Fawn
Floating
By Greta Mau
The sky was reflecting city lights when I lead you to a church to confess-
To confide
It had showered earlier that day and the twisted apple tree I helped you climb into was slick and
mossy
I perched myself on a limb slightly above you and I was floating in this dim place outside of
recognition
I bared my soul to you, then
can’t recall what I said but I can still feel the water sliding off the leaves onto my shoulder, see
the sinister orange fluorescent glint thrown over that holy place and into the sky
I hear the menacing tone underlying your voice and for the first time I beg you not to protect me
Plead to not let you get hurt
The bark pressed tight into my palms and the weather bit at our ears, even in the early summer
For a moment I could only feel us, suspended in this tree
And if we stayed there long enough I might have found a higher power in the rustle of the leaves.
But I slid right off the branch and fell all the way back to the ground and
So we walked home.
***placed in UW-Whitewater’s Creative Writing Festival
Shoes Don't Have Soul
By Danny Andrews
The world is an onion
waiting to be discovered
before worms burrow out of its flesh.
Its color is a sweet smell festering
in his watered eyes.
Paul’s eyes, dry as mountains growing tiny in the distance.
He could swallow its bitter shell,
but how that would make the billy goat howl.
Mount Saint Helens sleeps
with the fishes. Tethers tied
to her wanting roots.
How do you catch a peacock when you are in a marshmallow deficit?
The store sells them half-priced on dismal Thursday mornings.
Et tu sticky shoe?
“Why do you wear me without socks?”
Because, I can see your sole.
The sticky shoe has a wandering mate,
but that’s just a bum steer.
But, the world isn’t a rotting onion,
it also isn’t a flat sterile ball of living matter.
One plus one equals fish.
Two plus two equals brotato.
Fish plus brotato equals salty myth.
Our fish swims in the air and breathes filtered clouds
while brotatos feel like worn out pool noodles
stewing in a squeaky styrofoam cup.
Eli owes Paul cash for services
rendered. He gives him three hundred
marshmallows in lieu of copper ducats.
Peacocks gently drowning in cups of dry cocoa.
Earth Angel
By Mark Jackley
the weird part
of the dream
wasn’t lying
in the dirt
flat on my
back for no
apparent reason
it was how
I started to fan
my arms and legs
as I would
in snow,
to mark my
shallow grave
with wings
A Fair Amount of Ghosts
By Zach Murphy
He plays the trumpet brilliantly on the corner of Grand and Victoria. He doesn’t look like he’s from this era. He’s impeccably dressed, from his crisply fitting suit to his smooth fedora hat. There aren’t many folks that can pull that off. He’s cooler than the freezer aisle on a sweltering summer day. He performs the type of yearning melodies that give you the goosebumps. I’ve never seen anyone put any money into his basket.
There’s a formidable stone house that sits atop Fairmount Hill. It’s been for sale for as long as I can remember. The crooked post sinks deeper into the soil with each passing year. It isn’t a place to live in. It’s a place to dwell in. There’s a dusty rocking chair on the front porch. It’s always rocking. Always rocking. I’m not sure if the chair is occupied by an old soul or if it’s just the wind. Maybe it’s both. I guess the wind is an old soul.
This town is full of posters for Missing Cats. There’s one for a sweet, fluffy Maine Coon named “Bear.” He’s been gone for a while now. I’ve searched through every alleyway, under every porch, and inside of every bush for him. Sometimes I think I see him out of the corner of my eye. But then he’s not there. The rain has pretty much washed away the tattered posters. If he ever turns up, I worry that the posters will be missing.
I met the love of my life in Irvine Park, near the gloriously spouting water fountain, beneath the serene umbrella of oak trees. We spent a small piece of eternity there together. We talked about whether or not the world was coming to an end soon, and if all of our memories will be diminished along with it. After we said our goodbyes and she walked off into the distance, I never saw her again. So I left my heart in Irvine Park.
Fairytale 03
By Elizabeth Lueth
Surrender
By Patricia Miller
Roll
By Emma Bull
We will roll down the hill
Like a ball of yarn,
Refusing to unwind.
We will roll down the hill
Like a new lemon,
Free of its tree, too sour to eat.
We will roll down the hill
Like the Man in the Moon
Toward the horizon.
We will roll down the hill
Like a little green snake
Dreaming hoopsnake dreams.
We will roll until we rest
And the flattened grass
Will show where daring led us.
The Guardian Demon
By Antoinette Carone
Once upon a time there was a demon, invisible to human eyes, he roamed about the streets of Naples. He could assume human shape and substance – and sometimes did – but his power, such as it was, lay more in the events he could influence. And he could hold discourse with animals.
The demon kept to places he liked, mostly the small dark streets off Via dei Tribunali. He preferred shadow to sunlight. The sun was too bright, blinding in its strength and glimmer. The sun, thought our demon, professed to reveal truth when in fact it obscured it. Shade, however never might have something to teach one. It was in the obscurity of the streets that wove through the Historic Center of Naples that he learned about love.
On a rainy Saturday in November, just after All Soul’s Day, the demon Raimondo watched as a young woman hung out her laundry under the overhang of a balcony on Vico Limoncelo. She was still in pajamas and had just finished her weekly housecleaning. Raimondo understood this. He had been observing Chiara all the past week as she escorted her two little boys to school and then went to her job as a clerk in the pharmacy on Via dei Tribunali. Seeing her thus, Raimondo learned which apartment in the grand building with lion statues guarding the entrance was the one in which Chiara lived.
On Sundays Raimondo did not move about. He preferred to lurk in the shadows of the old Roman arches on Via Sapienza. He did not like the bustle in the streets of people going to church or going into pastry shops and coming out with great boxes full of dolci for Sunday lunch at home. He did not like the swarming restaurants buzzing with cheer of Sunday lunch out. On Sunday Raimondo kept to himself. But, on Monday morning, he found himself sitting invisibly on one of the lion statues guarding the palazzo on Vico Limoncelo.
“Remember me,” Giuseppe said to Chiara as she left with their sons for work that morning.
“Impossible to forget you,” Chiara answered.
