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Prose
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The Death
of the Ice Cream Man George Trialonis |
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St. Augustine III
Maida Millan |
Passing Time Jerry Vilhotti
by Morgan Lynn
I want to be more like the ocean.
No talk, all action.
-Jane’s Addiction, “Ocean Size”“Rapture of the deep”: A state that deep-sea divers experience, supposedly
“equal to seven martinis.”I
... more of a glow
an underwaterundera sea surface seen not really from above
but betweenlike liquid light alive
with motion shapethese forms filled
with light and waterthese human forms filled
under with a luster, it is
what is lost
when we die,
water:
soul liquid:
thirst that the body once had:the lick it did with its hands to catch the soul
II
she has a subtle supple underluster
something lit
beneath her skin
not a simmer or
a glow but
a wet ember, maybe
a simmering piece of shell like an ember,
like amber, being syrup that becomes stone and traps things (like bugs)
precious stones, precious in
their ability to shape shift,
but luster is like a shine? a special brand of shine? a more expensive one?III
water mystery has the ability to make me wait—
waiting being the extension of the moment in its momentum—
a perpetuality like evil
something sneaking neverendingly into the seep
of the mind-skin
the seep being the space
where the underluster foments its sea-like shape
fills it like growing foam
a slow-time shaping fill in an unending momentseep: meaning un-ending entering
SO she wrote underluster to tumble fill into the seep moment
a kind of mind moment potential heart
in non-isolate space:IV
she thinks:
an imagined joint =
kindnessV
we all have a water mystery—it is the essence of human essence to be liquid and
alivemotion being the determining state of all things in relativity here we are not
hot earth core rock smoldering liquid lava fire but
deep blue black below currents cold liquid that which is under
surges and swells and salty salty seas
and seas and seas
that breath in waves
and out waves
and under we
are just deep
by Kelley Jean White
All my life I have been industrious,
hating anything happy, finding the painful more
important.
Others may reach for joy;
I have my list of rules,
too many to count. They fill my shelves,
shelves racked in my mind, tottering and overfull,
crowded. I see no cure to my disease,
no remedy for self or world.
My mind is full of care,
no understanding shines admit the cluttered law.
by Kelley Jean White
What I wanted was a cupboard bed
tucked beside the kitchen fireplace
smooth with sheets dark with oak
doors silent but for the rise of heat.
by Kelley Jean White
Sometimes you don’t call for days. Today it was
shoveling
six inches of bat shit—the attic
crawl space full of it, you wearing a respirator
mask and spraying foam
insulation: they can get through
an opening no wider than 5/8th of an inch and
you’ve got to be free of them, whatever diseases
they might carry but
I know it’s the terror of that nightly rush
over your shoulder into twilight,
that nearly silent beating
of leather wings, of skin stretched
between finger-bones and
scratching toenails, of monkeyface and
blood pale mouth opening
hunger.
I say they can hunt
by sonar, snap out
something smaller than a gnat, no-see-ums, and
you think they’re gonna miss
your 5/8th hole?
They’ll be coming in the second story
windows next; block them up
and they’ll be right there in the room
with you. Might as well see guano as
a natural resource. Label it and sell it. Let me know
when you’ve paid your bills.
by Kelley Jean White
one
plus one
the ram’s horn
curls equals two plus
one equals three a pentangle
eight plus five, thirteen, the morning glory vine
coils out
tender green shoots breach sky more heat new light
quick nautilus lays out slick chambers excrete new
calcium accretes its self, greater anteroom
the piglet’s tail winds ecstatic
suckling curls clockwork
flagella
beating
home
by Kelley Jean White
that carries you reaching for branches
the river that carries your children too fast
the water that coldly caresses your bruises
the current that threatens to tear you to ice
lay back with your arms out and face to the sunlight
remember you carry a lightness of heart
lay back on your strong back and kick
your legs slowly if you taught your children
they also can float
by Rebecca Lu Kiernan
I tell my lover
Between sweat-glistened periwinkle sheets
And the translucent excuse of sleep,
Beneath the blue-black bruise of night,
Through the paralyzing web of what I have been
To a defeated army of men,
An extinct species of butterfingered apes
Who never mastered fire.I tell my lover after a giggly dance in the park
In the sideways rain,
I tell him in the lavender shadow of dreams,
Under the pink-grey splinters of moon
Through French lace curtains
That freckle him
As starlight fingers impenetrable galaxies,
I tell my lover
Beyond comets that threaten
To crush out life,
Parallel universes where we never will meet,
And lost worlds below.I tell my lover
As his heart drums against my face,
As bees converge on the window box
Where the dragon lily grows.
I tell myself.
Now everyone knows.
by Rochelle Hope Mehr
I have no real identity.
I exist only on paper—A flat, 2-dimensional stick figure.
I have no viscera.
Nothing churns in me, no lust, no rage.
I am content to lie on my page
And occasionally whisper in your ear:
Float, float with me here.
Here where there is no illness or sin,
in the abstract whiteness of potential
by Rochelle Hope Mehr
Something keeps bringing me back here.
Back to the mind looking in upon itself.
Back to the quiet of a well-lit day.You may find yourself a stranger in my midst
But I welcome the intrusion.
Let us take out the garbage together.In the mist of our well-lit day
There is nothing to refuse.
by C. L. Bledsoe
On his way to the video store, he saw hundreds of sheets of clean white paper
fluttering across the road. These were all the stories I'll never write that could've saved
me, he thought, as he drove over them. But there were cars behind him and he could
not brake.
by Ashok Niyogi
Inadequacy
Come nightfall,
These geese flying in a ‘v’,
Say it more succinctly
Than me.
In the other sky,
A sliver of orange sun,
Spreads the orange-red
Of passion.
Strike a chord,
Pick a word
From this momentary
Basket of mumble-jumble,
Mute tears
In the darkness,
A silent grin,
Furrowed brows
Because of the irritating
Housefly on your chin.
Can you tell me
What the story
Exactly is,
Between night and day,
Which word
Does actually win.Dyevushka
In Moscow,
It must be snow.
‘Dyesit minut’,
Ten minutes,
Flung at me
Across the aisle
In Concord Mall,
Why do my eyes sting?
Pregnant sky,
Paw marks on virgin snow,
Children’s’ sleds,
Chestnuts
On charcoal,
Sparks from tram-car wires,
Naked, hibernating trees.
Your breath,
Frozen in the wind
Red earlobes,
Half hidden beneath your cap,
Flaked skin
On your bursting lower lip.
All balled up in fur,
To slide and hide my fingers in.
