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Morgan Lynn Kelley Jean White Rebecca Lu Kiernan Rochelle Hope Mehr C. L. Bledsoe

Ashok Niyogi Richard Allen Taylor Jeffrey Side Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal Nathan Richardson

Scott Malby Susan Constable Lark Beltran Rachel Lawrence Janet Butler

 

  

---

underluster, she wrote

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 underwaterunder

a sea surface seen not really from above
            but between

like liquid light alive
            with motion shape

these forms filled
            with light and water

these 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 moment

seep:  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 =
kindness

V

we all have a water mystery—it is the essence of human essence to be liquid and 
                                                                                              alive

motion 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

 





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Before Cold Mountain

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.

 

 

Dutch

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.

 

 

Fastidious

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.

 

 

ib

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  


 

Fight the River

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  

 





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Rummy Park 4 (Listen) 

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.

 





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Confession

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

 

 

Evermore

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.

 





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Videos

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.

 





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Time

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.

 

 



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Allergy Season

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 Taylor


A 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.


 

Put Your Ear to the Ground

by Richard Allen Taylor


Listen 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.

 

 

Universal Recorder

by Richard Allen Taylor


Be 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.

 

 



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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.


 

 

What Do the French Quote?

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.

 





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Nice Boy

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.

 

 

Mad Artist

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.

 

 

One of Those Jobs

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.

 





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Writer's Block

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.

 

 



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Excerpts from Mythic Tunes and alphabet soup

by Scott Malby


*If life is an illusion, redemption costs.* Paolo H.

a.
Bastendorf Beach,
Coos Bay, Oregon

The 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 strings

We 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 prowl

yard 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 brings

nothing 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 sunrise

Sunrise 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 oak

I 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.
Now

like 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 love

you 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 passionate

like 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 December

and 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 sleeves

sweet 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 jade

was 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.

 

 



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The Woodcarver
In Memory of John Jarvis

by 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 free

while far away
a kingfisher ruffled painted feathers,
                cried her slate-blue call,
                and a flock of birds took flight.

 

 

Country Roads

by Susan Constable


wash me with green
rinse me with serenity

lead me to a house
on a peaceful knoll

where books hold
up the roof

poetry paints
pictures on walls

and a cat curls his tail
around thyme

 

 

on a receding tide

by Susan Constable


seventeen geese paddle east—
brown backs wet and smooth
as beach rock

white 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.

 

 

it starts with a whisper

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 aching

arms, sore shoulders,
creaking knees.  Louder,
deeper the music goes;
the roar of the storm

deafens 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.

 

 



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Aeromancy

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?

 

 

Cosmic Christmas Tree

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.

 





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The Wedding Band

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.

 

 

Alibi

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.

 





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San Francisco, early morning

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

 

 

Love

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

 

 

Loss

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.

 





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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. Ward

Chores   Michael Fuchs Dispensable   Noreen Austin Rooms With A View   H. G. Dowdell Loloila   Alan Girling

 

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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

 

 

                                                                                                        
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Monkey Man                                                  

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.

 

 

                                                                                                        
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 The Reply                                                                   

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

 

 

 

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Zip Guns                                                                    

 by Michael Dennis McDermott

hat is it?” Arnie asked.

“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 beyond that there was the soda fountain with its eight stools.  The comic book and magazine racks lined the opposite wall and the bottom was shelved to hold all the newspapers.  New York City of the mid-fifties published a lot of daily papers.

Back beyond the magazines and the soda fountain were the booths.  There were eight of them.  They were blue and white leatherette, crisp and clean, and they surrounded the glimmering chrome edged, Formica tables.  For the most part the booths were barren and sullen during the school day, but after school and through the long weekend days, they were crammed with teenagers.

While most of the neighborhood youth congregated there it was the Rebels that comprised the largest group.  When they weren’t in their new storefront clubhouse you would find them at the candy store.  The Rebels  were a street gang, or what passed for a street gang in the relative safety of a middle class neighborhood.  They wore their orange and yellow jackets with ”REBELS” emblazoned across their backs, and their names or nick-names stitched to their breast like some kind of medal, and when they walked in a group they affected a tough-guy sneer.

But they weren’t tough guys.  Many of the street gangs of the mid-fifties were tough.  The sour streets of Brooklyn, The Bronx, or Manhattan hardened them, and they could, and did, harbor killers.  They were tough kids, bred of poverty and ill educated, and the gang proved their only security against a world that didn’t want them.

But the Rebels  trod no mean streets, they were mostly middle class kids from two parent households, and they knew little want.  But they played the game.  They chose their applicants carefully (it was a big plus if you were Italian/American) and they liked to think they ruled the streets of South Ozone Park.

There were many other kids in the neighborhood.  They hung together in loose clumps and little cliques, and they did their best to ignore the Rebels.    J.B. and Arnie belonged to one of those cliques.  There were eight or ten of them, between the ages of fourteen and sixteen, and because one of them, Danny Fitzpatrick, was the toughest kid in the neighborhood, the Rebels didn’t bother them too much.

In fact it was just the opposite.  Because they had Danny to back them up they would often play practical jokes on the Rebels.  When the opportunity arose they would steal one of their bikes or jackets and dispose of it.  When they ostensibly got word of the act they would feign shock, and with wide-eyed innocence they would agree when the culprit was caught, he should be punished severely.  Sometimes the Rebels  would suspect one of them but they were careful never to voice those suspicions.

Nobody wanted to fight Danny, not one on one!

But for the most part the Rebels  suffered the hardships and never realized there was organization behind it.

***

“Can I see it?”  Arnie asked.  “It’s not loaded, is it?”

“No, it aint loaded.  Ya’ think I would give you a loaded gun?”

J.B. pulled the makeshift gun out from under his jacket and handed it to Arnie.  It didn’t look like any gun that Arnie had ever seen before.  The stock was a piece of 2X4 about fourteen inches long.  Affixed to the top of the 2X4 was a piece of narrow pipe secured by two “U” shaped nails.  Sitting about three-quarters of an inch behind the pipe was an ordinary slide latch, like a dead bolt, but the bolt part had been filed to a point.  A short, thick rubber band hung from the pipe.

Arnie turned the gun in his hand and said:  “I see the barrel but how does the rest of this thing work?  Does it work?”

“Gonna’ test fire it tonight after it gets dark.  It should work.  A kid in my 'Idiots Math' class told me how to do it.  He says his works.”  With that he took the gun back from Arnie and said: “Here, I’ll show you how it works.” He took the slide bolt and pushed it back into its open position.  Then he took the rubber band, which was looped over the barrel, and stretched it back, and over the knob on the bolt.  The rubber band stretched tight and when J.B. released the bolt from its open position, the contracting rubber band slammed the bolt into the back of the pipe.

“CHUNK!”

