived the grueling week at football camp.  But I lacked both the talent to start and the wherewithal to sit quietly on the bench.  So after making the team, I quit and became statistician.  It kept me in the game.  When Jackie was breaking school records, I was the one recording them. 

It was mere coincidence we wound up at college together.  His marks were adequate; mine were good.  I targeted a safety school for those rejected or waitlisted by the Ivy Leagues.  It just happened to have a great division III football team.  Jackie's family couldn't afford a school like that.  But he got a full scholarship to play. 

Realizing our common destination, we asked to be roommates and wound up as two of four in a Fox dormitory suite.  It was one big room done up in the ugly oranges and browns of the mid-70s, with two bedrooms off the main, each with bunk beds.                

College was a time for nicknames.  I became Doc, a moniker won after surviving O-Chem classes in my short-lived stint as a premed.  Jackie became Pav, short for Pavlov and his reputed fondness for pranks and mind games.   

For instance, while sitting at a packed working-class bar downtown, Jackie decided to address the bartender's nasty attitude.  

"I'm gonna clear this place," he declared.    

"How?"  I asked. 

“Watch and learn,” he said.  He walked slowly to the jukebox, anonymous, smiling.  He loaded in the quarters surreptitiously.  Then we sat and commenced watching.   

His ten dollars’ consecutive selections’ worth of Olivia Newton-John’s Xanadu proved no match for the patrons’ collective subconscious.  Gradually, people began to head out.  By the time of the eleventh repetition, we were practically alone.  The song kept playing.  Finally, the angry (but none too bright) bartender caught on, unplugging the jukebox.  We left shortly after, laughing. 

Jackie's prankster reputation only enhanced his on-campus popularity.  Everyone wanted to be part of his good-hearted foolishness.  Perhaps his piece de resistance was the time he wreaked havoc on our quad-mate William (a.k.a. Poindexter, due to his thick glasses).  Poindy was the black sheep of his all-Harvard family, a poli-sci major who complained bitterly if he couldn’t get his nightly eight hours sleep.  His roommate Jeff (Ace) was always out visiting his girlfriend at a nearby nursing college.  

One night while Poindy was dining off-campus (his sensitive stomach wouldn’t tolerate campus food), Pav enlisted my help in a scheme.  We went up and down the three floors of the dorm, soliciting alarm clocks.  People responded to Jackie's openness, passion and friendly smile.  He was like a little kid and they were more than happy to help.  We got about 30 clocks, a sundry combination of wind-up and electric, along with borrowed extension cords and outlet strips.   

“We have to act quickly,” he explained.  “While Poindy’s out, we go into his room and hide all these clocks and cords.  We set one to go off at 2 am, then have each one follow every ten minutes for the rest of the night.  Ace is out, so no problem.  We’ll see about his eight hours of sleep!” 

We set about rigging the task, hiding clocks in underwear drawers, in the empty upper bunk, in corners under stacks of papers.  We taped errant wires to the base of the walls or ran them under carpets.  It was a masterpiece of a plan.  The room looked no different.  We went out, visiting parties at frat houses, then came back in time for the late show. 

Poor Poindexter.  We sat in our half of the room, drinking beer and keeping quiet.  Those waiting times were the best.  Jackie lived life all-out.  If the situation required, he wouldn’t think twice to pick fights with guys twice his size or jump out a second story window into a snow bank in his underwear on a dare.  He was into reckless fun. 

But in the waiting times, he was quieter.  One could study the friendly and likable guy he was up close, and perhaps detect some underlying sadness.  He hadn’t been faring well in college, a bigger worry because he finally was applying himself.  His on-the-field success seemed to matter less and less.  He knew there was no pro career in his future.  

“I feel like a pretender,” he once declared in a post keg-party stupor.  “I don’t belong here.” 

I wasn’t surprised.  I’d always felt he was a confession waiting to happen.  