I am the vodka that warms you up,
I am the five-dollar cigar,
I am the tear that stains your apple cheek,
I am unmitigated sin.
I am the kiosk full of expensive flowers
That you pour into your bathtub,
I lie beneath the tallest pines,
In the middle of your icy walk.
Touch me,
Wake me up,
I have to cruise
On the Golden Ring,
I have to write a love poem,
By the lamp light
On the Arbat.
Outside your Moscow window,
It must be snow.Ocean Tip
The futility of words
Comes crashing in,
Then recedes,
Like an ocean wave
Leaving in its wake, debris,
A twig, some seashells,
One of a pair of dirty shoes,
A plastic bottle of Diet Pepsi,
All abandoned in the sand.
No messages in corked bottles,
No mysterious bloated corpse,
No salt-water eaten maps
To guide me by.
A little out to sea,
I stand on black rock
And think,
‘This is not what I wanted to say,
This is not it at all’.After
After hills and dales,
River and gorge,
Sea and cloud
And colorful birds,
There is the anti climax
Of meeting head on, the sun.
Cremation in divine creation,
Celestial sunspots.
Will the vapors then shake hands
With that, which was before time,
Will they cohabit a promised garden
In the sun’s sky?
Or will there be rebirth,
A calf to a cow
Peacefully chewing the cud.Skin
I see my skin metamorphose,
hills and valleys,
different colors of dry grass,
newly made furrows
for this year’s seed,
ash marks from yesterday’s cremation,
some peeling off, to make way for new,
specially around the lips,
turned up to the sun
This will necessitate life-style
changes, protection from ultraviolet,
masks like cocoons
from which will emerge new identities,
only to fall off at the altar of the sun.
While Chinese women walk beside Elizabeth Lake,
wearing full sleeve blouses and long skirts,
a scarf around their lower face, bandit style,
a wide brimmed hat, even an umbrella,
while geese at shore,
squint at the sun.
Being unusually occupied with death,
I wonder at the blackness
of skin on the funeral pyre,
the smell of burning,
and wonder how it was amortized,
this living with face packs
under the sun.
by Richard Allen Taylor
Troubled dreams lately, along with sinus headaches.
Fought dragons all night, got lost in a maze, found the exit
but it was locked. Lost something important, looked
everywhere, never recovered. Twisted sheets, tried
to get away. Out of breath, swam against the tide,
slipped further from shore. Ran, kept running,
barely escaped. Chased, never caught. Claustrophobic,
crawled in cramped cave, light diminishing. Struggled
against pressure, compression, depression. When
wakefulness came, needed more sleep but refused
to sink again. I wonder if pollen, dust
mites and mold merely disturb sleep enough to leave
a gap in the curtain usually closed, if the same dramas
play nightly, if sanity is the ability to sleep through dreams.
Contours
by
Richard Allen TaylorA snow-laminated plain in Iowa:
A spot forms there, the size of a human mouth.
The sun touches it for the first time.
The widening circle of moist earth.The scrape of summer clouds across jagged mountains:
Air slides over rock, stealing heat.
Dragonflies skitter over polished lakes.
Windswept ripples across corduroy pools.The slap of ocean wave against shore:
Water rushes inland, scrubs away footprints.
Grains of sand return in rivulets.
Land reshaped in ebbing tide.The arms of music from great distance:
You heard the shapes of notes I sang to you.
I remembered the chords you played on my shoulder.
The rounded melodies of night.
by
Richard Allen TaylorListen to the earth. Not just in its pristine
nakedness, but in its occupied state:
how it resonates, in harmony
with all its denizens. Hear
the root-thump and fish-croak,
footsteps of sparrows,
the low muttering of tall grass
whispered through water and rock.The clicking of earthworms, sounds
you only imagined were there,
are there. If only you could listen
a little harder you would hear
the echoes of human hearts, the distant
jazz of joy sung in the streets and hummed
in a mother's lullaby, silent songs
made live again, celebration plucked
from a banjo made in heaven, music
woven together for a carpet cut for dancing.
by
Richard Allen TaylorBe careful what you say. Space
is a cosmic recording device
that hears every word, transmutes it
for later use—a final ceremony, perhaps,
at the end of time, your voice harmonizing
with the sound tracks of everyone
who ever lived, a symphony captured
in golden tongues of flame, the blaze
that begins a new star, the birth
of an undiscovered universe sprouting
from the corpse of another, each word a pebble
dropped in an infinite pond, waves
undulating outward forever, ever-diminishing
ripples in search of a discerning listener.
Ping.
I Know You Though We've Never Met
by Jeffrey Side
While staying with friends
for a few days
they lent me
your room—they said
you had agreed.
Your books, your letters
and your hat
and cape are there for my
perusal.
The pictures of you
on the wall
show, lover, father,
mother, child.
And sleeping in
your empty bed
I feel I
know you very well.
A stranger's room—
yet not to me.
I know you though
we've never met.
by Jeffrey Side
She loved to sit and listen
to me sing
as she held me against
her rings while the worm
destroyed her.
The caves to the east
can be followed by the sun.
And she traveled
there among the strangers from
the sea.
Like the bubble-islands
in my bath she never
stayed the same.
And when
she woke she saw no one.
She kept me warm with company.
And we would whisper
for hours about the books
she’d bought.
Then I would watch her
automatic hand
land and turn
the pages of some thin
volume asking what the French
would quote.
She could skim in French
and could pause in several
other languages.
She asked about the
school by the river and whether
’twas true that glass
never smashed there. I said it was
so when I left.
by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
He can be a nice boy.
Most days he likes
to keep people away.
He is not so nice when
he is yelling and kicking.
But just leave him alone
when he tells you
to leave him alone and
everything will be all right.|
His struggle with voices
take much of his time.
He was a nice boy once
before the voices came.
His mother told me.
by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
It's darker
at five PM.
The moon
is above
and the sun
sets in
the distance.
It seems as
if some mad
artist
plays with
the sky.
It's effortless
for him.
And we struggle
to draw
a straight line.
by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
I want one
of those jobs;
those that pay
three times what
we make. I'm
tired of these
wages that
don't go a
long way. It's
a damned shame
I don't get
along with
those who could
help me get
ahead. Then again
I'm glad I don't.
by Nathan Richardson
I could write the expected metaphors
of impotence:
the wilted flower;
the listless hand clutching
the ink pen running dry.
But it's more like the fury of an imprisoned djinn;
the frenzied clawmarks inside Poe's coffin;
the utter silence of a scream in space.