“Ya see,” J.B. said, “the slide bolt acts like a firin’ pin.  If I had a bullet in the barrel it woulda’ gone off.”

“What kind of bullet?”  Arnie asked.

“Twenty-two, center fire.”  He went on to explain the difference between “rim fire” and “center fire”, and then said, “Center fire is easier to do.  Ya gotta’ hit the bullet in the center.  Rim fire takes too much alignment.”

“Man, that is so cool,” Arnie said.  “But,” he said, “it’s kinda’ big, aint it?  It’s kinda’ hard to hide under a jacket.”

“Hey, it’s the first one.  Waddya’ want?  You can make them any size you want.  The only thing is that the shorter the barrel, the less accuracy.”

“How do you aim it?  You aint gonna’ hold it up to your eye

“I don’t know,” J.B. said, mildly annoyed.  “I guess I’ll find out tonight.”

“Where you gonna’ test fire it?”

“I don’t know, you got any ideas?”

At first Arnie shook his head, no, but then a thin smile began to grow on his face, and his eyes opened wide.  “Yeah, he said, I got an idea. I got a great idea!”

“What is it?”

“First you gotta’ make me a gun.  Then I’ll tell ya’”

“You sure it’s a good idea?”  J.B. asked cautiously.

“I’m tellin’ ya’, it’s a great idea!”

J.B., Arnie knew, could be talked into almost anything, and the plan that just came to mind would take very little convincing.

***

 

At eight o’clock that night they met again behind the stores.

Arnie was waiting when J.B. rode up on his bicycle.

“Ya’ got it?”  Arnie asked.

“Right here,” J.B. said as he removed a scrunched up paper bag from under his light jacket.  He handed the bag to Arnie.

Arnie reached into the bag and pulled out the small gun.  “It’s half the size of yours,” he said.

“Exactly half,” J.B. answered, “that’s what I did.  I cut my gun in two pieces.  It was too big, anyway.  I made each stock six inches and each barrel six inches.  They’re easier to hide now.”

“Bullets?”  Arnie asked.

J.B. reached inside his jacket, and from an interior pocket he pulled out his gun and half-dozen bullets.

Arnie reached for some of the bullets but J.B. pulled his hand away and made a fist.  “No way,” he said, “not ‘til you tell me where we’re gonna’ test fire them.”

“A Hundred Thirty-third Avenue and a Hundred and Twentieth Street,” Arnie said with an expectant smile on his face.

For a brief second J.B. had a perplexed look on his face, but then it changed to one of cautious recognition.  In a hushed whisper he said:  “You wanna’ shoot up the Rebels' clubhouse?”

In answer Arnie just smiled.

J.B., who was always up for a good prank, was now plainly frightened.  “No way, man,” he said, “no fuckin’ way!  I know I made the gun and all, but I didn’t make it to kill no one.  I aint gonna’ do it!”

“We aint gonna’ shoot nobody.  We wait ‘til the place is empty tonight, and we shoot from the alleyway across the street.  If these things work we’ll blow out the window, that’s all.”

“They work.”  J.B. said.

“You fired them already?”  Arnie asked in shock.

“Sorta’.  I took the bullet out of one of the cartridges and emptied out the gunpowder.  I shot it in my garage.”

“What happened?”

“The only thing that was left in the shell was the primer.  It made a kinda’ loud “SNAP”, not really that loud, and there was a little smoke.  But it works.”

“If you hadn’t taken the bullet out…?”

“Probably woulda’ killed some neighbors cat,” J.B. said through his laughter.

***

 

The Rebels' clubhouse was a small converted garage.  It had originally housed a shoe repair store that had failed years before.  The uncle of one of the Rebels owned the building, and because it was off the beaten path, (and thus un-rentable) he let his nephew have it for thirty dollars a month.

There was a single door and a large plate glass window with “REBELS” stenciled on it, and beneath that it said: “Social and Athletic Club”.

Across the street from the clubhouse was an unlit alley running behind the garages lining One Hundred Ninteenth Street.  The alley ran from One Hundred Thirty-Third Avenue to One Hundred Thirty-Fourth.  This would be their firing position.

That night they waited until ten-thirty, when it was good and dark.  When they got to their position they could see that the lights in the clubhouse were all out.  The place was completely dark

“It’s a school night,” Arnie offered, “figured that the Lasagna Lickers would all be home safe in their Jammies.”

“How are we going to shoot these?”  J.B. asked, his voice almost an octave higher in nervousness.

“I don’t know, you made ‘em.”

Now that he had a physical problem to solve, J.B.’s nervousness rapidly ebbed.  He stood in silent thought for a minute, and then he said, “I got it!  We’ll use the bike’s seats for a platform.”  But that didn’t work.  The seats were slightly concave and the guns were pointed either up or down.

“Fuck it,” Arnie said, “give me a bullet.”  He put the bullet into the barrel, attached the rubber band to the latch’s knob, and pulled the slide back and secured it in the open position.  He then looked at J.B. and said: “Well?”

J.B. did likewise.

“On the count of three,” Arnie said.

They each held their guns about waist high and aimed the barrel roughly at the store window.  They both closed their eyes against god knows what, and on “Three!” they each released their latches.

“CRACK!” then” CRACK!” the loud reports filled their ears and then immediately after there was the sound of tinkling glass as two bullet holes spider-webbed the window.

“Give me another bullet.”  Arnie said.  He rapidly loaded another round and fired as J.B. watched, anxious to make his getaway.  The third bullet tore through the glass and there was a loud crash as a segment of the window fell to the sidewalk, and shattered.

The two boys then leaped onto their bicycles and sped down the alley, the street now quiet behind them.

***

 

The next day J.B. had fifth period lunch.  After he filled his tray he looked around the cafeteria for somebody to sit with.  He saw a table full of Rebels in animated conversation, and he sat at the table next to them.

The Rebels  all knew J.B. from the neighborhood, and although he wasn’t one of them, their attitude toward him was moderately friendly.

“What’s goin’ on?” J.B. asked from across the aisle.  Jimmy, one of the Rebels, motioned for him to come sit with them.  They were all plainly excited.

“Somebody’s makin’ a move on our turf,” Jimmy said in stern seriousness.

“Yeah,” said a kid named Tony, “they shot up our clubhouse last night.”

J.B. let his face register shock.  “Shot up?  You mean with a real gun?”

“Yeah, with a real gun,” Ralphy mocked.  “They musta’ thought we was inside.”

“Good thing we wasn’t,” somebody said.

“Fuckin’ cops called Piggy’s uncle.  They’re doin’ a big investigation.”

J.B. listened to the tale with seeming rapt attention, and when they were all spent he said, “Look, you guys and our guys don’t always get along so good.  But this is our neighborhood, too.  If you guys need any help in a rumble, we’ll help you out.  I guarantee it.”  He said this with such seriousness that he almost believed it himself.