“Someday that hand’s gonna tap me on the shoulder and ask me to leave,” he said.  

While others saw him as fearless, I knew otherwise.  I was privy to this fear of an eventual unmasking, to nightmares and shouts that would rip the post-midnight darkness.  

At two a.m., the first alarm went off; a harsh buzzing sound met with a flurry of hurled invective.  Poindy struggled to find it.  Every ten minutes, the process repeated itself.  It was a masterful achievement.  We sat in our room laughing.  By morning, Poindexter was a broken man.  He never claimed to need eight hours sleep ever again. 

With tutoring and luck, Jackie finished college and took his civil engineering degree to work for the U.S. Navy in Florida.  We talked regularly that first year out of school, and we always made a point of spending a night on the town whenever he came home to visit his folks for holidays.  But the distance was a factor, and each of us was starting a new life. 

To save money, I lived at home.  Sometimes on Saturday mornings I’d catch the local high school game, though strangers now wore the burgundy and gold.  I’d root for the home team, but it was nothing like the days when Jackie amazed us.  I couldn’t help wondering what he was doing, and promised myself I’d call. 

I finally caught up with him maybe five years later, when I found myself attending a banking conference in Jacksonville.  On a whim, I looked up his number in the local phone book and called from my hotel room.  He sounded happy to hear from me.    

There he was, picking me up the next day after my presentation was done.   I found myself riding shotgun in the same jet black Spyder he’d had back in college.  Some alumni had sold it to him for a song, seeing as he was a football star.  Jackie had kept the car in great shape, though it looked like he was beginning to gain weight. 

It was the same old Jackie, only different.  He still wanted to have his fun, but life was catching up.  He first took me back to his place.  I followed him into meager lodgings in what appeared to be a fixed-up trailer park.  

“Come on dude,” he said.  “Like old times.  Ever do whippets?” 

I hadn’t, but wanted to oblige him.  A twist or two of these nitrous oxide cartridges and my head felt lighter.  Voices echoed, as though coming through loudspeakers.  Jackie knew what I was experiencing. 

“Starting in centerfield, Bobby Bongs,” he boomed across the room.  “Check this out.” 

He turned on the little black and white television and achieved the same effect with the voices of the evening news anchors.  Then he lit a bong and took a few hits off that. 

So this was what had become of fun-loving Jackie.  He insisted we go out and see the sights.  He drove fast, and cranked a tape of Bowie’s greatest hits as we raced along.  

“First, I shall show you the high life,” he said. 

We stopped at an upscale preppy hangout in Winter Park.  It was loaded with well-dressed people who seemed to have no clue about human interaction.  

“Know why it’s called Winter Park?” he asked. “’Cause of all the ice queens you meet here.” 

I looked around and saw what he meant.  It was a parade of perfectly manicured mannequins that just might flash you an errant smile in passing.  A quick drink was all we needed to cover that ground.  Soon we were back in the car, racing headlong into the black oblivion of the Interstate and singing along with Jean Genie and Suffragette City. 

“And now for the lowlife,” he proclaimed. 

He pulled the car off into the parking lot of a small dive convenient to the highway.  A lot of semis were parked there.  The illuminated message board said “Lap Dances /Truckers Welcome.”  We went inside.  

You paid a cover, got watered down beer and went into a room with a circular stage in its middle.  Concentric seating was available in two rug-covered circles that surrounded the center and comprised a “watching pit.”  After each girl finished with her dance, she made the rounds of the customers, seeing if they wanted a special personal lap dance.  

“America at its finest, huh?” Jackie observed. 

I nodded.  And politely refused the nearly naked young lady eager to ride my jeans for a twenty spot.  The fun seemed out of reach; this was something else.  He drove me back to the hotel, telling me about this woman he’d been seeing.  Her name was Randi and she lived in the adjacent trailer community.  She was from New Jersey originally.  He liked her but doubted he wanted to take on her kids from a previous marriage.  As he clasped his arms around for a quick hug before I left, I promised I’d keep in touch. 