She placed a cup of steamy cappuccino and two biscottini on Giuseppe’s carving tray. He stood up to kiss her good-by, awkwardly placing the lump of something he was working on under his blanket. He took her arm and escorted her to the door and kissed her again – a lover’s kiss on the lips and told her he would make dinner, “a nice pasta Genovese.”
When he got back to his chair, Giuseppe felt drained. He pulled out from under his blanket the wooden pendant he had been carving for Chiara and set to work again. “It will be finished soon,” he thought. “Maybe even today.”
“He’s getting better,” thought Chiara as she walked down Vico Limoncello. She dropped the boys at school and made her way to the pharmacy on Via dei Tribunali. As she went on her way, she thought about Giuseppe’s color. It was deeper, less pale, and he smelled different. The familiar robust smell of him had returned – deep red wine and freshly carved wood. That was what Chiara had always imagined Giuseppe had smelled of. The tired scent of illness was gone.
After Chiara and the boys had passed by, Raimondo floated up the four stories. To enter the apartment, he transformed himself into a breeze and entered her apartment through a window that had been left the slightest bit open on the side facing the street so that some fresh air might enter.
The demon Raimondo had a look around. It was well-kept and welcoming. The floor in the kitchen was blue and yellow tile, clean with no cracks or chips. No dishes were piled waiting to be washed, but were arranged, still dripping, in the draining rack above the sink ready to be used for the evening meal.
He floated from the kitchen into the salon. Someone was there and that someone sensed Raimondo’s presence. An old man sat by the window carving a piece of wood with delicate movement of his fingers. He stopped working and looked up when Raimondo entered.
The demon wafted around the room, looking more closely at the old man. No, he was a youngish man – very ill. Raimondo could smell how near to death the young man was. Giuseppe smiled and returned to the wooden pendant he was carving. Raimondo knew it was his gift of addio that Giuseppe was making for Chiara.
Chiara had begun her day feeling lighter of heart; nevertheless, a sense of something ending had crept in. There was a niche in a palazzo on Via Sapienza where a family she knew maintained lit votive candles in memory of their oldest son who had died in a motorcycle accident – rare in this city of skilled drivers, but it did happen. A new candle was in the niche that morning. Its flame floating in the melting wax on the top of the red glass told her that it had only just been lit. There was a single red rose – red to convey the fact that his mother was still alive – in the vase in front of Lucca’s photograph.
“It’s been a year,” thought Chiara. “I will drop by this evening and drink a glass of amaro with Lucca’s mother.”
When the pharmacy closed during the long pause for lunch, Chiara went to the enoteca on Piazza Dante to buy the amaro, a fitting drink for the occasion. It was bitter, yet there was also a sense of sweetness. “Like life,” Chiara thought.
She decided she would also get a liter of primitivo to share with Giuseppe for dinner, but the demon Raimondo had followed her and whispered to her so subtly that she believed his words to be a thought that suddenly came into her mind. “No,” she said to herself, “he won’t need it.”
***Previously published in Ovunque Siamo and Siren Shore
You
By Anthony Bankes
You remind me of the best things in life—sunset Merlot and midnight laughter and puppy-eared novels on my rosewood table. You remind me of searching summer highways and road trip cars, of quiet wonder beneath wild blue stars. You remind me of sleeping near an open window, of singing with Buddy Holly on the dining room stereo. You remind me of the first smells of spring, cherry blossoms in the candied rain. You remind me of bright orange zest mornings, mimosas on the patio with dew drenched trees. You remind me of the way I linger on a good sentence in a book, how my irises retrace the mesmeric pattern of words to savor before moving on.
I want to retrace you–
I want to rediscover your eyes under marigold skies. I want to soak up each sundrop in your smile before noon. I want to wander with you through side streets, tipsy on slurred secrets and rosé. I want the fireplace crackle of our honesty. I want the weight of our grief and a lavender seashore to swallow our tears. I want shared indigo evenings with sidewalk cafes and slow dance sways. I want our tangled bodies to whisper, incarnation of August heat. I want the taste of your two lips simmered in my sheets. I want to touch you
–every last inch of you.
1984
By DC Diamondopolous
James, as the doctors and staff at St. Mark’s Regional Hospital in San Diego insisted on calling him, applied pancake make-up over the band-aid camouflaging the skin lesion on his chin. He was glad to be home, surrounded by his Nippon figurines, the ornate lampshades with exotic scarves draped over the top, and his trunk of overflowing satin and silk costumes, boas, several strands of pearls, and oodles of costume jewelry. His move to San Diego had been a windfall—the most money he’d ever made doing drag. He lived to entertain. On stage, he was Jasmine and loved. Standing-room only. Now he was sick. How long would he be able to afford his apartment in Hillcrest?
The obituaries from three newspapers spread across the coffee table. Circled in black were the names of seven young men.
Jasmine wanted to live, to work again at Glitter Glam Drag. But James didn’t.
No can do, James. You’re not going to pull me down today. It’s Pride. I’m going to party.
Donna was coming.
At St. Mark’s, the only person who bathed and dressed him, changed his sheets and consoled him, was Donna, the pretty dyke nurse who was now his source for food, medication, and shots—his entire life.
It was Sunday, her day off, and she promised to take him to Pride. Jasmine had never missed a parade, but James’s taunts of looking butt-ugly opened more scabs than he had on his body.
Jasmine dressed in black sweatpants and a gold lámay blouse, brushed her long stringy hair, pulled it into a ponytail, and clipped it with a rhinestone barrette. She applied red lip gloss and blue eyeshadow.
When James fell ill and admitted himself to St. Mark’s Regional, the doctor asked how many men he had slept with. Was he kidding? “Honey, how many stars are there in the heavens?” Hundreds, thousands, in parks, bath houses, clubs, from San Fransisco to LA and San Diego. The doctor had kept a straight face when James answered. The nurse turned her back on him.
Gay liberation tore the hinges off closet doors. Men like him left the Midwest for the coasts and found a bacchanal of men, a confectionery of sex and drugs, a feast for the starving who thought they were alone in the world.
James’s life had been about dick and where to get the next fuck. Jasmine’s life was drag, antique stores, and Vogue Magazine.