The Rebels, hard eyed and with furrowed brows, nodded their heads in appreciation.  All, that is, except Ralphy.  He turned to J. B. and said, “Don’t need no help.  We’re gonna’ fix the place up and be ready next time.  We got a rifle, I aint tellin’ ya’ where we got it, but we’ll be ready next time.”

 ***

 

Later that day J.B. and Arnie were telling the story to Danny and ‘Little Ritchie’.   When he told about the part where Ralphy said that they had a rifle, ‘Little Ritchie’ said, “You know what we should do?  We wait about two weeks until things cool down, and then we call the cops and tell them that the Rebels have guns in their clubhouse.”

They all agreed that was a great idea!

 

 

                                                                                                      
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Protest and Hush Puppies                                                   

 by John A. Ward

arvin asks the waitress what an eggplant pirogue is.  "Peer-row," she says, "'Me gotta go pole the pirogue down the bayou.'  It's a boat.  The chef makes a boat out of a sweet potato and the eggplant goes in that."

As Marvin contemplates this, she leaves and returns with black strap molasses rolls.  We order.  There are four of us now.  The original reservation was for Marvin and Gina.  Then they invited me, then Muldoon.  No problem upping the ante to three, then four.  I say, "The tables are rectangular.  They just push them together to accommodate the size of the party."

"The Fire Marshall probably doesn't like it," says Marvin.

"The Fire Marshall doesn't care, as long as the maximum occupancy of the room isn't exceeded," I say.

"Not so," says Marvin, "Not if they block a fire exit."

"He knows," says Gina, "because it happened to him at his cousin's wedding and his sister left because he created a scene.  She doesn't like scenes."

I learn that Marvin enters an altered state and becomes obsessed with events involving justice and reason of trivial importance.  She names seven incidents, including The Movie Pizza Saga, The Schlotzsky's Lox and Bagel Affair and others.  I insist on hearing them all, because I am feeling like Chaucer.

My favorite is the one in which the policeman writes him a ticket for a traffic infraction he feels he didn't commit.  Though he accepts the injustice of being falsely accused and acknowledges the futility of protesting his innocence, he absolutely refuses to sign the ticket.

"It's not an admission of guilt, sir.  It's just a promise to appear in court or pay the fine uncontested."

"I will pay the fine, but I contest it."

"That will work, sir."

"But I won't sign the ticket."

"That won't work, sir."

"You'll just have to accept it."

"No sir, I'll just have to arrest you and take you downtown and hold you for trial."

"If that's what you want to do, then do it."

"That's not what I want to do.  It will be a pain for both of us."

"Give me liberty or give me death."

"What?"

"Sorry, that's the best I could think of."

"Get out of the car, sir."

"Why?"

"I'm going to cuff you and take you in."

"That's all right.  I'm having second thoughts.  I may sign it."

"You can have second thoughts in the slammer.  I have work to do."

Marvin is cuffed, stuffed into the back seat of the patrol car and driven to jail, where he signs the ticket and is released on his own recognizance.

"Marvin," I say, "you are the first person I've ever known who was arrested for resisting release."  Then I tell of my experiences when my body is possessed by my evil alter ego, Johnny Dumbshit, who uses me to do incredibly stupid things.  It is a great night for confession.

Gina and Muldoon tell no stories. They must be normal.

 

 

 

                                                                                                        
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Chores                                                                            

by Michael Fuchs 

inda Coleman entered her split-level, expertly juggling her key chain, three men’s suits on hangers, and a pair of grocery bags.  As she passed the coat tree in the foyer, she slipped the dry cleaning neatly onto a peg, shrugged her car coat off onto another, and continued her path into her stainless steel and granite kitchen.  The answering machine on the small desk beneath the cookbooks was blinking.

Linda made a quick trip up to the bathroom on the bedroom level.  She inspected her short hair, tousled by the wind outside, and picked her fingers through the layers to add some height, but didn’t bother with brush or comb.  The back of her long, bare neck was slightly grown in since her last cut, but that was hardly visible.

Back in the kitchen, Linda listened to the messages while putting away the groceries.

“Mrs. Coleman, this is Shoshana?  At the Plaza Nail Studio?  I’m just calling to confirm your appointment at three this afternoon.  Okay?  See you then!”

Linda glanced at her refrigerator door, which held a large calendar chock-full of entries, and nodded to herself.  She continued processing her food purchases.  One of the paper sacks contained only perishables.  She emptied the bag and sorted the items into categories while placing them in the refrigerator.

The second message was from her stepmother.  “Linda, this is Peg.  Your father’s acting up again.  Won’t see the specialist.  Says it’s for Old-timer’s Disease, and he isn’t old, damn it.  Anyway, I’m late for my walk.  I’m canceling our tea, of course.  Have to keep an eye on the old bird.  Bye, dear.”

Linda paused for a moment to cross out a calendar entry.  The answering machine issued a click followed by a pause and then a dial tone.  Someone had obviously called and hung up.  She shook her head and waited for the next message to play.

“Hi, Linda,” her husband’s voice said on the tape.  “It’s me. I—”

She heard a click.  The message ended.  Linda continued stuffing the open refrigerator as the machine moved to the next call.  Her husband’s voice came on again.

“Hi, Linda.  It’s me.  I’m calling from the airport.  Wait a minute, there’s an announcement.”

The tape played distant squawking for a few seconds.  Linda interrupted her chore, closed the refrigerator door, and scrutinized the calendar with a puzzled expression.

“Wasn’t my flight,” her husband said.  “Anyway, surprise, huh?  I bet you’re searching through your precious calendar right now, wondering ‘What trip is this? Did he forget to tell me about it?’”

Linda turned away from the calendar abruptly and resumed stocking the refrigerator.

“Well, I didn’t forget,” her husband went on.  “It’s not a business trip.  I was going to tell you a couple of days ago when I bought the tickets, but...there hasn’t been any good time.”

Linda didn’t give the machine a look.  She continued her task unabated.  The perishables were almost all stored away.

Her husband’s voice became emotional.  “When I finally got the nerve up—last night, in fact, in bed, in the dark—I turned to you but it was too late.  You were dead to the world already.  The blindfold over your eyes, the earplugs stuck in your head....”

Linda took the other grocery bag to the pantry.  Holding a can of soup in her hand, she hesitated.  After a little thought, she began removing the few cans already there.  She had decided to reorganize them with the incoming ones.

“I did say tickets, didn’t I?” the tape went on.  “What an ass-backwards way to tell you!  No.  Let me do it right.  Straight out.  And I want you to understand it’s not you.  It’s me.  You’re the perfect wife.  You don’t complain.  You don’t cry.  You don’t nag.  You don’t even use my razor.”  He broke off.  “My God, I said it’s me, and I’m talking about you.  And I’m still not saying it directly.”

The groceries were all put away.  Linda carefully folded the paper bags from the supermarket and placed them on top of the pile in the cabinet beneath the sink.