Where the Blue Oyster Cult had it wrong
by Nathan Richardson
I imagine,
if death came knocking
literally, he would not be
dressed in the traditional
coal black cloak, shadowy and grim,
a scythe or a sickle in his skeletal grip,
floating rather than stepping
through the door, followed
by a chill and the sound of wind
but no breeze.
No, I imagine
he would probably dress more
like a traveling salesman:
starched white shirt, necktie
with paisleys or stripes
loosened at the collar, hair combed
neatly, clean-shaven, with a warm
handshake and a "Good afternoon, madam,
could you spare a moment of your time?"
That way you would be more likely
to welcome him in, and
it would be much scarier when he rips your head off.
Excerpts from Mythic Tunes and alphabet soup
by Scott Malby
*If life is an illusion, redemption costs.* Paolo H.a.
Bastendorf Beach,
Coos Bay, OregonThe December wind prowls
through a vineyard of clouds
as the landscape fills with passing birds.
I'm like a gull on a fence,
preening my feathers, directing my gaze
toward unseen horizons only I can imagine.
This coast smells of clover and honey
and other lovers will come
resplendent and tanned
to walk along this beach.
To whistle up waves. To prowl for gifts.
To hold the ocean's wet face
in their hands as she whispers
up from her pregnant belly
of migrating whales, drifting nets
and lost graves.
Like me, they will wish
the miraculous and joyful flower
of each moment into bloom.
Just one more wave, and another,
and another. Don't ask me to explain.
Maya, when I touch you
the sound I hear is the sound
of my own body growing wings.b.
Where should I begin?More comfortable in silence
than in speech, this is my meditation
on broken things. I chip away
at the sparkle of all that seems,
sifting through the miraculous impediments
of my life, like pebbles or sandy parables
soaking in my blood, when Maya appears,
carrying her bundle of flowers, sighing
while smelling their severed heads.
Like a kept cat I rest my face in her lap
and purr beside her milky flesh as she speaks
in a language misunderstood as if in dialog
with someone other than. My mind a bag
I'm put back to sleep in, making love to ghosts.
I'm at Wit's End, my own body
no longer my home where images
break into squalls, scattering fragments
of myself like pieces of flesh sharks fight over.
Bombings in Iraq. Explosions in Jordan.
Protests in France. Even in hot daylight
I'm in moonlight and blind as a bat.
The philosopher in me reduced to burps.
Loving Maya was a quick fix that never was right
or sane and besides, trust me, I don't know,
when I scratch for answers it makes things worse.
All the while, I'm thinking to myself, where do
all the itches go that can't be scratched
as if my mind's trapped in a bathroom sack
filled with broken beer bottles, unpaid bills,
torn pages, used condoms, and I think:
The soul of Man is dead or never was
or has yet to be.
Dreaming of foreign archipelagos
I bait my breath with cutting air,
white hot lusts and boundless enthusiasms.
I covet the spontaneous
and grant the wave its water and the ice its form,
but there are times I would be
like the weathering of old rock
or great trees in the unerring placement
or shedding of temporary illusions.
In them witnesses to the silence
of the ever diminishing for Maya
is my captor, my hook, my line,
and I am to her, kindling at point of pause
before combustion.c.
When love for life plucks our stringsWe twang and the road show starts.
A beautifully orchestrated
melody of seduction and fire.
Hearing nothing but the charm
of the song, we open life's musical box
of secrets each offers up for winding.
Like little figurines, we dance over glass.
Maya, you're the queen of mayhem
and I'm your prince of fools.d.
I prowlyard sales and elegies.
I plunder the past
and suspect
there is no wisdom.
I live with the bones
of things striving
to be whole again
that never will be.
My bed is crowded
and I can't sleep.
My imagination
sifts through sand
sculpting erotic
images of Maya
that won't go away.e.
History bringsnothing closer.
I pray to the miraculous
gods of Alexandria,
like crazy prophets
living in their temples
of parchment
and aged skin.
You light a torch.
Smoke rises for days.
Maya, you tell me,
what does the fire wear?
What are its colors
reflecting off my skin?f.
Sunset to sunriseSunrise to sunset
its all a chant
I strain to remember
as if I'm a reflection
rising up from water.
My god in the touch
of your flesh
and what music
there is between us
the only honest
philosophy I know.g.
Maya:I kiss the memory
of your eyes,
waking those babies
up from their swaddled
slumber, having loved
makes us memorious
but vulnerable.
My sheaves
of inspiration
are nearly witless.
In a time of loss,
of earthy passions
you come dressed
in your best stained
illusion, destroying
countless images of yourself
like a queen reigning
on the walls
of misty Ellsinore
or floating at daybreak
through a labor camp,
floating backwards,
sinking in fog, weighed
down by all you’re not.
I cradle your memory
that drinks my blood
as you drool me out.
Like a kiss from your mouth
I stain what I touch.
I scan the horizon
for missing persons
and find you not.h.
Like an oakI raise my arms
of art up
to the blue pond
I pray to.
In the secret valley
of its leaves
I seek my redemption.i.
Nowlike a willful young lady,
floats without a bonnet
smelling her flowers.
Will she endure?
Funny, all this seems.
We flare for guidance.
We toss our anchor
into the bottomless
mouth of the unknown
to rudder ourselves steady
but no reference is stable
so all our lives
like Sunday boaters
off of la Grande Jatte,
we drift back and forth.j.
Without loveyou remember all but feel nothing. It's been months.
Clocks swim in monotonous circles like fish.
My mind craves release. I'm guilty as charged
before being charged. The months are mouths
stuttering to a conclusion, like metal doors shutting
inside me. I starve without being hungry. Who will know?
Who will care? When the cage is unlocked
the animal is forgotten. I write using uprooted letters
and imaginary ink. Would that I were reborn
as a river after a rain, to feel the water of life,
to wiggle my toes in it, but this whirlpool I'm in
is sucking me under. It resents the touch of my flesh.
Let the sharks carry this message to Maya:
Tell her I drown.k.
Love is passionatelike an agitated man bound
in a chair or a young woman
brought back from death, tearing
out strands of her hair.
Love is a flurry of mad fingers
scratching against the troubled ceiling
of our crucified, sweating flesh.
This flood is our birthright.
We rise up from her, into innocence
and back again, lungs gasping for breath,
hands grasping at light.l.
It's another late Decemberand the light is fragile
as an eggshell
when viewed from the inside out.
In the subterranean
icy night dark stars twinkle
and meteors fall
illuminating
the champagne squall
I travel through.
Alone, without you,
upon a once familiar
beach, the sand appears
like colored grains
of birch or yew
and I imagine that when
pushed against
the sea will willingly
open its hungry mouth
to take me in.m.
Roll up your sleevessweet terrors of infinity.