I never expected that to be the last time I’d see Jackie.  Worrisome rumors made their way back to me.  One said he’d been found unconscious in his trailer and was then taken to the hospital for a battery of tests.  It didn’t surprise me.  But just when I thought Jackie was finished amazing me, I was wrong. 

He was home visiting his folks for the long holiday weekend.  It was late in the afternoon, a few days before Christmas.  I could picture it, a cold gray day swiftly turning into murky winter twilight, with darkness following close by. 

They told me how it went, but I could see it in my mind.  As statistician, I had to record it, make it official.  They said he walked straight out across the eight busy lanes of the Major Deegan.  Of course he only made it across three.  He first got hit from behind.  They say it shot him up into the air.  He landed on another car and, bobbing and weaving, spun off the front end of that car onto the one next to it.  Each of the cars in their inadvertent way sought to pull him down, end his run.  But I know what he must have felt.  “I’ve been here; I’ve done this before.”  

They said it was amazing.  His legs kept churning ahead, righting him against the odds.  Just when it looked like he was down, stopped, he lunged ahead for those few extra yards.  Nothing was going to stop him.  For a few seconds, he was back at the top of his game.  

Then a grocery chain’s tractor-trailer put an abrupt halt to his last graceful ballet.  In a life that refused to end when the cheering stopped, Jackie went back for one last run to the end zone.   

“Tackle this,” he must have yelled, taunting all who cared to hear above the cacophony of horns honking, skidding brakes screeching and metal and glass smashing.    

Not a champion.  Not a winner.

But still in the game.

                                                    
                                                    