“Look, Linda, I’m leaving you,” her husband’s voice said.  “Not for a trial separation, or to get my head together, or anything like that.  For real. For good.  For me.  For me.”

Linda left the kitchen while his voice continued.  She went to the basement, where the laundry was ready, and brought back a pile of dish towels.  She folded them, one at a time, and put them away in a cabinet drawer.

“...I like opera now,” the tape was saying.  “You have no idea.  I tell you I work late, but I go see opera.  There’s this aria from Turandot—listen to me, I sound like a goddamn professor—it’s called ‘Nessum Dorma,’ and it makes me cry, Linda, it’s so beautiful.  It soars!  It breaks my heart....”

The doorbell rang.  Linda walked to the answering machine and pressed the pause button.  She opened the front door a crack.  Standing there was the paper boy with his monthly bill in hand.  She reached in her slacks pocket for some money and got a newspaper in exchange.  After closing the door, she returned to the kitchen and turned the answering machine back on.

“I want my life to be bigger!” the tape said.  Linda began emptying the dishwasher, re-drying and polishing each item before she put it away.

“Madame Butterfly, “Un Bel Di,” I want somebody to love me like that, to sing out about me, to...oh, I don’t know, Linda.”  His voice paused.  “I did say I bought tickets.  Tickets.  As in plural.  I’m sure you heard it.  Well, it’s true.  There is somebody.  Of course, right?  I’m brave enough to go to the bathroom by myself, but that’s about it.  I want you to know, it’s not her, Linda.  She can’t hold a candle to you.  It’s not that she’s better than you.  In fact, she looks a lot like you.  Except you’re prettier.  After all these years, I’m still surprised how pretty you still are.  I’m looking at your picture right now.  From my wallet.  The one that little thief took of you in Tijuana, before he ran off with the camera and then he sent the film to the hotel.  What is it, ten years?   You looked even younger last night, sleeping....”  Linda strode to the desk and paused the machine again.

She climbed the stairs to the bathroom, turned on the taps, opened the medicine cabinet and extracted a safety razor.  She twisted the razor open and removed the blade.  With the blade in one hand and some toilet tissue in the other, she tested the edges for sharpness.  Linda looked at herself carefully in the mirror as the taps continued to run.  Then she replaced the blade in the razor.  She picked up the soap, lathered the back of her neck, and began to shave the unruly stubble.

Minutes later, she was down in the kitchen again.  She pushed the answering machine button.  Her husband’s voice resumed after a moment.

“Well, anyway, I guess I haven’t changed that much either.  I mean, I’m still hung up on what other people think.  Look, I can’t face anybody about this.  Would you call Jim and Claudia and cancel tonight?  And cancel, you know, whatever?  I’ll call the office, and all that, but our friends—I can’t deal with that.  They’re mostly your friends anyway.”

Linda went to the refrigerator calendar and wrote down a number of calls to make and crossed out several entries lower down and on subsequent pages.

Her husband continued, “I’ll call you in few days, I guess.  Once I figure things out, where I’m settled, phone number.  There are always details, I suppose.  Well.  Bye.”

There was the sound of a dial tone, and then emptiness, as the machine finished its cycle.  Linda rewound the tape to the beginning, erasing all the messages.  From under the sink, she pulled a folded plastic garbage bag out of a box.  She went through the house, emptying wastebaskets into the bag.  When she was done, she stood the half-filled bag in the middle of the kitchen floor.

Linda opened the refrigerator door and took out a six-pack of beer.  She placed the six-pack carefully in the garbage bag.  Crossing into the foyer, she retrieved her husband’s dry-cleaned suits from the coat tree and brought them back into the kitchen.  She removed the plastic covers and the hangers.  Then she rolled the garments up and pushed them into the bag with the other garbage.  Finally, reaching into a drawer, Linda took a wire tie, closed the bag securely, opened the rear door and took out the trash.

She came back in and brushed off her hands.  After locking the rear door, she stood in the middle of her kitchen, hands on hips, and pursed her lips for a few seconds.  Then she stepped to the telephone next to the answering machine on the kitchen desk and dialed a number.  After a few rings, a man answered.

“Hi, it’s me,” Linda said into the phone, smiling.  “Darling, you won’t believe what just happened....”

 

 

                                                                                                        


 

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Dispensable                                                    

by Noreen Austin

itting at the kitchen table, bloodshot eyes, a heavy head from the ending of a migraine, Ellen had meant to examine the want ads.  Ellen, only five feet and underweight, studied the naturally blond girl in the newspaper.  She couldn’t believe Susie was missing.

Ellen lowered the paper and looked at the kitchen she shared with her roommates, Michael and Cara.  Dishes strewn on the counter, the refrigerator door was partly opened, crumbs dotted the floor. Whose turn was it to sweep and mop?  She couldn’t remember.  An odor of rotting chicken bones punched her in the nose.  It was impossible to keep up the housework while suffering from migraines.  She closed her eyes, as she was still sensitive to the light.

Footsteps, Cara entered the kitchen.  Ellen opened one eye.  Cara had a bad case of bed-head and her short product-intensive hairstyle made it worse.  Startled when Cara plopped in a chair and slapped her palms on the table, Ellen rubbed her temples.  What did she want this early?

“It’s one o’clock, Ellen,” Cara said in a raspy voice, “Why are you still here?”

“Why wouldn’t I be here?”

“That’s the thing,” Cara drummed her fingers on top of the newspaper, pounding the driver’s license picture of Susie.

Ellen slid the paper out from under Cara’s fingers.  Ellen remembered that a few months ago, Susie had smiled and said hello while packing Ellen’s few groceries at the end of the check out counter.  Susie’s hair was pulled back in a pony tail, she had on a little mascara—no lipstick, no eye shadow or blush.  Just gorgeous, Ellen thought.

Cara continued, “Michael and I are kicking you out.”

“What?”  Ellen placed the knobs of her elbows on the table and pushed at her forehead with the heels of her hands.  This can’t be happening.  “Come on,” she said, “give me a little more time.”

“Time?”  Cara leaned back in her chair, rocking the two front legs off the floor.  “You haven’t worked in two months.  You owe this month’s rent, electricity and phone bill.”

“Please.”

“If you can’t pay, you can’t stay.”

“I have interviews scheduled all week, give me at least two weeks.”  Ellen had only one interview at three that afternoon and she hoped her headache would be gone by then.

Cara said, “Three days.  That’s final.”

Ellen counted the days on her fingertips—Thursday.  She had to have a job and paycheck by Thursday.  Shit.

Cara got up and poured herself a cup of yesterday’s coffee and put it in the microwave, slammed the door and pressed buttons.  “Have you thought about asking your parents for money?”

“They said they wouldn’t bail me out this time.”

“I’m sorry Ellen, but I can’t afford to pay your share and either can Michael.  You’re giving us no choice.”