Fast forward
to a slow motion crawl
for this world's as sensual
as candy, a carnival
filled with bright
cotton candy bathed in the halo
of a praline moon like a fat
little gondola we sail under.
Magnificent as a lollipop
we burst like popcorn
wobbling drunk
through the woozy air
and when we retreat
to fondle the paps of the universe,
there's no call forwarding.n.
Maya, like blue jadewas born from wind, whistling
through deep green grass
and purple moss.
At her heart a flock
of singing birds
or rutting stags with horns
of oak armored in velvet plumage,
reaching out,
tethering earth to sky.
In her, the willow and alder
are in kinship with magical rivers
cloaked in the shadowy
white mist of rich smelling arbors
of ancient flowers where animals
shape-shift through ancestral doorways.
The red bear, the pale froth of the horse
and the slender wolf are in her eyes
speaking of otherworldly lovers
coupling in trysts
of transmigration to the clans
and houses of men.
Be at one with her.
Sip from her brew joining
past, present and future together.
Be swift as a hare
or a greyhound, a fish or otter.
Be wise as an eagle.
Gift yourself a star, a world,
a beach, a book of incantations
that you might joyously take delight
along the path of your way
for above is a crown of hidden oaks
where dark clouds gather
with the bitter knowledge
that comes from the flesh
of the wild plum. Maya emerges,
regaining her footing,
released from the concrete gardens
we put her to sleep in.
The Woodcarver
In Memory of John Jarvisby Susan Constable
Like a hawk
he kept his eye on detail,
then holding patience in his hands
coaxed birds from basswood,
curled their claws—thin
as fingernails—on branches,
pried open hungry beaks,
carved wings real enough to fly.Above Pacific sands and keening seas
an eagle circled with his mate
then soared alone
broke freewhile far away
a kingfisher ruffled painted feathers,
cried her slate-blue call,
and a flock of birds took flight.
by Susan Constable
wash me with green
rinse me with serenitylead me to a house
on a peaceful knollwhere books hold
up the roofpoetry paints
pictures on wallsand a cat curls his tail
around thyme
by Susan Constable
seventeen geese paddle east—
brown backs wet and smooth
as beach rockwhite bottoms bobbing along
like music notes on a rippled staff
in the key of sea—never turning west to see the signs
of where they’ve been
or who they’ve left behind.
by Susan Constable
scaling ocean waves,
this wind that teases
my hair with melody.
Listen, it says. Listen.I hear its cool soprano
with my cheeks and nose;
hook my finger, catch
a phrase mid-air.The tempo quickens,
rushes through trees
and fallen leaves. I hear
the whine with achingarms, sore shoulders,
creaking knees. Louder,
deeper the music goes;
the roar of the stormdeafens my toes;
my back picks up
each crack of branch while
whistles turn my eyes.The hum of autumn fills
my chest, yet in my bones
beat subtle undertones
of winter’s drums.
by Lark Beltran
As above, then so below, they say ...
Clouds could be sighs or sneezes or the dim
vapors of dreams which in the mind-tank swim,
collapse, rebuild and darken, with the play
of yearnings proper to the human clay.
Dense or diaphanous, they change at whim—
such airscapes for the traveler's eye to skim
from window seat, the ground so far away.
Billowing symbols on that cobalt dome
pattern the length of fancy's promenade.
Can thought-forms, etched in ultra-infra gloam,
contribute to the roseate colonnade
of broken pillars like an astral Rome,
or to that giant's head, its features frayed?
by Lark Beltran
It scintillates and titillates
in tinseled vault-bazaar.
Branches of dark matter
dangle the errant star,
cradle prenatal galaxy
caught as in pool of tar—
a multi-laned infinity
condensed to the senses' jar.
by Rachel Lawrence
The sun will rise:
The sky is white,
Where blue was once the midnight,And backs will break,
And skin will tan,
Beneath the broken wedding band.When summer dies,
And cattle laze,
Upon the flooding paddock gaze,My heart will thaw,
The cold prolong.
The wedding band will still be gone.
by Rachel Lawrence
She may be beautiful,
But I see imperfection.
And wasted space
Where her thoughts should be.
She wears glitter on her skin.
When it shines in the light
I feel it sticking to my tongue.Silence is not enough.
Her imperfections are still ugly,
And her brain is empty.
And the glitter on her tongue
Is a greedy way to draw attention
Away from these things.
by Janet Butler
a pallid light sifts
through mists
hazing the distant skyline
greys soften to blues
and lines to gentler rhythms
as sea clouds rise
and drift
in golden flecks
above the burnished waters
laced now in frothy filigree
their wavelets cusping
molten masses
that move in cadence
to deep dark things
by Janet Butler
lust burns
in aches
where love lives
spirit fleshed
through hunger
longs conjunction
and the brutal pleasures
that heat
the heaving flesh
by Janet Butler
Eyes darken
as images flesh from thoughts
that brush the heart
with painful sweetness.
Loss ever present
in life recomposed,
pieces rearranged
to disguise the absence
illuminating all.
The Death of the Ice Cream Man George Trialonis
Monkey Man John P. Matsis
The Reply Vernon Welman
Zip Guns Michael Dennis McDermott
Protest and Hush Puppies John A. WardChores Michael Fuchs
Dispensable Noreen Austin
Rooms With A View H. G. Dowdell
Loloila Alan Girling
The Death of the Ice Cream Man
by George Trialonis
hen I was eleven years old, my perception of the world changed completely, when one summer morning I overheard my mother say to Katina, a neighbor, “Poor Papamoros is dead; he died in his sleep last night.” I almost choked on the ice cube I had just picked from our first electric refrigerator. I slammed the kitchen door, spat the ice cube into one of the flowerpots lining our miniature patio and rushed out on the street. I felt as if I were breaking into pieces. My arms and legs felt so strange to me. Had the world suddenly shattered into tiny fragments, including my own insignificant existence?
“Papamoros is dead,” I gasped to Nikos and Menas playing a game of marbles on a stone bench next door. They didn’t even look up. They were absorbed in their game, but they did invite me to join them. “The ice cream man is dead,” I shouted at them.
“Does that mean that he won’t be making his rounds today?” Menas asked, as he was about to throw his shot.
In retrospect, I should not have expected more of those ten-year-old companions of my childhood. The game of marbles, the sunshine and the main elements of our world were there while more fun was unconsciously anticipated as the day wore on. However, I knew that Papamoros, an essential element of our universe, was gone forever, just like my grandfather two years earlier.