                                 
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The Homeless Poet:                                                    Newsletter, November 15, 2003                              by Duane Locke                                                                am now, after a series of hectic and tormenting days, temporarily settled in Lakeland, Florida.  At present I do not have a phone installed.  The phone is still in the warehouse, but I will try to get it soon.  It is not difficult to remember a phone number I have had for 50 years.  But a new one, I must write it down and carry it around.  Also, I have to remember a new address.  This upheaval has put a great burden on me. The only time in my whole life which was more distressing, disturbing, and tormenting than these last days was when I was in the army at 18. My old biographical note, published so many times, is now obsolete.  The note starts with my living in an old decaying house in the Tampa slums and describes the ugly surroundings and ugly activities. Well, the bungalow in the backyard fell down.  The second floor became the first floor.  My car was crushed and destroyed.  My priceless scholarly library is now under the debris.  A book dealer is going to try to save some of the books from the debris, but in the future I will be almost bookless. When I need information, I will have to use the Internet, or go to the library, which never has had a collection as good as I once had.  I have sworn that I will never buy another book.  I will have to depend primarily on the memory of my erudition.  I have some books in boxes in the Winter Haven warehouse, but will turn them over to a book dealer; I have no permanent place with space to store the books.  My books were filled with my notes which some scholars would consider annotations and others, mars.  Now I have learned it is unwise to save and cherish anything.  I am going to miss being surrounded by books. After the collapse of the bungalow, my house was surrounded by a posse of inspectors and police.  The house was condemned as being unfit for habitation and health (although doctors have classified me as the healthiest man ever seen at my age, and I had lived in the house for 50 years).  I was ordered out in six days or faced fines of $500 a day and arrest.  I got some insight into what it means to live in a land of freedom and what happens to poets when old in America.  They are thrown out into the streets. The next six days were a type of hell on earth.  I had to take 500 of my paintings off the walls.  They are now stored in the Winter Haven warehouse.  I do not know what I am going to do with them.  Another phase of my life has disappeared forever.  I wonder if all my paintings will be destroyed.  I cannot afford to pay storage on them for a long extent of time.  I am getting inured to having most aspects of my life destroyed. I have access to my photographs stored in the warehouse, if I can find what boxes they are in. I left to be destroyed in the house most of my possessions, approximately 200 sheets and many miscellaneous things.  When my wife was alive, she loved sheets and squandered our income on buying a surplus. All my poetic publications and poetic papers are in the Winter Haven warehouse, but I hope to save and store them in the closet space I have in these two rooms.  My over 5,000 published poems are now boxed in the warehouse.  I hope I can keep these.  But all might be destroyed. The saddest event of these hell-on-earth days was having to take my seven cats to the humane society.  Donald Ryburn helped me, and we both suffered.  I still have my dog Pookie, but do not know how long I can keep her under these transient conditions.  I am now cat-less, and there is a possibility I might be dog-less.  But departing from Pookie is too overwhelmingly sad to even think about the possibility.  (At this moment, tears came into my eyes when I thought about departing from Pookie, and I had to pause from writing.)  I learned during this ordeal that I can endure anything, but I doubt if I will ever be happy again. I will just endure until death, and possible blindness (since I now have the ocular degeneration).  The authorities at the place where I now live say, if I go blind, I will get free rent through the army.  I hated the military so much I had almost forgotten I was a veteran of World War II.  I suppose seeing-eye persons will be hired to lead me around and feed me with a spoon.  I don’t know if it will be required for them to play the role of Milton’s daughters and copy down my poems.  I don’t even know if I can still write poems My exodus was aided with the help of the poets Donald Ryburn and Steve Barfield, who worked until exhaustion.  Jackie Turner and the hired hands also helped.  Greer Grant was present, and she swept the floor I departed from. This crisis and distress led to the break-up of Jackie and me.  I was going to live with her in Winter Haven, but the situation brought out the insight that we were completely incompatible.  So after a temporary stay with her, I called Donald Ryburn to get me out of there.  Donald arranged for me to be located at Lake Morton Plaza, called a retirement Villa. I was mistaken about my affection for Jackie, and even more mistaken about her affection for me.  But crisis brings out truth.  She never loved me.  I wanted love so much that I was a temporary fool and believed she really cared.  She did not.  So I am now homeless, car-less, cat-less, and woman-less. My dreams for Jackie and our future together did not correspond to her dreams about our future, so I got out in a hurry.  I could say much more, but I won’t.  Although one thing that shocked me about her small house where there was no room for me to work, was the hideous paintings that crowded the walls.  These were some of the worst paintings I have ever seen.  I could not stand to live amongst this bad taste.  The relationship is over now, as I said “Goodbye forever.” I just said the same words, “Goodbye, forever” about a year and several months ago to a woman, with gold twists for hair and a driver of a BMW, when she wanted to kill all my cats.  