When his conservative, homophobic, fundamental Christian parents caught him in his mother’s dress and high heels, they demanded, “Get out now and don’t you ever come back.” He promised them, “I’ll live up to your expectations. I’ll make the most of a trashy life.”
Jasmine grabbed a green boa from the trunk and wrapped it around her neck. You think that’ll hide your Kaposi’s Sarcoma, James baited. Jasmine tugged at the feathers that made her neck feel on fire.
Grace Jones’s, “Pull up to the Bumper” boomed from the ghetto blaster. Jasmine wanted to dance, but her legs ached. You can’t even walk, sucker.
“Shut-up, James.” Jasmine said, pulling herself up and moving to the window.
When he heard a car, he backed out of view. James never wanted Donna to know what she meant to Jasmine.
He held onto furniture as he made his way to the red velvet couch and sat, poised, waiting.
Donna knocked and opened the door.
“Well, don’t you look jazzy,” she said, pushing a wheelchair inside with a rainbow flag attached.
You’ll look like a sick bastard in that baby buggy, James bullied. Everyone will know you have AIDS.
“I can’t go.”
“It’s up to you.”
“Are we so pathetic we need a parade?”
“Yes.” Donna pinned a button that read, Gay by birth, fabulous by choice, on his blouse.“We need to pump ourselves up. If we don’t, who will?”
“They want all queers dead. Looks like they’ll get their way.”
“Not everyone. “The Blood Sisters” keep donating blood, and they’re delivering food and medicine.”
“Thank God for lesbians,” he said and wondered if gay men would do the same if lesbians were dying.
Donna released the footrests on the wheelchair.
“I’m not going. Everyone will know I have AIDS.”
“You do, James.”
He looked away, not wanting to disappoint the woman who showed him so much compassion and strength.
“What if I run into someone I know?”
“You’ll know what to say.”
“Like I’m dying of pneumonia. Like all those fake obituaries,” he said, kicking the coffee table. “Fucking closet cases. Even in death.” Jasmine felt the weepies coming on. James scolded, Be a man. Only sissies cry. But Jasmine was female, too. “In my obit, I want you to put that I died of AIDS. I want everyone to know.”
He held onto the seat of the wheelchair and winced as he pulled himself up. The smell of barbecue wafting in from the open door reminded him of summers back in Kansas City, his mom cooking the catfish that he and his dad caught in the Missouri River, his dog Corky—was she still alive?—joyful memories that always left a wake of loneliness.
Today was supposed to be happy, floats with dancing bare-chested boys, banners, dykes on bikes.
Donna shoved the wheelchair forward. “I’ve brought water and trail mix.”
“Poor substitute for poppers and quaaludes.”
Donna laughed, pushed him outside, and shut the door.
The ocean air breathed vitality into his frail body. He raised his face to the sun and began to gather life like flowers. A bouquet of drifting purple and orange balloons floated high toward the swirling white splashes in a blue background. He heard applause and whistles as he watched a float pass by on Park Boulevard. “Go faster, Donna. I don’t want to miss anything.” For just one afternoon he wanted to wave the rainbow flag and cheer the parade on and forget about himself and all the dying young men.
***Quarterfinalist in the 2019 ScreenCraft Short Story Contest
Power to the People
By Avery Christenson
Flowers for the Dead
By Howard Debs
Where have all the flowers gone…Oh, when will they ever learn?
—from the song written by Pete Seeger, 1955
A hospital parking garage converted to a morgue.
Three refrigerator trailers; stacked on shelves three high,
coronavirus victims awaiting pickup.
She oversees these temporary quarters.
“It’s always full, full, full,” she said. “They were
dying at alarming rates, alone by themselves
without their families.” She goes to the flower shop.
She picks up her standing order: yellow daffodils.
If there aren’t any daffodils, she’ll take carnations—
yellow, please. That’s the most important part—
bright yellow. She enters each trailer and
walks the aisle between the rows, pausing at
each new body bag. There, she carefully places
a flower on top. “One or two, it depends on how
many flowers I have,” she said. “Sometimes I run out.
I’ll go after work to go pick up more flowers.
I know in the morning I’ll need more.”
Source: New York Times article May 5, 2020 “The Morgue Worker, the Body Bags and the Daffodils”
Afterword—
“how is it to be told? . . . in detailing the facts themselves?” the Reznikoff Papers, University of Arizona, Box VII, Folder 26. Charles Reznikoff, (a member of a small group of poets known as objectivists) is a virtual mentor of mine. Holocaust, all 94 pages of it, published in 1975, is Reznikoff’s found poetry tour de force. I was so touched by the Times story of a forensic technician’s empathy lighting the way in a dark time, needing to be shared, unadorned.
Long Summer Days
By Greta Mau
I take a deep breath in and remember
Every sunny-day hideaway
that I have climbed to with my friends
in this, flat, flat town.
I close my eyes
and I feel the sun beating down on me,
on her, on all of us that I have dragged out here.
I can feel it soaking into our skin,
can feel the sunburn’s blush bloom over my cheeks
like the smile I never seem to be able to suppress.
I close my eyes
and I can hear every laugh that I have planted in my friend’s lungs,
hear them bubble up their throats and tumble out of their lips
filling the air like a bouquet of balloons.
I close my eyes
to be met with the white noise of seagulls
and the soft lapping of Water against limestone
Or my friend’s lofty chatter
and dialect that is almost a language inside itself.
It’s lighthearted and everything been craving for so long.
The air smells of the freshwater lake,
or of our pre-packed lunch,
or of the gelato place downtown,
or the chipped paint of the lighthouse,
or my friend’s excitable dogs,
or my bedroom, or the library, or fresh grass-
When I finally open my eyes again
I can see their smiling faces
dimples prominent teeth showing,
their cheeks rosy from laughing and arms slung around each other,
their hair messy and banter airy
I see downtown from a birds view
or her face over a philosophy book,
I see skateboarding and late-night calls,
And kids that hug too hard with talent bursting at the seams.
Adventures and budding exploration,
Getting in and out of trouble on the same night.
I see so, so many more of these distilled moments
but more than anything,
I finally see myself
Smiling in the mirror and I think
in the end,
Maybe all this time
all I needed was them.