For weeks after my grandfather had died his house furniture seemed so alien to me; they had shrugged off their mysterious mantle. The wicker chair between his bed and the wooden, oblong kitchen table was cold and hopelessly inhospitable. When he was alive he would take me on his lap and share his breakfast with me. He would break chunks of hard, whole grain bread and dip them in a glass of warm sage tea, and I would suck the juice and pick black olives from a cup at arms length and spit the stones on the table aiming at a ‘constellation’ of breadcrumbs on the wooden expanse. He would tell me stories of brave local fighters who, although outnumbered, fought the enemy on the mountains and plains of Crete and won glorious victories. He would recount in detail the lives and legends of holy men, hermits, who had renounced worldly affairs to spend the rest of their lives in caves around the island. As much as I did not enjoy the latter stories, I loved my grandfather, in spite of the fact that his furrowed face and callous hands reminded me of those hermits who, to my mind, were tormenting themselves for no reason, wasting their time in damp and dark hollows and missing all the fun under the brilliant and warm rays of the sun, not to mention countless games of marbles. My grandfather was tall and thin, an ascetic man, much like those desiccated figures on his icon-stand above his bed. Forty days after my grandfather had died, my mother laid a white, embroidered tablecloth on that table and removed the icon stand. My father hired a construction worker to hammer out a window on the wall against which my grandfather’s bed stood. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach as soon as the first lances of sunlight rammed through the opening. My grandfather’s world was slowly, but inexorably, dissipating in my memory, pushing deep into the remote recesses of my unconscious.
However, Papamoros was so much unlike my grandfather, both in terms of physical appearance and dress. He was a short stout, middle-aged man with red hair and a round, sleek and smiling face. His sky blue eyes—rings detached from the azure canopy of the heavens—captured our tottering reflections as we besieged him for his wares. There were no ridges or knolls on his plump hands which handled the scoop with such artistry. His milk white skin was dotted with imperceptible, tiny reddish spots, which gave me the impression that this man was made entirely of candy. His professional attire consisted of a doctor’s white coat and a white painter’s cap with a visor. His love for children he channeled into his art of making the most delicious ice cream in the world, our world. Also, he was a one-man band, with nasal and vocal sounds of cymbals and drums.
As much as my grandfather represented the lore of darkness, with its bloodstained heroes and skeletal hermits, Papamoros represented the sensation of warm and comforting light and the simple pleasures of life that provided nourishment to our young minds and green taste.
Papamoros pushed a white, closed cart, more like an oversized cube on wheels with a trap door on top. The insides of the pushcart were lined with sheet-metal and filled with crushed ice keeping cold the ice cream in two large tin cylinders. As the ice melted, it drained from the bottom rear left corner of the cart through a short spout fitted snuggly into a longer piece of garden hose. The continuous flow of melting ice marked Papamoros’ rounds, with little pools of water designating stops. The pushcart moved on three wheels, two in front and one fixed on a swivel in the rear for turns. The front right wheel wobbled with an intermittent sound which, to my mind, sounded yet another call, “child-ren, child-ren.”
“Paaagotooo!” the call of the ice cream man would echo through my old neighborhood, mobilizing troops of children at play in the streets to a wild campaign for half a drachma, the price of an ice cream cone. Scores of little feet stormed indoors to return just as fast in the tow of one hand extended to a fist closed tight over the precious ‘token’ for a scoop of vanilla or strawberry ice cream. Naturally, there were ‘casualties’: despondency or frustration nested both in children’s limbs and wet rosy cheeks.
I took my eyes away from my friends’ game and scanned the neighborhood, as if nudged by a mysterious urge swelling inside me. The little, white-washed houses were bathed in the morning light as usual, the film of shadow from the only three-storey building to the west was receding imperceptibly, and the rustle from inside the low houses was the same, albeit more acute. It was as if my ears were propped up and my entire senses on alert. I knew something was wrong, in spite of the apparent familiarity of the morning stage. Papamoros is dead, I repeated to myself. I know something is wrong, I thought. It’s in the air. I sniffed to my left; I sniffed to my right, but stopped only when I noticed that Nikos was staring at me with his mouth gapping open.
“What are you doing, Giorgos?” Nikos asked.
“Nothing, I can smell bacon. Takis will be coming out soon to join us,” I lied.
I didn’t want to make a fool of myself, so I wandered off with both hands in my pockets and head down. Following the slightly sloping road was better suited to the melancholy which had taken hold of my limbs. It was not so much a feeling of personal loss, as was the case with my grandfather, but a sense of emptiness, a loss of orientation, of a significant landmark or point of reference in my psyche. I felt a growing urge to pass by Papamoros’ house, perhaps nursing the hope that my mother was wrong, that Papamoros was simply late or sick in bed.
The dark brown cover of a casket was leaning heavily against the lime-washed wall of Papamoros’ house. The sign of death, I thought. Death is a guest in this house. The cover is his calling card, the words of uncle Minas churned in my mind. Next to the cover was a large, round wreath of white carnations. The wreath was fixed to a long and narrow floorboard and had a white ribbon inscribed as follows: “In Memory of Our Father and Grandfather: his children and grandchildren.” I bent down and pinched a wall-lettuce making an insipid appearance through a crack at the lower end of the wall, to the left of the doorstep. I wiped the dust off against my left sleeve and stuck the flower between the thick arrangement of white carnations, adding a nice touch of green to the lower, left circumference of the wreath. In Memory of the Ice Cream Man: the children of Saint Trinity quarter of the town, I murmured
Return to Prose
by John P. Matsis
t seemed innocuous enough at the beginning—Harold was born with too much hair. The doctor used the word, hirsute, rather than the word, hairy, as not to alarm his mother as he placed her newborn son upon her abdomen following her brief and virtually painless labor and delivery. At birth Harold’s scalp was covered with dark and wavy hair that reached down his forehead, nearly meeting his eyebrows and extended to both sides of the scalp to cover his ears; grassy, dark areas of hair already spotted his chest and back. It was a peculiar but wondrous medical sight.
As the months passed, Harold’s mother would walk through the neighborhood with her precious infant tucked securely in a stroller. Her heart was filled with pride as neighbors stopped and forced a curious look. Some paused to offer a subdued word or two, others merely placed their hand over their mouth in a failed attempt to disguise a giggle.
Eventually hurt grew in her heart, for she could not understand. In her mind’s eye, Harold was the perfect son—never fussy, a good eater, an infant blessed with a perfect disposition. As the years passed, Harold thrived, becoming taller than his peers and demonstrating considerable athletic ability. He would become the star of the high school track team, specializing in the sprints and in the long jump.