Not knowing what else to do, Ellen reread the article about Susie.  She remembered how good Susie looked in her uniform:  a navy blue vest over a short-sleeve brown shirt and navy blue gas station attendant pants.  Susie had added on a rhinestone butterfly to the side of her left thigh.  If Ellen was a lesbian, she would love Susie.

“Tell you what,” Ellen turned too quickly and felt as if her head stayed behind.  She had run out of her medication.

“No deals.”  Cara opened the microwave, pulled out her coffee and slammed the door again.

Why did she have to make so much noise?  “If I don’t have a job by the time they find Susie, I’ll move out.”

“Susie?”

Ellen held up the paper and pointed to the picture, “You don’t remember her?”

Cara shook her head and shrugged.

“She was two years ahead of us in high school.”  Ellen paused but Cara didn’t respond.  “You know, prom queen?  Different because she was so nice.”

“Nice prom queen?  An oxymoron.”

“She wasn’t a moron.”

Cara grabbed the paper and looked at it.  “Don’t remember.  Besides they’ll never find her.”

Ellen plucked the paper out of Cara’s hand.  “Sure they will.  Or she’ll call up and say she ran away with her boyfriend and it was all a misunderstanding.  Or she just needed some space from everyone.  It could be all kinds of things,” Ellen lowered her voice, “She’s so nice.”

Ellen looked at Cara who sipped her coffee and stared back, unblinking until Ellen moved her eyes back to Susie’s picture.  “You’re the one who’s always too nice,” Cara said after awhile.

“Deal?” Ellen said.

Cara opened the refrigerator and pulled out a piece of pizza.  An olive fell to the floor.  She spoke with her mouth full.  “No deal.  Thursday, or you’re out of here.”  Cara left the kitchen.

Ellen chewed her nails and twitched at the down beat from the cd Cara played the first of at least eight times.  Ellen wondered if Susie had roommates.

At five minutes to three, Ellen stood in the lobby waiting to be called in for her interview.  She buttoned the blazer she wore over her purple tank top.  She picked off lint from her black slacks, and admired the bright blue toenail polish that looked fresh in her open-toed thick heeled shoes.  She had brushed her chin-length brown hair behind her ears, and plucked at her bangs.  She threw back her shoulders.  This job was hers, she had a feeling.  Maybe.  She looked at her toes again.  She should have painted them bright red to match her sparkly lip gloss.

She sat alone in an office, in a chair across from a cluttered desk.  She stuck her hand out, palm down to see how much she trembled.  Too much.  She shook her hands out just when a woman burst through the door.  She read Ellen’s application as she sat down.

“You only have one year of community college?”

“Correct.”

The woman wore a brown, just below the knee skirt and a white blouse.  Her hair was yellow-white, obviously not her natural color.  Ellen thought of Susie’s hair.

“You don’t have any experience with data entry,” the woman said.

“But I know how to work a computer.”

“What programs do you know?”

“The internet.”

The woman took off her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose.

Ellen wondered what would be so hard about typing in names and addresses.  She could do this job.

“We’re a very busy company,” the woman tossed away Ellen’s paperwork.  “What assets would you bring to us?”  She slowly looked at Ellen from head to toe.

Ellen wished her legs were longer; her feet barely reached the floor.  She bit the side of her cheek.  She wasn’t expecting this question.  She hadn’t gotten this far in an interview.  Her heart started to race and she placed her hands under her thighs to stop them from shaking.  She almost choked on her own breath.  “My willingness to earn my paycheck,” she said.

The phone beeped and the woman lunged to answer it.  “I’ll be right there.”  She stood and walked out from behind the desk to the door.  “We’re looking for something more,” she said.

“More?”  Ellen swallowed hard, “just a chance?”

“I’ll put your application on file.”

“I need this job.”

The woman sighed and opened the door wider, “Everyone needs this job.  Keep looking, and good luck.”

Ellen left the building and sat at the bus stop, feeling the cool spring air blow her bangs, not caring that she was shivering, trying not to cry.

She took the bus to the mall, walked into every store, asked for applications, only getting a few, as every job wanted retail experience or had no openings foreseen.  She sampled hand lotions at a bath and body shop; she tried on dresses in Macy’s.  She went into a restaurant, one overflowing with people who took up all the tables leaving her no choice but to sit at the bar.  She ordered water.  The bartender wasn’t too much older than Ellen.  He had a tuft of hair growing under his lip; Ellen thought it looked like pubic hair.

Settling into her seat, glad to get off her feet, she saw that the local news had just started on the tv.  Another picture of Susie, not the one in the paper, showed on the screen.  Her smile was radiant.

“Can you turn it up?”  Ellen asked the bartender.

“…may have been spotted at a trendy burger grill with a man who she may have known.”

A woman who was interviewed spoke, “She looked happy and talkative.  I know it was the same girl.”

So Susie had been seen.  Ellen’s stomach growled.  She could eat a hamburger too.  Ellen was confused.  Why wouldn’t Susie call her parents?  Her mother pleaded over the air waves—her hair disheveled, a tissue wadded up in her hand.

The bartender asked if she wanted more water.

“Are there any job openings?”

“Not that I know about.”

“Do you have an application?”

“I can get you one, but it’s not easy to get hired.  It’s based on who you know.”

“I know you.”

The bartender shook his head and went back to making drinks.  After fifteen minutes, he still hadn’t given her an application, so she asked the hostess and waited another twenty minutes.  She didn’t know why she wasted her time; she had no restaurant experience, other than Burger King, but that didn’t count.

She went back to her apartment, hoping the pizza wasn’t all eaten.  She could hear the music as she climbed the stairs and knew she was in no mood for any partying.

Michael was alone and held a beer, not his first by the way he swayed in the middle of the living room.  He wore a tie-dye t-shirt and jeans that reached the middle of his ass, green striped boxers as usual.  His hair was so black that his blue eyes glowed in the low light of the apartment.

“So, Cara broke it to you?” he said when Ellen walked in.

“We made a deal.”

“She didn’t say anything about a deal.”

“We agreed, when they find Susie and I don’t have a job, I’ll leave.”

“Susie?”

Ellen rolled her eyes and sighed.  Michael was clueless.

“We agreed.  No deals.”

“Well, we made one.”  Ellen went into her room and closed her door with a thump hoping he wouldn’t follow her.  He didn’t and eventually, he turned off the music.  She poked her head out and saw that he slept on the couch, one foot touching the floor.  Ellen went into the kitchen and ate the last piece of pizza, a couple of stale Oreos and thought about Susie, wondered if she really was having a good time, wishing she would at least call her mother.

The next day, Ellen woke up early, eleven am, dressed in her interviewing clothes and opened the refrigerator where there was a jar of jalapenos and an empty carton of half and half.  She grabbed the jar just as Cara walked in.