8.15.19
11.41 a.m.
77 degrees
By John L. Stanizzi
Politics have unsettled my poetry.
Oligarchical punk, Trump, claims Israel will be weak
if it allows Ilhan Omar or Rashida Tlaib entrance.
Nerve-racking anger simmers in my gut,
disgust that not even this
dandy floating baby frog totally relaxed on
the water’s surface can calm.
8.18.19
7.49 a.m.
68 degrees
By John L. Stanizzi
Powerful rain last night has replenished the
pond and the stream where tiny frogs
overact at my presence, leaping with a
tiny chirp into the shallow water. The haze like
numina floats just above the surface of
the pond like an afterthought,
dreamlike, drifting where the sun has just
now begun to permeate the mist.
Fairytale 04
By Elizabeth Lueth
No Time to Write a Sonnet
By Patrica Miller
I sit at my Bernina, a high-tech
sewing machine, sewing a straight seam.
Yards and yards of green stretch out before
me like a hundred percent cotton river.
It’s not a wedding gown I sew, nor
a baby’s Christening gown, no it’s not
a quilt with complicated stitching. Today
I sew, not for fun, but because I think I ought.
9 by 6-inch rectangles, quarter-inch
elastic, to make the recommended
face mask. Can I make a difference?
I will never know, but I must try.
In this time of despair,
every mask is a prayer.
Flower Boy
By Anthony Bankes
someday, i wish to be the flower boy in a wedding. teach me to weave, artisans of the world, for i will craft my own basket. teach me to garden, nurturers of the earth, for i will grow my own flowers. i will dazzle the floor with gardenias and drape the pews with peonies. this wedding should be in a church, so the purple dahlias can rival even the brightest stained glass window. i want painted jesus to look down on me proud with sunburnt tears in his eyes.
i will rub rose oil on my skin, paint lilacs across my nails, braid orchids into a crown. i will anoint my head with glitter to shimmer down the aisle. i will press daisies into my dress, gleaming with crystal specks, to look like flowers in the rain when i spin. because everyone should know that magic can happen when a boy who feels pretty finds the right dress. i will swoop rainbows with flung petals in silent remembrance of those fallen at the hands of the church:
for those closeted and cast out, exorcised and exiled—a cascade of morning glories to welcome the dawn. for those taught from a pulpit that demons dwelled within them—a scattering of sundrops to shed light on those lies. for the ones before us that never made it out, the ones with graves no one cared to dig—a shower of zinnias and bluebells to grace them. for the drag kings, queens, and ones in between still becoming—a flurry of marigold buds to bloom with them. and for the rest of us fairies, faggots, and freaks, in all of our abominable beauty—a thousand rose petals to dress our wounds.
finally, when i reach the end of the aisle, i will look up to painted jesus with thorns on his head, soaked golden-red in sunlight. i will pluck an orchid braided along my brow for him to adorn his own crown–
so that he might feel beautiful, too.
The Magic Wishing Well
By Lynn Dowless
Once upon a time in the valley of Blessed Nell
by mountain side overhang, there stood a water well.
I was young,
there was so much to see,
so sit down and listen to this story one must hear to believe.
The hillside fairy nymphs were good
when one’s adoration for the surroundings were understood;
so their alluring magic was found in that well,
so deep inside this enchanting valley of Blessed Nell.
There was a miner’s daughter named Angel Em’,
she was more lovely than a string of fresh bass hanging on an oak limb.
My eyes were soon fixed,
my young heart was spooning heavy,
for this mesmerizing angel who drove a 1926 Superior Chevy.
She was wild
and so was I,
this silent ghost of river basin and the forest blanketed hill side.
She kept food on the table
when her Pap was no longer able;
this beautiful pixie who lived in an A framed cabin by the wishing well,
so deep in the West Virginia valley of Blessed Nell.
I soon adored her so passionately,
but she knew me not;
so I listened closely to the ageless tales of the local elders,
praying to the Puck King Fairy at the wishing well;
kissing silver coins, wishing
hard, and tossing them in,
while longing that a binding love with that darling, Angel, might soon commence.
The movement of true love took quite a long while,
between me and this immaculate miner’s child.
When love finally came it burned so scorching hot,
lo the magic of the hillside fairies had finally proven their lot;
in this valley of Blessed Nell,
near the mountain overhang by the wishing well.
With such intense passion we both were soon overcame,
yet when my phantom now gazes backward there is nobody to blame.
Her father hated all out-landers and wouldn’t allow her gentle hand to go,
as he roared and screamed by his pot bellied stove.
One dark and dreary day both me and his dear Angel bid fare thee well,
then we rode the bucket down to the bottom of that water pit in Blessed Nell.
We ne’er meant to make him so disappointed,
we ne’er meant to make him cry,
our two ghosts now long to explain our reasons why;
but for all eternity we both are forever bound
to the bottom of this bewitching water pit a hundred feet down;
so deep in the West Virginia valley of Blessed Nell,
by the old A framed cabin at the water well.
Untitled 3
By Sam Ealy
8.6.19
7.08 a.m.
60 degrees
By John L. Stanizzi
Preparedness means well, but only takes you so far and
obsession is a weak replacement. A great blue heron has
niched a spot at the far end of the pond; he has seen
me through the
diaphanous mist ruffling like frail curtains through
which he flies unfolding himself.
Wanted: Volunteer English Tutor
By Patricia Miller
Limited commitment. Flexible times.
An hour once a week. Not much.
This commitment I could make.
You shuffle your feet. Shoes scuffed and worn.
But your shirt is clean, black hair brushed.
Is that anger in your stance, or a ruse?
Politely you avert your eyes,
Then to my surprise you say:
“My shoes are brown.”
You smile and the dingy hall lights up.
Your eyes peek at me, as if you wish
to say “Hello.”
An hour once a week. Untrue.
So much to do, Books to find
words for you, songs to sing.
You point. I say, “Monkey.”
Point. “Giraffe” Point. “Bear.” Point.
“In a chair.” You laugh and laugh.
“House.” You point and say. “In Nepal
Ghara.” “What?” Point. “House?” Smile.