As he ran and leaped to victory time after time, his long hair flowing behind him like the mane of an animal, the onlookers would look on in shock. They would shake their heads in disbelief—at a young man so hirsute. And with time, as the ridicule and cruelty became commonplace, they would call him the monkey boy and a few years later, the monkey man.
Despite the handicap, Harold remained focused, although admittedly there were occasions when he would look into a mirror, shake his head at what he saw and wished he were like the others. He would shave three or four times a day, but the hair growth was profuse and the more he shaved, the faster it seemed to grow. He succumbed to wearing long-sleeved shirts that hid his hairy arms and he would button his shirt to the collar to prevent annoying sprigs of chest hair from reaching beyond the borders of the cloth.
Although his grades upon high school graduation were well above average, Harold decided that he would postpone his college education…earn enough money so that he would not be a burden to his parents and especially to his mother who looked so lovingly at him, who looked past his hairy body as if he were a normal young man.
As if it were meant to be, the job at the county zoo was a stroke of luck. And when the chief zookeeper interviewed him, he was unable to take his eyes away from Harold’s hairy face and body. He hired him on the spot—for here was an individual, hairy body and all, whose appearance would not alarm the apes. So it was there, at the county zoo, where Harold in a short time became the zookeeper in charge of apes…not all of the apes, but specifically the orangutans—graceful creatures with long, powerful arms that were able to glide from branch to branch as if they had wings.
He would watch and study them in a scientific, analytical way. They in turn responded to his attention, allowing him to come close to them, even permitting him to stroke their hairy bodies with his fingers as if his digits were the teeth of a comb. And, as he combed back their hair away from their faces, they would mutter guttural ape sounds as if they were trying to communicate with him.
It was when he took notice of fellow zookeeper, Lenora, that the recognition of his strange, mutant malady finally took hold. He would stare at her, focus upon the smooth, hairless skin of her face, the expansive forehead, and the blond hair that seemed too delicate to be real. But to his dismay, instead of a stare returned, she would rebuff his attention by placing a finger into her mouth, pretending to vomit. It was the meanest of the mean that a person could do.
It was then he decided that he must refocus his life. Perhaps a wondrous deed of accomplishment could blunt the cruel way people perceived him; perhaps they might look past his imperfection and instead marvel.
The summer Olympic trials were set—in a year Athens would be filled with the greatest athletes of the world and the greatest of all competition would begin. It was there, in that land of the ancient gods where the legendary Achilles began it all, where he would compete and show everyone that the Monkey Man was equal to the task before him.
And he formulated a plan and began his athletic training in earnest. He studied the orangutan’s fluid motion, taking note of the precise angle of body lean as they leaped from ground to branch above. He noted the precise swing of their arms that to a layperson meant little, but to Harold the intent was obvious—it was a way to extend the length of their leap. He even took note of the unique way they flexed their feet and ankles in unison as they began their sky-bound leap. He even noticed the chin brought to the chest to make the body more aerodynamic.
It was during the early morning hours when the zoo was quiet and devoid of customary crowds peering curiously at the apes that he would leap with them. To his surprise they urged him on, swinging their arms, bending their knees as if to instruct him in their way.
It was then that he knew that he must begin his quest to be the greatest long jump athlete of all time…an Olympic champion to be admired, someone a Lenora would be attracted to.
During the isolation of the early morning hours, he would smooth out an area of soft dirt in the ape compound, place a plank where the step-off of his jump would begin and he would practice his leap time and time again. And as he jumped, the orangutans observed with great interest, even offering shrieks of encouragement as he leaped to distances not achieved before by any human…on one leap alone, he jumped over thirty feet, well beyond the world’s record.
Although he made it known to the Olympic committee of his amazing accomplishment, they merely scoffed, saying it was totally impossible—it was not possible for an unknown athlete who had never competed in a major field and track meet to leap so far.
It was then that Harold decided that he must do what had to be done.
On a summer’s Saturday afternoon the zoo was filled to capacity as visitors shoved and crowded the exhibits—man, woman, and child alike anxious to view their favorite animal. The ape compounds were alive with activity. To the glee of the onlookers Sampson, the gorilla, thunderously pounded his chest with his fists, Isadora, the chimpanzee clung precariously from a rope high above her cage, her newborn protectively clutched to her bosom, and in the orangutan compound, the long-limbed apes swung from branch to branch as if they were featured circus performers.
With each effortless swing, the orangutans' graceful bodies glided fluidly as if they were suspended by invisible wires by a puppet master above, the visitors gasping with delight. But when Harold, their keeper, appeared the visitors stood in silent disbelief. Instead of his wearing his official zoo-keeper’s uniform, he stood before them in skimpy clothing, his hirsute body in nearly full display. In contrast, the orangutans responded with shrieks of delight, swinging their arms in wide arcs and clapping their hands.
Harold responded by extending his hairy arms triumphantly. And the crowd about the compound swelled as curiosity increased to a feverish level…for this was a most unusual sight.
And Harold would smooth with his hairy feet the dirt that covered a wooden plank and would make a narrow pathway in both directions for the feat that was to follow. He would walk to the back of the compound, leaning against the wire fencing as if to gather all his energy for a Herculean feat. Then with arms swinging, chin tucked down against his hairy chest, feet and ankles flexing and straightening in unison he would run with the swiftness of a wild animal of the Serengeti. His long hair streamed from the back of his head as his foot hit the wooden plank and with effortless ease his body lifted off the ground, arms swinging in wide arcs as if gathering up the air about him like a champion swimmer gliding through airy waters.
Sounds of exclamation burst from the crowd as he met the zenith of his leap, his hairy legs fully extended, the earth below him a blur of dirt, soon to be impacted by the mightiest of all human leaps.
And Lenora, who up to this time stood in the background, leaned forward to observe this most unbelievable feat and despite better judgment and her prudish disposition, permitted a smile of admiration to cross her face.
Return to Prose
by Vernon Welman
earest Daughter,
I write to answer the question posed in your last letter. It started the day your Maw Maw, that’s Edna, my Momma, told me with no little excitement about new neighbors moving two doors down. We had experienced new neighbors before, and in fact, folks moved in and out of Gretna all the time. What got the poor woman worked up that time was the particular neighbors in question—a woman in her early forties, and as we learned later, a widow, along with her adult daughter who, based on the sunburn Maw Maw sported from looking through the picture window, seemed very single. Your Maw Maw had her faults —drinking, smoking, swearing (at me), but she was kind at heart. And she was pretty certain that if I didn’t marry soon, I’d die—by her own hands.
Momma, that’s your Maw Maw, said, "Get some Sunday clothes on boy."
"Momma, it’s Saturday."
"I know that." Then she added, “But do it. And take yourself a bath too . . . do that first."