“Michael and I are meeting with a few people who answered our ad.”

“I have until Thursday.”  Ellen searched the cupboard for a glass, couldn’t find one and took one from inside the sink, filled it and drank.  Her mouth burned.

“Those peppers are mine,” Cara said.

“Sorry,” Ellen sucked in air in hopes of easing the sting.  “I’ll get you another jar,” she said.

“Hope so,” Cara grabbed her keys and left.

Ellen dumped the rest of the peppers down the sink.  She knew where there was a job opening.

In the grocery store, standing at the counter where people buy lottery tickets; Ellen asked to see the manager.  He looked hassled as he frowned at her, his abdomen rounded over his belt, he held a clipboard and a pen.  He wore the same type of vest as Susie.

“I would like to fill in until Susie comes back,” Ellen said.

“I’d be surprised if Susie comes back,” he said while signing something.

“Would you consider hiring me?”

The manager slid his pen between his ear and scalp and went to a drawer and pulled out an application.  “Fill this out and we’ll put in the stack with the others.”

“Could you just hire me now?”

The manager glanced around, hesitated.  “You have a lot of nerve.”

“Please.”

“Do you know Susie?”

“Yes.”

“Do you feel this is a safe place to work?”

“Of course I do.”

The manager looked at her for a long time.  Why do people do that, she wondered.

“If you start now, you can have the job.”

“Just like that?” Ellen secretly thanked Susie.  Yet she felt this was wrong.  Opportunistic, a word she had never before applied to herself.

“Is there a reason I shouldn’t hire you?”

Ellen hesitated, then pushed up her chin to see the man in the eyes, “None at all.”

“If you can start now, you’re hired.”

Cara and Michael agreed to wait the two weeks for her first paycheck.  Ellen worked every one of those days.  By the eighth day, she had another migraine and almost called in sick.  She didn’t know how long she would have this job and worked through the pain.  At one point, she glued rhinestones in the shape of a butterfly on her vest.  Susie was sure to return.  She hoped so, she hoped not—she hated her cold-heart.  She kept up with the paper:  one article featured someone who remembered seeing Susie talking to someone in a green van that night after work.  Someone else said they saw her in a beauty salon in Nebraska.  Ellen bit her nails every time she opened the paper.  But eventually, the sightings stopped, the story moved to the back page until it disappeared completely.

 

 

 

                                                                                                                      
                                                    
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Rooms With A View                                 

by H. G. Dowdell

'd have to say that as a young travel writer back in those days, the pseudo lifestyle of existing out of a suitcase often prompted me to do far more listening—than talking.  This also being pretty much a basic rule of thumb when traveling to some of the remotest, God-forsaken corners of the world, then having to depend solely upon the kindness of strangers when your own pre-booked accommodations, turned out to be virtually "non-existent."  Still, for all intents and purposes, it could be safely said that, Sarah Halstead, my gracious hostess for the week, now deeply hated the person seated across from her at the breakfast table that morning.  Perhaps, even to the point of flat-out loathing him, to simplify matters.

Nevertheless, Sarah watched her husband, Gerald Halstead, owner of the Halstead Tea Plantation, unable to take her eyes off him as he wiped the last bit of poached egg from his plate, almost as if his whole grain toast were a Swiffer mop.  When finished, he licked his fingers, each one separately, then reached for his coffee, emptying it down his throat within seconds.

"Bloody damn good meal," he grunted, pushing the plate aside.  "Especially the meat."

Evidence that his usual double portion of breakfast meat had been exceedingly more succulent and tasty that day.

But then again, Sarah Halstead, a stunningly blonde native of Sussex, England, had always been a brilliant cook.  For years, she opted to do all of her own cooking, despite her title as Gerald's wife, and mistress of their tea plantation in the Honde Valley of Zimbabwe.  This, too, despite the fact that over the years, their marriage had begun to change—and change drastically.

Simply put, Sarah now detested the household chores she once loved, as well as her husband of nearly twenty years.  Prone to having affairs almost anywhere he could find one, this alone, had managed to change just about everything between them.

I sat there with my two generous hosts that morning amid a lush backdrop of exotic birds and tropical flowers.  Never having much of an appetite for breakfast myself, I sipped my coffee slowly and smiled at both of them politely as my mind drifted back to the night before.

A night of Gerald's seemingly 100-proof rum drunkenness, as he pounded angrily on the door across the hall from the guestrooms and servants' quarters.

***

I could see it all quite plainly, as well as Sarah lying there after he'd forced the door open.  The anger in Sarah's own blue-gray eyes appeared to burn through her pale complexion, almost as white-hot as the globe light in the ceiling fan above the bed.  The bed in which she now slept alone.

He stopped for a moment as he entered the room, eyes focused on nothing in particular, the rest of his face, expressionless.

Ironically, with an evening cup of Halstead Tea in my hand, I watched as almost instinctively, she tore open her nightgown, baring her pink-nippled breasts while he stood there before her.  Then lying backward, she appeared to be waiting submissively for something—perhaps anything—as her vacant eyes stared straight ahead.

"Well then?" she said, her voice peppered with indignation.

"Perfectly good damn question, Lady Sarah," he slurred.  Staggering toward her, his voice grew louder.  "So suppose you tell me then.  Well…what?"  He stopped and stood there for a few moments, staring down at her coldly.  Then turning around, he staggered back to the door almost as abruptly as he entered, slamming it shut behind him.

Moments afterward, as I sat in my hot, mosquito-ridden guestroom across the hall I could hear Gerald again clearly in one of the smaller rooms at the end of the staircase.  And that night, which I'm sure was not unlike so many other nights before it, Sarah could also hear her husband, just barely above a creaking mattress, and Imani, her ebony-colored maidservant.

***

Sarah said nothing to Gerald the following morning as he sat at the breakfast table, his eyes busily scanning through a cluster of servants swiftly moving back and forth in their daily routines.  Oddly enough, the one servant he'd been hoping to find, was now noticeably absent from the group.

"Oh, I might as well tell you, darling," Sarah finally said, pouring him a second cup of piping hot coffee.  "If you're looking for Imani, she's gone, and won't be coming back anytime soon."  Then setting the silver coffee pot back into its place, she grinned casually and added, "Not unless—you decide to have your stomach pumped, of course."

And after heading back to the airport rather abruptly myself the following morning, I can also say that there were no doubt many plantations such as the Halsteads' in the Honde Valley back in those days.  As well as perhaps, many other stories such as this one, during its sweltering African days (and nights) when the moon is full.

 

 

                                                                                                                      
                                                    
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Loloila                                           

by Alan Girling

he curtain falls,

and she is gone.