“Ghara rukha*, I build new. Here. Now.”
We scrounge his yard for sticks and twigs,
tattered blanket. More nest than house.
Krishna, a chick ready to fly.
*Tree house
Promise
By Courtney Yokes
Song: “Can’t Lie” by Alie Gate © 2018
Yokes performing pole dance routine
Brush
By Chris Dungey
Hector Fritch was not alarmed when the oak limb abruptly sagged, pinching his calf into the notch of a lower limb in the brush pile. It didn’t hurt too badly. His expletives were not provoked by pain but he cursed his miscalculation with the chain-saw. Then he cursed his luck for being the first member to arrive at the lodge.
He’d bought some groceries and beer in Mio, took his time on the sandy washboard of Cherry Creek Road, admiring the fall color of the foliage, just past its peak in the weak sunlight. A few of the other fellows should have been there already, but it was Fritch who had to play with the tricky padlock out by the road. He laid aside the logging chain which blocked the entrance then eased his old Pontiac down the overgrown two-track. Lightning or a high wind must have brought down the red oak that lay across the trail a hundred feet short of the cabin. He studied the damage, the leaves which had gone ahead and changed anyway. They fluttered in a gentle south breeze. He could find no way around the road-block; not in this vehicle.
Fritch took a flashlight out of the glove-box because there were heavy shutters on all the cabin windows making for pitch darkness inside. He shouldered one duffel on a strap and the holstered .45 revolver he always traveled with. After the short hike, he unlocked the door and dumped everything onto the plank dining table. He turned on the power at the breaker box. The stove light came on and he plugged in the refrigerator.
He could have left well-enough alone then–simply humped the rest of his gear and the groceries in with the big wheelbarrow they used for firewood. He could have waited for the others–primed the pump and got the fireplace going to take the chill off the place. But there was too much daylight left not to try being a hero. He wasn’t much of a carpenter or electrician like the others. When it came to those sorts of projects in camp, he was a fetcher and hander of tools: a holder of flashlights. He could tote and carry or slap a paint-brush around with anyone, but he thought he had acquired reasonable chainsaw skills in the last ten years.
He found leather gloves in the hardware cabinet and a pair of shooting-range ear covers off one of the coathooks. Someone had taken the newer Husqvarna home for maintenance but the older Poulan was locked in the tool shed. There was maybe a pint of mixed fuel sloshing in the bottom of a red can. One good tank-full. Chain oil in the machine’s reservoir was near the top. He couldn’t find any more of that in the shed. But, if the damn thing would start, he might be able to open the trail wide enough for vehicles to through. The rest of the clearing could wait until tomorrow. The fall work-weekend before deer season was mostly about harvesting firewood, anyway.
The first part of the work went quickly. He cut the thickest boughs directly above the trail so that he could get at the trunk. These had to be dragged clear while the saw idled on damp ferns. The oak trunk had folded other limbs beneath it where it fell. After he’d made two cuts through it on either side of the two-track, he discovered his first error: The chunk in the middle was going to be too heavy to roll by himself. And it wasn’t going anywhere until he got at the limbs pinned under it.
As carefully as Fritch could proceed, the weight above still wanted to pinch as he worked to free the trunk. He pulled the saw out repeatedly just as it was about to bind. He notched and notched again at fuel-wasting angles. Finally, he was able to drag out two or three of the snagging limbs. He wasn’t going to have enough fuel to finish the job, if he couldn’t sever the biggest ones soon. The trunk sagged a final time and the limb he’d chosen next put a firm squeeze on the chain bar. “Son-of-a-bitch!” Fritch spat. “Really?” He killed the motor and slapped the chain-brake forward. He removed the ear-protection. Then, miscalculation number two: Choosing the wrong spot for bouncing on the limb to relieve its hold on the saw. He slipped, his hiking shoe finding the bottom of the brush pile. At that point, the trunk made its final shift, two remaining branches grasping his right leg.
Fritch wriggled and tugged. No luck. His hands groped through the foliage until he found his shoe laces. Maybe if he removed the shoe he could pull the leg out of his pants? Nope, didn’t work. And something he did in the process made the squeeze tighter. He tried to stand up straight on his free leg to get better leverage. He pushed the branch forward then pulled it toward him. It would budge no further.
With an awkward stretch, he found that he could still reach the chainsaw. He would simply have to fire it up and cut himself free. But when he lifted, it was still stuck. Why in hell wouldn’t it come loose now after the frigging limb had shifted? Somehow the branch had twisted as it came down. Again, he leaned way over, rolling his torso to take hold of the silent Poulan with both hands. He managed to work it back-and-forth now, to within a few taunting inches of the end of the bar. Not quite far enough. Any further and it looked like the chain wanted pull off the end. What good would it be to him then?
Winded with exertion, Fritch pushed the saw back in so that it sat balanced. He sat back. Heavy brush which hadn’t yet been tossed aside now supported him. He reached to retrieve his jacket then put it on over a damp sweatshirt. The temperature had begun to drop. The sun burned, a blood-orange between the jack pines, falling toward Grayling.
OK, c’mon now. Take stock and think this through, he told himself. Panic would be the worst thing. This was just too stupid to have any kind of tragic outcome: Earn him one of those Darwin Awards for people who improved the gene pool by dying under dumb circumstances. Was that even a real thing? Was there a nominating committee? For one thing, the other fellows should be rolling in soon. When he adjusted his weight to rest on a different part of his back, he felt the cell-phone shift in his jacket pocket. See there? You did something right.
The cheap TracFone, for which he bought minutes as needed, was down to half-battery. But his coverage was surprisingly good for northern Michigan. While the other lodge members wandered around outside trying to find a signal for their Smart Phones, he chatted with Cheryl from the comfort of his bunk. He tapped the stored number for his brother, Patrick.
“What’s going on, brother man,” Patrick answered, country music in the background suddenly muted.
“Where are you?”
“On 131. Just leaving K’zoo. Why, what’s up?”
“Crap. Is Denny coming up today?”
“Nope. No, he had a change of plans. He’s remodeling a bathroom for somebody in G.R. He’ll be up in the morning. You having trouble with that padlock again? I’ll be there in…The Garmin says 3 hours, 12 minutes.”