Well, all my cats are gone now.  I suppose I will never have the real intimate and close love of a woman again.  The BMW girl was an exquisite beauty, and I cannot attribute the same to the pseudo psychic, the last woman to whom I said “Good bye, forever.”  Everything seems gone.  I really wanted love and failed. I forgot to mention my large opera collection.  My old LP’s are scheduled to go to the book dealer.  In the collector’s market, they are worth a fortune.  I have given many tapes to Donald, but still there is an immense collection under the debris of the fallen library.  I hope to keep the CD’s, if I can find the room, for as I age, I will need music as I have little else left.  Since the joie d’ vivre has vanished from my life which is now stoic endurance, I wonder what I will think of the music from Vienna. I believe I must be one of God’s most beloved men, like Job, since so many disasters have happened to me during this year:  starting with a rash whose etiology is unknown, a swollen leg still not understood by medical authorities, a broken rib, a cut foot whose bleeding was difficult to stop, the discovery of a visual impairment that will lead to ultimate blindness with the possibility it will take a number of years, and this latest disaster of being forced from one's home and one’s possessions. It took me from 7 A.M. to 1 P.M. today to get this computer set up again.  Then three more hours to install the new access numbers, so now I have some contact with others.  I still have not installed the printers, for the connecting cords to the printers are in the warehouse. I hope to return to poetry writing soon as I calm down and get adjusted to an entirely new life style.  I wonder, since now I have almost nothing, what I will write in the future.  I do have improved physical and material surroundings.  I’m finally out of the neighborhood where so many have encouraged me to move from for years. Now, there will be no fence to mend, after the vandals have damaged it.  No more city inspectors ordering me to cut grasses.  No more concerns over trees and fallen trees.  No more concerns over scattered glass on the floor after someone has thrown a beer bottle through the window.  I won’t even have to worry about a leaking roof, which I just had fixed.  Now there will be no more roaches.  I will not have to repair the decaying porch, where I fell and broke a rib.  I won’t have to hear boom boxes playing rap songs.  I won’t have to mow the lawn. My whole life style is changing. Now at Lake Morton Plaza, where Donald Ryburn arranged for me to stay, I am served three meals a day.  This is a distinct change in my life style because I never ate breakfast, very little lunch, and if any, very little dinner. I have to get up at six to make it to breakfast on time.  Afterwards, I take Pookie for a walk, try to get her to walk around a lake where there are White Pelicans, Great Blue Herons, Wood Ibis, coots, ducks, three types of swan.  But Pookie does not want to walk.  She just wants to sit down.  It is a joy, just as it was in Bruges, watching coots swim in and out of willow shadows with the shadows crossing their white bills. I am now drinking orange juice, eating fruits and vegetables.  That was rare when I was alone in that decaying house in the Tampa slums.  I should get even more healthy. The only problem I find in eating here is the social life.  Everyone is so friendly, and I have to engage in conversations during dining.  Everyone is old.  Not a young person in sight.  It is strange to me for someone who has spent his life among the young to suddenly be spending it among the old.  There are no intellectuals here, so I doubt if I will engage in discussions of how John Keats’ “Negative Capability” anticipates postmodern Aporia.  This is the first place where I have even been where I am the prettiest man. I am always being praised for my upright and energetic walk. There are two one-hundred year old men here; one always wears a blue suit.  This one is in very good shape. He drives a Luxus (I hope I got the spelling right), but for old memories, I was hoping he drove a BMW. I suppose I will be accustomed to making ordinary and standard remarks during meal conversations.  One woman, about 90, said if I were ever lonely to come up to her room.  This is what I mean when I say I suppose I will never experience the intimate and close love of a woman again.  I love young women, and a recent woman poet pointed out to me that I have never had in my recent existence a lover that was not 30 years or more younger than I was. I also have weekly housekeeping service.  This is a new change in my life; I only cleaned up my old six-room house on an annual basis.  Once a week my laundry is done.  It comes back stacked neatly and on coat hangers.  This never happened during my previous existence.  The clothes unfolded were thrown into a basket. I have a brand new Maytag Washing Machine in the warehouse which I plan to give to Mary, Donald’s friend, if she wants it.  Pookie and I stayed for a while at her lovely house.  I wish I had not bought it, for in two weeks the collapse occurred. There is a full activities program, but that I can overlook for I do not play cards, bingo, or care for popular entertainment.  Poetry will keep me occupied.  I will have to give up painting, and there is no trash anywhere nearby for my photography.  Perhaps I will start photographing birds again, if I can get Pookie content to stay alone. There is transportation to shopping centers and their ilk three times a week.  I will have to go to one to get Pookie a chicken, and myself, wine.  I always drank wine when I had joyous thoughts, but my wine drinking at the current moment has been curtailed. I no longer need a car, there is a barber shop on premises and a doctor comes two times a week. This letter gives some account of my new life.  More details later.  I wanted everyone to know my absence from the e-mail correspondence or sending out the five poems a day was due to the city inspectors' throwing me out of my house, where I dwelled for 50 years, in six days and making me homeless. Return to Contents Return to Top of Page