I met lovely Loloila at a picnic held on a pristine putting green of a lawn which sloped down gradually at first and then steeply to a low stone wall.  The wall existed to protect the property, its people—and her —from rising tides and winter storms.  I was not one of those people.  Still, she approached me at the table where I sat, and I saw she was a beauty like no other:  hair mahogany and flowing, and a prominent nose with a mild hook, which helped give her an avian quality, unearthly, as though winged.  While rocking on her heels, and with long-fingered hands clasped demurely in front, she said, “Would you like to dance?”  I didn’t know a soul, certainly did not expect to be acknowledged; and a lawn picnic seemed the wrong venue for dancing.  Yet, despite being afraid I might disappoint, not being confident in my moves, I took the challenge.  The more to know this vision that would call herself Loloila.

I’d come riding my rusty old CCM through this posh neighbourhood of hers, a detour on my way to my job at the Dairy Queen.  I’d come first to an intimate cluster of sleek automobiles —Beemers, Benzes, Jags, each and all black in body and glass— in front of an elegant Tudor mansion, a veritable castle by the sea.  My own lack of such amenities, I decided, should be no obstacle to partaking of the pleasures of a summer Sunday.  The DQ could always put my services on hold, I deemed, and besides, why should my being one of the city’s working poor bar me from associations with wealthier folk?  People are pretty much the same no matter their source of income, and how else to make friends when one has so few?  So I parked my bike against a tree and spent a moment studying the façade of the house.  Of course, I wasn’t so naïve as to think that a welcome mat on the porch would mean a welcome for me.  Or that a door opening to a stranger would offer a chance to fulfill aspirations I might have had to alter my routine, or, should I say, change my life.

Upon approach, I heard the sounds of an old swing orchestra, Glenn Miller or the like, not muffled by curtains and picture windows as one might expect, but wafting cleanly from beyond, presumably out back.  I was delighted as it meant conventional means of entrance (that is—obstacles) had been removed by the whimsical desire of guests to seek the sun.  I knew the beach could let me in, the waves offer me up.  An access path to the ocean (about four or five properties down) allowed me to double back against the tide and climb the stone steps to an unguarded partition in the stone wall, then through to the bottom of the lawn.  To guests, I might have seemed some creature emerging from the sea, but I was no magical merman of myth or kraken of lore.  My DQ attire, striped with festive red and greasy white, certainly complemented the blue blazers and pastel sundresses I saw around me.  I was as inconspicuous as a circus clown entering a big top full of acrobats.

Her dress along with her eyes gleamed a robin’s egg blue.  Her voice, when she spoke those words, “Would you like to dance?” quivered in a languorous, shy tone, yet still bell clear, as though the ambient sounds of the wind, the waves, the music and the conversation had all receded to some aural vanishing point.  I stood and stepped forward, extending my hand, which she grasped with force, pulling me along to a space among the guests where we could move as we wished.  The swing beat had now gone, replaced by steady disco, the melody repetitive, a number that should have been easy to groove to.  But her legs and arms flew this way and that, and her head bounced like a dashboard bobble toy in a jeep on a mountain trail.  Her lack of rhythm, coordination or grace instantly warmed me to her; God knew my own movements were far from sleek.  And by some miracle of dreaming, the crowd of blazers and sundresses kept their backs to us.  A feeling of untold freedom and privacy took hold.  Only the soft, heavy sensation of dancing on grass kept us from careening into unsuspecting guests or bumping into each other.

The song over, we returned puffing to my table where we sat face to face.  Before either of us had regained the power to speak, another tune began, this one slow and waltz-like, something from the classical repertoire.  She let her eyes, blue like her dress, reach once again.  I may have said no, as I knew I’d have to hold her, take the lead, and where could someone of my ineptitude lead this unbalanced beauty but down, over the wall and into the waves?  Yet as soon as we pulled ourselves close, my hand at her waist, one of hers on my shoulder, a feeling of intimate ease took over and we danced around the lawn like some Rhett and Scarlet or Fred and Ginger at the ball.  The illusion was complete but for the persistent tug of gravity that wanted to propel us down the slope, so that every turn, every step, took us further to the edge, forcing us to counteract the pull with our collective strength in order to keep from tipping or crumpling to the ground.  It was this challenge, the coordination and teamwork necessary, more than the dream of the dance, more even than her beauty, that made me realize —this woman was for me.

Soon we sat again and our conversation sustained itself, became sleek, intimate.  I asked her name and she said Loloila, a name I’d never heard.  I asked her if people called her Lol for short, and she said, no, it was Loloila, four liquid syllables, two long Os, a stress and a sudden drop in pitch on the second. LoLOeelah.  She wrote it on a napkin for me, with her last name, Peregrine, like the falcon.  I was struck by her printing—with fingers svelte but her hand hardly fluid—each letter awkwardly formed, strokes sloping in divergent directions.  I folded the napkin, looked down, about to put it in my shirt pocket, then looked up.  She’d seen it, or rather I now knew she knew, this brash courtesy to the public, emblazoned and embroidered across my chest: my name, which she pronounced, “Joe,” sounding the long O like it belonged in her own.  Then, as though all will had evaporated, we kissed, a sweet nibble, a mere grazing of lips, like children playing really, not at all as lovers who seek deeper and further recesses.

It could have gone on and on, under the sun and over the grass, without the need for anything more, were it not for the fist that slammed into the side of my head between my cheekbone and ear.  The shock of the impact was quickly followed by two arms that caught me from behind in a bear hug, yanking me whole from the picnic table into an upright, exposed position.  Now I faced a crowd of angry blue blazers with their women poised behind, glaring.  One man in dark sunglasses stood forward, his fat ring-studded fingers clenched.

“Who in the name of Christ are you?” he yelled.  “And what the goddamn are you doing with my daughter?”

“Take care of him, dear,” one of the women, apparently a wife, insisted.

“Poor thing,” said another.  “She must’ve been terribly frightened.”

I surveyed the scene looking for Loloila.  I hoped she’d offer a defense, a pleading at least, but evidently she’d run, or been whisked away, into the house, curtains and blinds closed, left to wait for the interrogation that would come soon enough.  For now, it was clear that this vision, this angel, this majestic bird, was still, at least in the eyes of her folks, a mere child—and what did that make me?

Then the man said, “Joe who?  Who sent you?  Are you one of the Riley boys?  Do you have any fucking idea who I am?!”

I told him who I was, that I’d worked at the Dairy Queen on Kingsway for a year, KFC longer before that.  I didn’t know anyone in the city except the people I worked with, had only arrived from out West a few years before.  Then, as though to get a better look at me, he removed his glasses.  I saw I did know him, as a regular DQ customer, a guy over-friendly with girls at the counter, who dressed well and smiled, who always bought a banana split.  He squinted.  I thought, and hoped, he’d know me too, believe me, let me go, but instead he delivered a sudden blow to my lower abdomen.  I doubled over, dropped to my knees gasping.  I heard him say, “Do it, Barney.”  Again I was yanked upright.  Massive arms squeezed my chest; my feet left the ground.  I felt myself turned sideways, carried, then hurled into the air.  I flailed and smacked face first into a wave of icy seawater, sinking fast beneath the foam.