Fritch sighed. “No, no. I got in alright. But I’ve got a…It’s not critical, but it’s a …a situation. Are you bringing the other chainsaw with you?”
Fritch laid out the news of the blocked trail and the difficulty he’d created for himself. He tried to joke about it
“Geez,” Patrick mused. “Yeah, the blade is sharpened and I put in a fresh plug. Lemme pick up the pace here a little.”
“Well, don’t get pulled over, whatever you do.” Fritch tried to laugh. “And you need to stop in Grayling for gas and bar oil. We’re out.”
“Right. Will do on the gas. I already bought a gallon of lube,” Patrick said “Anyway, I’m en route, bro. I think Denny said Brian Gillette and his kids were coming up tonight and Doug Nelson probably later. By eleven. anyway.”
“Alright. I’ll let you go. I wanta save enough battery for a 911 call if I need it.”
Patrick laughed. “Dude. I could come up tomorrow and be there before Oscoda County Sheriff.”
“That’s reassuring.” Fritch chuckled then ended the call. He shut the TracFone down completely.
*
When the sun had set, the temperature wasn’t too uncomfortable yet. The breeze had stilled but the rapidly cooling air brought down a dew. Fritch wished he’d worn his wool cap. It was still in the car along with a thermos of coffee. Beer and Pinconning cheese in there, too. His stomach growled. Well, you couldn’t anticipate everything. He unfolded the thin parka-hood tucked into the jacket’s collar.
In the half-light, he thought he heard the distant yapping of coyotes. Somewhere toward the Au Sable River, a mile away. He’d save the ear-covers for when it got colder. Maybe there were noises he needed to hear right now. He thought about the flashlight and his pistol laying on the table. If he owned a damn Smart Phone there would at least be some addictive games to keep him occupied. Just another expense, the data you had to buy. But, or, maybe something to read. Cheryl played hours of that Candy Crush. Or was it Crunch? He closed his eyes. Must not be too cold if he could doze. Time would go by, somehow.
He didn’t wake with a start, if he’d even been asleep. You had to be asleep to dream, right? Brian Gillette was strumming Pearl Jam dirges by the fire-pit and Fritch getting a few of the harmonies just right. Tomorrow night. Then another sound crept in; like tin cans or some tangled thing being shaken. It came from the far side of the cabin, back by the garbage pit. The gloaming was almost gone and the cabin blocked his view.
Patrick had brought a Bobcat front-loader up a few years ago to dig the most recent one. It was into the woods, another thirty yards behind the tool shed. He’d dug it deep through the roots and sand, but it was filling in. You were supposed to shovel plenty of sand onto any bags you threw in. But, there were younger members who got in a hurry when closing up the place. Coons? Probably coons.
He tried to think whether coons ever dug up their menu. Wouldn’t matter if the bags had no sand on them. The club treasurer kept the reservation book. They’d find out who used the place last. Someone over Labor Day most likely. An ass-chewing for someone was probably in order. Then Fritch heard the guttural snort, something between a grunt and a growl. Awww, no. No way.
Black bear sightings, which seemed apocryphal to Fritch just five years ago, had become more frequent in the area. You heard people talking at Parma-Lee Bridge Store and at Ma Deeter’s Tavern in Luzerne. Denny Gillette claimed to have seen one last spring as he rolled into the cabin clearing–the lumbering hind-end way down the trail, heading back to the swamp. Tonight there were no signs of human presence–no cars parked, not a single lamp left shining inside.
Fritch lay back as low as he could, the trapped knee level with his line of sight. He breathed through his nose. What movement of air there was came from the direction of the cabin and the dump beyond. Whatever was back there shouldn’t catch his scent. Not from over there. But what were you supposed to do? Make a lot of noise, right? And don’t get between mama bear and cubs? Supposed to be more frightened of us than we were of…That wasn’t exactly true at the moment. In his predicament, maybe best to stay quiet and not find out.
He tried square breathing: Inhale to a count of four; hold for four, exhale. Repeat It was not slowing his heart-rate. Now, whatever was back there began to scratch at a tree trunk. Well, that’s what it sounded like until it stopped. Leaving evidence, at least, for when he told the story. Over on his left, a yellow harvest moon nosed between the trunks of towering Norway pines the lodge founders had spared east of the clearing.
So there was some light when the animal finished sharpening. The sound of its waddling, heedless trampling of old deadfalls and third-growth seedlings filled in a dim image as it moved. How the mind works, Fritch knew, even as the trick was played–take a nearly imperceptible shape moving nearer in that darkness just beginning to turn slightly golden; create a worst-case scenario. That was a bear, alright.
It gave the cabin a wide berth, crossed a cleared swath where the utility line had been run in years ago. Fritch sensed that it was circling. There were more digging, scavenging noises, talons ripping into rotted wood. Maybe an old stump. He heard another snort.
After a few more of what Fritch imagined to be grub-rooting sounds–more silence. Then, more cautious movement, edging closer through the saplings and ferns. Silence again. Was it listening? sampling through it’s snout the local news on the night air? Fritch couldn’t breathe any shallower. Just enough air in his nostrils to notice the scent; gamey, mushroomy molecules drifting his way. Not the reverse, he prayed.
He knew it was past time to announce himself before the animal came any closer. That was another thing he recalled, nearly too late: Don’t surprise them. Fifteen yards away it could still bolt and run. Would a shout be enough, though? and clapping the leather gloves? You always saw campers on nature documentaries beating pots and pans. He couldn’t remember if that ended well.
Then, like a gift, Fritch thought of the chainsaw. The adrenalin which came with this inspiration warmed him like a shot of Jack. He’d have just one chance, one pull on the cord. But the roar of it could actually be painful without ear-covers. It should do the job, even if he couldn’t wave it around like a sword.
His index finger found the ON switch then eased out the choke. One push on the tiny rubber priming bulb, too, but don’t flood it. Jesus that was definitely some snuffing. Was it becoming suspicious? The switch had made no noise. Would the bear stand up? That wasn’t a good thing when they did that, he didn’t think. Fritch had to stretch and twist to securely grip the saw’s handle. Brush snapped under something heavy. Close enough to be boughs that he’d pitched aside. Now or never.