Now I was already bothered that day as I spent the morning outside, watching another neighbor, 'Old Man' Craig, cut the grass in our yard. I know that sounds stupid, my dearest daughter, but he always spoke of how he loved to cut grass. And me? Well, it never held much enjoyment for me in the confines of a single’s lifestyle. Dad, your Paw Paw, who you never had the opportunity to meet, certainly picked himself a yard of contrary misery when he bought that house. In fact, I’m certain that yard killed him —along with that heart attack he had at his secretary’s apartment.
"Momma," I called from the living room toward her in the kitchen.
"What?" I heard over the clang of pots and pans and the slamming of the oven door. It seemed like she had taken to baking.
"Did somebody die? Are we going to a wake?"
She stepped into the hall to make herself visible. "Why are you sitting there son? I said go take a bath and put on some nice clothes." Her posture and humorless glare suggested I move as she’d requested.
"Okay, okay. But where are we going?"
"We are paying a visit to our new neighbors. Got it?"
I got it all right. Your Maw Maw didn’t have to say another word for me to understand what was going on. While 'Old Man' Craig was cutting our grass, I equally took notice of those two women standing around the moving van as it was unloaded. The older one, the mother, was an attractive woman though time had softened her shape from distinctive curves to a more rounded form, while her daughter sported the blessings from God both to the left and the right, and also everywhere else a man was permitted to look in public. I greeted the immediate future with dismay and which was immediately coming to fruition.
After bathing, I brushed my hair like a schoolboy. My hands shook from nerves caused by having to meet a young female under the watchful eye of Momma, but when it came to tying ties, it was never easy, even in peaceful times. There was a natural proclivity for the back end of the tie, the tail part, to remain much longer than the front—probably due in large measure to the tail feeling inferior in girth. I tried several times to make sense of it, but the tie had another notion of style. I would have asked Momma for help, but she’d only pass comment on my general appearance and make changes. Finally, I gave up when I heard her calling. She handed me the cake to hold as we stepped outside. Hiking up to their front door, Momma commanded, "Ring the bell." I did so—twice. It wasn’t easy with the cake in my hand.
There was a clinking of locks. As the door swung open, a vision stood before me—for as surely as the daughter was comely from a distance, up close the sight of soft skin, green eyes, and blonde hair were as cooling as a tranquil pond, and yet as inflaming as molten lava over dry brush. I could not speak. I nearly couldn’t swallow. Still, in all my admiration, I noted a certain harshness. But its distress passed from my mind as little more than a small blemish on an otherwise ripe piece of fruit.
Momma, on the other hand, was not in any manner hindered in the region of her vocal chords. She was talking it up enough for two storms. "Welcome to the neighborhood. We brought you a cake," she said and elbowed me into action. I passed the prize across the threshold. "We live two doors down." She stuck out her hand and said, "My name’s Edna." Momma, while retaining a communicative proclivity and an extended right hand, pointed her finger to me and added, "And this is my son, Benny."
I choked and sputtered in a low whisper, "Call me Ben, Momma."
The young creature grabbed Momma's hand. I anticipated voiced words more like that of a celestial harp than something drummed up in the core of the human throat. However, the voice that ensued, a voice reflective of most Gretna peasants, said, "Kind of ya ta drop over. It’s a darling little cake." Emerald eyes shifted to my location. That embodiment of bodily, if not verbal, beauty extended her delicate fingers attached to her slender hand, and as her hand encased my own right paw in a near vice grip, she evicted from her mouth the words, "I’m Patty. Hi ya Benny . . . ha ha ha."
"Uh, it's Ben."
"Yeah Ben . . . whatever." She looked me over this way and that. "You sure do remind me of my last two boyfriends."
"The last two?"
"They were twin brothers." She grew introspective for a moment then added, "They sure did like to do everything together." Then she giggled. It conveyed all the important data that might be contained on a powerful computer.
Though you may think worse of me dearest daughter, I confess to you now that my mind altered. Where, from afar, I had seen visions of a lady fair, I realized now, at least to the profit side of the ledger, that what I truly beheld was fair game. My tongue began to loosen, but was still no match for Momma.
"Is there some help we can lend?" Momma interjected.
Like earlier, when Momma insisted we visit these two females, I knew what she meant, but strangely, I was ready to work, to impress Patty with my helpfulness. I managed a smile and to say, "Whatever you need . . . Patty." Then I smiled.
Patty looked behind her toward a wall of cardboard in box form. "Well sure, but I better ask Mom." With the grace befitting her nature, Patty again turned inward and hollered, "Mom!" In response, all we heard was a distinct and notable silence. "Mom!!! Where the hell are ya?"
In reply to the second call, there were footsteps on the stairs. Descending was the older woman. A closer inspection confirmed that she was the elder, situated in the sunny half of her forties. As women of that age go, she was a woman of considerable beauty, assuring us without words that Patty had come by her looks though honest means. Patty proceeded with the introductions. Hand were shaken a second time with the noticeable difference of a delicate touch from the mom. Her daughter carried on the entire conversation explaining our close vicinity, the cake, and the offer of assistance—mine anyway. The look I received from the mother, now known as Daisy, remains beyond my ability to describe except to say that I have seen comely actresses capture its earnestness on screen as they were rescued by bold knights. The mom quietly exhaled saying, "Oh yes please. It is just us two you know. Patty's father died two years ago." No additional word was required as blood immediately swirled in the sea of Momma’s mind.
I started to loosen my tie when Momma said, "Benny . . ."
"Ben."
"Whatever. It's impolite to be stripping down like that." I distinctly heard Patty snort somewhere behind her mother.
"Momma, I'm just undoing my . . ." But I said no more. It wasn't in her nature to make things easy for me. So in my long-sleeved, white buttoned-down dress shirt, I surveyed the entire lot.
Patty, displaying a gift that I thought only Momma possessed, said, "Take the heaviestone first . . . Benny."
I acted like that went unnoticed as I addressed the hulking mass that was the largest box. "Huha," I grunted. The thing was obviously filled with boulders.
Daisy creased her face with concern. "It's just too heavy for the boy. Let's forget that box." She gently placed a compassionate hand on my already straining shoulder.
Momma, being Momma, said all exasperated, "Son, quit horsing around and move that damn . . ." Her voiced trailed to nothing. "Sorry (she said to the two ladies—not me). I mean just move that darn box upstairs."