My neck wrenched one way, my legs twisted the other, yet I managed to regain control, break the surface and get my bearings.  The tide had risen against the wall, the beach now submerged, not so deep that I couldn’t find the bottom.  I got my footing and began to wade back, the waves sloshing against my waist.  As I pushed on, I felt myself sinking bit by bit into the sloping sand.  When finally I emerged soaked and shivering onto the access path, I now no doubt did resemble some Godzilla or Creature from the Black Lagoon, wiping slime from scales, seaweed from gills.  I wrung out my DQ shirt, found the napkin:  a soggy mess smeared and streaked blue with the ink that had once formed her name.

Upon reaching the cluster of black vehicles, and my bicycle, I sensed I was being watched.  Sure enough, as I grabbed the handle bars, thinking what I’d do after Dairy Queen fired me, I looked up and there, standing between parted curtains in a second-floor window, the sun illuminating her egg-blue frock and braided brown tresses, was a young girl.  She seemed no older than fourteen, had little shape or figure; she may have had freckles.  I blinked.  I really was a monster.  But her left hand was now raised and extended, palm flat to the pane, as though reaching, touching me.  She waved, too, a fluttering motion.  In these few moments, she grew into Loloila, the lovely woman of the grass and the sky above the ocean; the woman who, with her long-fingered hands clasped demurely, said, “Would you like to dance?” and did so twice; the woman who gave me her name like it was a gift, and spoke mine like it was a prayer; the woman who followed as I led and led as I followed.  All I could do now was wave in return, semaphore-like, until a thick hand grabbed her shoulder from behind, and Loloila became a damsel in a dream, the world my castle.  Then the curtain fell.

 

—originally published in Artella, 2004

 

                                                                                                                      
                                                    
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Maida Millan Konstantin Skoptsov

Michal Mahgerefteh K.G.Weiss

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St. Augustine III

Maida Millan

 

 

 

Train Steps II

Maida Millan

 

 

 

Church Steps I

Maida Millan

 

 

 

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Dante's Divine Comedy

Konstantin Skoptsov

 

 

Isaac Newton

Konstantin Skoptsov

 

 

Arrest

Konstantin Skoptsov

 

 

 

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Rhythem

Michal Mahgerefteh

 

 

 

Nestled

Michal Mahgerefteh

 

 

Rusting Bottles

Michal Mahgerefteh

 

 

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Cold Front

K. G. Weiss

 

 

 

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Passing Time by Jerry Vilhotti                                                            ne boring afternoon, tired of a decade spent imagining animal-shapes in clouds, a prominent Greek goddess noticed beneath her toes a swath of earth with a bunch of uniformed peopled running about helter-skelter:  some were chasing a little white round thing in uncoordinated movements; others were running in a quasi-circle immediately after one with a club had attempted to beat the little thing to death.  She called the other Olympians to see what she had discovered and before long a divine crowd had gathered to watch. The Greek gods watched intently at this crazy thing going on beneath their feet on the earth called Gaea. "That park with winds that we call Aeolian Arrows falls on all heads but this little league green monster park makes a mockery of the sacred Homer." Zeus would tolerate no nonsense from any gods this game so pissed off he was; thinking one of them perhaps Nike had planted this idea in heads of the home team thinking they would win all their home games since they would have the short Homer wall many more times than all the other teams combined. Before Helios could dash out from behind a cloud and in a blinding fashion add a bit more confusion to the thing, Thalia made the little white pellet fly high into the sky and then allowed the mortal guarding the right pasture to catch it deep inside his large grotesque hand—only to make him bang into the fence which made the pellet fall over the other side as she screamed:  "A Grand Homer!" Noticing what she had done, Athena willed a blue uniformed mortal to raise his thumb to call a runner out who had already secured second pillow with head, hands and feet. It delighted them all seeing the very same judge attempting the next half round to balance his bad call by saying a caught pellet was trapped. Finally getting his long awaited chance when a fly pellet floated out to shallow left pasture, Helios with one mighty jerk of the reigns tied to his six majestic horses made the three chasers duck for cover as the little white object gently landed among them; allowing the scampers on third and second pillows to dent the pentagon. "Should they have been running?" Euphrosyne asked. "There was one dead," Ares said condescendingly hiding his ignorance and at the same time blaspheming the memory of the only major leaguer killed in the line of duty that would happen in the Nineteen Twenty days of summer.  Every time Prometheus announced a sacrifice was going to happen, Ares would get excited but when no one was killed he became despondent once again. Angered by his half-closed eyes, she decided to make the standee on first pillow begin a mad dash toward the second one—defying orders—as a line drive was caught by the mortal hanging around third pillow who easily doubled him off first. "What do they call slowing the ball up, Prometheus?" Hera asked. "They call it a 'change-up,'" he said, smiling. "Yes, that will do," she said, pointing a finger to the mound-person's temple. The little white thing ornately arrived belly button high and was whacked 399 feet into the left field bleachers to the delight of fanatics who began fighting for the thing; stabbing each other with their Styrofoam cups of piss-yellow liquid that cost them six dollars each to help pay a two hundred average whacker two million dollar salary. "But my most powerful One—greater than even the Persian god of light with his twelve apostles who wanted to promote reincarnation to make a better world—I was getting to the point in my own lustful horny way— "  "Do you recall what happened to the Prometheus person?"  the god of Tears reminded him.  "By Jove I do!  You see, the owner of the teammortals named Casper Shrub loser of much of his brain cells during his earlier years playing with skulls and bones what with drinking like the great Babe and some say doing babonia-dope on the side while tying his penis in knots has this money making idea for the wealthy makers of fungo limbs and white pellets and when the ticketbuyers fold into it—fearfully believing him when he says the sky is falling—says he knows a new clear for sure way to stop Homers and carry on where that other leader of fear did while doing his pee dance when Europe was burning.   This country once a pseudo promiser of making a better world is going back to when they were colonies to perpetuate their Taliban ways—"   "How pray tell does he plan to do this?"  Zeus said rubbing his knee with a closed fist that he would soon bite; making spike mark indentations appear all over its back; filled with puddles of saliva.  "He wants to position one of his fungo mortals on the foul naughty side of left pastures, and after the fanatics buy into this paying hidden taxes, he will add another one in fouler right pastures so when they see a pellet hit by an enemy clubmortal going toward Mount Olympus they will begin hitting their pellets to collide with it so preventing it from going to Homerville and he points out proudly that his method is successful one out of a hundred times; that is—if the limb swinger tells them when he going to try and hit one out and the direction he plans to smash it!"  All the gods looked away as Zeus began chewing the back of his hand—thinking indeed the Dark Ages was making its full comeback in the dark clothing of fear, uncertainty, indifference and self-hate. 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