He yanked as hard as his strained, awkward leverage would allow, yelling at the pain which wrenched down his pinned calf. The motor erupted in the stillness. He added threats and curses at the top of his lungs. He could hardly hear himself as he gunned the throttle. When he finally released the trigger to let it idle, the saw sputtered and quit, out of gas at last.
Fritch rolled away from the saw which remained stuck. He pushed himself up and tried to stand on the free leg. The saw’s racket left a ringing in his ears as he listened for the bear. The moon was higher, already more provolone than cheddar. There were no more disturbances from the nearby undergrowth. Now he panted in the chill air. The bear’s rancid funk remained.
He continued gasping, leftover adrenalin still backwashing. His hands shook. Fucking silly, for heaven’s sake. He’d probably never been in any real danger Probably none at all if he’d made some kind of racket at the outset. The thing would have been long gone. The same chemical boost that now left him hyperventilating also put a fresh sheen of sweat down his neck and back. That was going to be even more uncomfortable as the evening grew colder. He had just begun groping around for the extra warmth of the ear-covers when headlights blinked through the trees. The glare would rescue him in another minute.
WHO'S PAYING
By John Grey
It’s a wake dressed up
in romance’s clothing –
in a restaurant,
at a table
lit by flickering candle,
her words emerge
from a sob,
explain how feelings
sometimes change
with time –
like a farmer walks off
his land for good –
and grandma goes
into a nursing home –
so who’ll be
planting crops next year?
who moves into
the old house?
This Sentence is Sentient
By David Centorbi
Lament
By David Centorbi
[the scene spoken by unseen NARRATOR, not a VOICE.]
NARRATOR: Hey!, you could have turned this desert into a 69 chevy and drove into heaven. Instead, the pain of each particle of life made plaster casts of you. Propped you up at each corner of this town, your thumbs pointing upward into nothing. 110 degrees and your theater began. Your bodies: hosts of the Heavenly Laugh.
VOICE: Was I the last hero of sloth refusing to ponder that lackadaisical muse, who dangled the golden jewel, the Literati, in front of my eyes…I saw all of their unmade beds, soiled with semen and confusion.
VOICE: I played tic-tac-toe with my paper and pen. And no one won except for satan, who kept demanding that I uphold my part of the bargain: get down on my knees and lick his Patent Leather heels. But Satan, I have tasted the cross! It tasted like love! Love and all its sauces!
VOICE: I dreamed the image of survival onto my chest.. Where there was pain I incarnated torpedoes and blew it up to god! I drew my lines in the sand over and over…but still, why did I sink so low so fast? Where was my holiday in the sun under the Celestial Wing, where even scorpions could get me off?
VOICE: I had no totem poles. My digestive tract spoke at least 3 languages, none of which THEY understood. I asked Crusoe’s ghost to give me his best advice, all he said: never name your children, Benito.
VOICE: My art was naked and sleeping on a park bench. It had so many complications it got tired of dying. When it woke it stomped its feet and then, starke naked, started running in circles screaming, Red Buttons! Red buttons! Red Buttons!
VOICE: My openings have all been closed. The shine from the sun, replaced with the glare off the eyes of the stupid. I have no more nightmares. Inspiration has taken them away. Inspiration contracted to Satan eats peeled grapes, as he reclines on Satan’s couch.
[Chorus of VOICES all say in unison]
VOICES: Our knees are bruised from so much praying. Our throats red and raw from too much prasing. Lord, have not the boring been fed enough? What about the living? Are you finished counting our ribs? When do WE get a chance to sing?
Untitled 2
BY Sam Ealy
Rat Park
BY Ben Nardolilli
I got to go to Vancouver. It could be the platform I need, other platforms give me
allergies. A new place to work on my tidal theories. I also need to go
to Vancouver is because of the Vancouver rats. They know where it’s at. The solution
to my addictions which I never knew I had until the Counsel’s experts came.
Yes, Counsel says it’s addictions, hooks on the brain. He thinks it’s Beyoncé. I blame other
knolls. Circumstances in my public life that created hackles and shackles,
the use of leisure time in a free society. I broke nothing due to bad influences.
My options looking from the outside: got to getter a better cage, it’s all the rage
I appear to be on a healthier path even though lines under my eyes make me look
like a secretary with insomnia. Maybe I can relate to more going through these hardships.
The reason I am writing, is because I know this man (me), his struggles, and his heart…
Today I learned that well can run dry. Insert an Alan Watts quote here to make up for it.
Addictions. What addictions? A browser full of graven images, files full of words written in
vain. At least there’s no binders. I’m sorry, who is the argument between?
I want a world filled with colorful balls and a world where that’s enough instead
of studying Hermeticism to be a marriage counselor. I’m all rage. Got to get a better cage
Dorian Before, During, After
BY Howard Debs
“They worry about the silliest things, a little bit of wind”
—patron exiting the Brooklyn Bagel eatery, pre-storm, Palm Beach Gardens, Florida
Her name is Lauren. She played her part.
More about that later. Humans give everything
names. Wednesday August 28: I’m putting up
the metal garage door center brace—a gaping chasm
if breached therefore it’s fortified like a medieval castle
entry with its massive wooden gates fronted by its portcullis
(a vast iron grille to thwart storming by battering rams)
I’m not yet thinking I might die. I’m thinking of Dorian
columns (bearing the most weight ancient builders
used them at the base of buildings). I’m thinking
that Dorian will be ripped apart by the mountainous
terrain of Hispaniola. Thursday August 29: I’m putting up
the heavy galvanized steel shutters I invested in long ago
to cover all the windows and sliding glass doors. Friday August 30:
I’m bringing in all the furniture from the patio; anything
can be a missile even the small stone birdbath marking the
spot where we buried the container of our cat’s remains when she died
of natural causes many years ago. I’m thinking it’s coming our way.
Saturday August 31: I’m helping put up shutters at
my younger daughter’s place; a first responder with Palm
Beach County Fire Rescue, she’s activated at Emergency
Headquarters as of 7 a.m. the next day. The plan is we’ll head
to her house, it’s newer construction, post-Andrew, up-to-code.