So my daughter, there I stood constricted by attire unwanted, weighted down by a box unowned, and laboring under the piercing eyes of three women, each watching as I resumed and presumed to haul that anchor to the top of the stairs. In fine fashion, I squatted over the box attempting a dead lift with my legs and rear fully engaged. As I said dearest, it was heavy, but I was determined. The match between box and man, up till that point, was a draw but odds favored the box. Pride swelled when I noticed Patty observing my struggle. But a second glance showed more clearly that her face did not display any particular warm emotion, but for the life of me, I found she exhibited the look, via a wicked smirk, the same look a small boy makes watching two insects ensnared in mortal combat. I didn't appreciate her prior giggles, but without question, my mind was such that I felt a need to put an end to her amusement. So driving upward with my haunches and my backside, I strained to pull the box skyward (well to belt level anyway). My muscles tightened as mightily as the box remained committed to the ground. I finally wrested the box several inches into the air. It was impossible to breath or speak. The muscles in my legs swelled, as they must have equally done so nearer my keister because I could hear the rendering of my trousers from the seat area. Patty and Momma broke into guffaws. Suddenly, I longed for their indifference. An exception, Patty’s mom, moved next to me and again touched my shoulder. Through gritted teeth, I said 'thank you' as my hands were still in possession of that same weight. She smiled. Ignoring the breeze, as some might say, I persevered since I still had the box in hand.
I tentatively extended my right foot in search of the lowest stair. Once it was located, I pushed off with my left to launch my sojourn. It was abortive. Between the weight of the box and the cat calls from Momma and Patty about my pants, I could not gain my balance. With only my right foot firmly planted on 'stairra firma', my body leaned backwards—but not for long. The thud of the box hitting the floor once slipping my grasp was dull and heavy. The thud of my butt hitting the floor was painful.
As I lay there, I heard a loud buzzing in my ears—that was Momma. " . . . it all to hell. That was damned clumsy of you." She was sitting on one of Daisy's chairs sipping iced tea provided by Patty. "Quit playing around," she commanded.
"He ain't gonna make it Miss Edna," mused Patty taking a spot on the sofa.
Rolling over and onto my knees, I was certain that by the time I got to my feet, I would be leaving, leaving their house, if not Momma’s permanently. But as I struggled to gain a footing, there was the mother, Daisy, gently holding my arm, helping me lift myself. She looked concerned. She was getting a lot of practice at it too. "Please leave that box downstairs. Don't trouble yourself anymore."
Momma erupted a second time, cursing my lack of grace. Patty continued expressing her doubts as to my strength. Daisy retained a worried look. I was touched by the sugar of Daisy’s soft nature, and thus not so stung by the vinegar in the comments from the other two. The situation had truly risen to a matter of honor—though that substance has always remained in short supply within and without the borders of Gretna. My hands firmly but politely guided Daisy aside. I removed my shirttails covering any exposed territory. Then recommenced.
Lifting and groaning intertwined until again I faced the stairs with container in hand. This time I employed a new stratagem. Upon setting my foot to the lowest stair, I took a deep breath and ran. Well dearest daughter, to say I ran is not true, but I moved my legs in as rapid a succession as the weight of my cargo would permit. My course up the staircase was not so direct as you might envision. The course varied every two steps as my body was inclined to go in any direction but upwards. I often swayed perilously near the railing before continuing. After, as I approached the top of the stairs, I found my body once again leaning in the direction I had already traveled. Lungs, strength, and balance subsided. Fortunately, I dropped the payload on the second floor landing—before descending the stairs in a full roll. There was no way to hear the words from Momma as the bells in my head drowned out all other noise.
Eventually, I was aware of someone kneeling beside me and stroking my face. Since no cursing was involved, I was also reasonably certain it wasn't Momma. Patty was a poor bet as well, so, eyes closed, I simply speculated, "Thanks Miss Daisy."
My head was scooped into the cradle of a lap. The words flowed forth. "You poor thing. All this trouble over two women." She continued to stroke my cheeks.
Like all men of Gretna, I wasn't one to show weakness. "Oh, that's okay Miss Daisy. It was just a wee bit heavy," I said. I attempted to rise, but like all men of Gretna who have just fallen down a flight of stairs, I cried, "Owwwww!"
"You stay there," she said. Turning to her daughter, Miss Daisy said, "Pour the young man a glass of milk and bring him some cake."
"Aw, Mom, he's okay."
"Now Patricia!" It erupted from Miss Daisy like water from 'Old Faithful'.
Patty complied, but only sheepishly presented the cake and milk which her mother grabbed, each in turn, to set on the floor. Miss Daisy actually sat there feeding me cake.
It didn't take long from then on to empty the living room of boxes. Miss Daisy and I did so in record time. We all visited a bit more once the boxes were gone, but by then, we were all paired off—Momma and Patty, Miss Daisy and I. As it grew dark, we said our goodbyes so that the women might get some rest. Momma promised I’d return tomorrow to unload the boxes I had just moved.
As Momma opened our front door, she snarled, "You sure made a mess of it today."
I was confused. "How's that Momma? I helped out just like you said."
"Yeah, that you did, she agreed before adding, “but you certainly didn't make a good impression on Patty."
I walked past Momma heading for the kitchen to get some ice cubes for all my bruises. "Well, you can keep her," I said. She's not my type."
Momma groaned, "Will I ever shed of you?"
I stuck my face into the bin of cubes and mumbled, "Don't worry none Momma. Daisy and I are going out next weekend."
So in a round about way my dearest one, I have told you why. It wasn't long thereafter that your Momma, Daisy, and I discovered how much we cared for each other. And not much longer after that when we figured age was not important. Then there was the wedding and then the biggest surprise of all —you. It has been a happy life for your father, as I trust it has been for you. With you mother's support, I have prospered and thus you now find yourself in that exclusive boarding school reading my letter. Things have gone well for your Maw Maw and sister, Patricia, too. They both prosper in those very same houses in the fair City of Gretna, where they refuse to ever leave, and which in answer your question, is why, even though I love my old hometown, we will always remain here in Seattle.
Love,
Dad
by Michael Dennis McDermott
“A zip gun”, J.B. answered with a look of pride on his face.
They were standing in the alleyway that ran behind the block of stores on Lefferts Boulevard. It was back there that the merchants parked their cars, so except for some occasional comings and goings two kids could meet and talk in privacy. (It was also a good place to bring a girl at night.)
The stores were pretty much what you expect to find on any main drag bisecting a residential area; there was a Drug Store, a small Deli, Dry Cleaners, a Real Estate Office, a Bar, a Beauty Parlor, and of course, the Candy Store.
The candy store was where they met that day.
The candy store, located there in southwestern Queens, in New York City, was virtually no different than any other candy store in the nation. When you walked in there was a double candy counter/register counter, and beyo