One of her twins, eleven years old, complains it’s dark inside
with all the windows covered. I’m thinking this will be the worst storm
to hit our area in 45 years since we moved to Florida for the
sea and sun of it. I later find out about the Labor Day hurricane
of 1935 and its 185 mile-an-hour winds. Sunday September 1:
I’m clinging to our only hope, waiting for The Turn.
(The Bermuda High came and retreated, leaving a smidgen
of room for the hurricane to skirt the coast, a low-pressure
trough coming down from the Midwest coaxing it along
if it reached us in time). Monday September 2: I’m packing
to leave my home. I’m thinking living generates lots of stuff,
as George Carlin used to joke (“If you didn’t have so much stuff,
you wouldn’t need a house, you could just walk around all the time.”)—
I’m thinking I could lose it all, my stuff. The Hebrew Daily Prayers with
English translations passed down through generations take it or leave it?
The old black and white photo of Grandpa Eddie in front of his
haberdashery on Broadway in Chicago take it or leave it?
The leather-bound Essays and Treatises on Several Subjects by Hume,
1769 edition take it or leave it? Tuesday September 3: I’m reading
the latest Facebook post from my son-in-law, a local high school
history teacher with a passion for storm prediction. He previously
posted about his former student Lauren, now a meteorologist flying
on a hurricane hunter plane to gather data. Dorian is stalled.
We’re all still waiting for The Turn. The delay is maddening with
possible devastating result (meme being circulated online: Dorian
is just like a Florida snowbird. It moves 1 mile an hour, can’t pick a lane
and has no idea when to turn). Finally the 6z models, known as spaghetti
plots show movement to the northwest. Confidence is high that we will see
minimal effects. I call around, the big chain restaurants are closed but
a local diner opened and so instead of eating Sterno-heated instant oatmeal
we went out on the town. The place was packed with weary folks abuzz about
our salvation and the tragedy in the Bahamas 90 miles away. A fellow at
the next table was insisting we send all donations only to Christian-based charities.
I resisted a demurral. Wednesday September 4: I’m thinking I’m over the mileage for
an oil change on the new car; an email arrives from the dealer reading
“With Dorian behind us we’re here for all your automotive needs.”
I’m thinking of Dorian Gray, the novel.
Afterword—
Three things: 1). A number of years ago, in the Michigan Quarterly Review a group of literary luminaries joined the fray in a series of seven articles about writing Holocaust poetry. Alicia Ostriker had this to say, “Writing is what poets do about trauma. We try to come to grips with what threatens to make us crazy, by surrounding it with language.” 2). When my older daughter, now a public school special education resource specialist started her undergraduate career at Florida State in Tallahassee, the parents were treated to a lecture to show the kind of thing the students would be experiencing. The history professor involved propounded a theory which is both profound and difficult involving a meta-analysis approach asserting that all events, devastating hurricanes included, have positive outcomes if viewed in a larger context. The point of view is hard to reconcile. 3). Climate change is an existential threat, yet, as with Dorian Gray, collectively we have given away our future in exchange for the enjoyments of the moment.
From Avon
By Brady Null
Untitled 1
By Sam Ealy
8.14.19
8.15 a.m.
69 degrees
By John L. Stanizzi
Pangs of humidity, apprehension of overcast,
ordaining the pond’s persistence in drying up,
nickel-colored water, namesake of mud,
defeated as a worn-out idea or memory lost.
One Midnight By The River Elf
By Lynn Dowless
The gift of sleep,
like an endowment of life,
is only of a temperamental keep;
Yet all possess a perfect right
to ease away into those deepest
recesses of a melancholy gloom on the twelfth-striking.
Often I saunter onto that dreary plutonian shore
down by the meandering river, Elf,
seeking the succubus nymph, Euplia, whose company I fervently enjoy
when on the witching hour I enter this enchanting river delta.
Into sultry tangled Belladonna rose shrubbery
by that purling Lethe river’s edge,
I shall meet my harlot nymph mistress while veiled inside.
Instantly I find myself deeply consumed by her mysteriously tight wedge;
my yearning passion informs the mind
here on this murky shore is where I should long abide!
My intellect screams not,
as her elusive words allege
that for all eternity she shall embrace only me,
as does that draconian shore with the surging river tide.
She is such a Venus with her piercing sapphire eyes and spotless emerald flesh,
yea,
her luscious blood labium slides in bewitching likeness to a fine tuned well worn glove.
Any secret contemplation of hasty exit flee
as we twain enmesh,
and all too soon does searing yearning
transform into sensational passions of a nauseatingly twisted love.
This verdant nymph from glimmering Elf,
this occultist strumpet from the dreary underworld,
moves in sleek rhythm with the Lethe surge
as beading nectar soon covers ourselves.
All of our banners are instantly self unfurled,
even our most debauched longings are ne’er withheld!
Purple fulmination appears in boundless streaks,
piercing thunder rolls throughout our entire ghastly realm.
Ah,
‘tis my soul her demon seeks,
I am for all time bound unto her ravenous gratifying helm,
this fallen angel hailing from yon glittering midnight Lethe.
Her spell is overwhelming,
upon my very soul her verdant hand is pulling.
In transpiring thoughts I dream of silently crawling,
yet my jowls are seemingly drooling,
whilst I lose my heart, essence, and judgment in all of this heavy balling.
I shudder upon my chamber bed when I finally animate;
body, soul, and reputation I inexplicably retain.
Yet somehow I still fantasize my dreamy experience as being so great,
and by that most seductive river, Elf, I discreetly wish to remain.
Fairytale 01
By Elizabeth Lueth
"I Can Offer Tea"
By Bill Weatherford
Louise McCord was already not ready to cry some more. April 27, 1942, the Greyhound buses had been unloading all day, A muffled air blast would announce more tragedy; a hydraulic door belched open and out “nightmare/dream-walked” more lives shamed by President Roosevelt’s ‘Executive Order 9066’. Every face was hard to look in the eyes and so were those eyes not looking back into hers. Some were harder than others.
There had already been Professor Uchida, her past piano and composition teacher at Fresno State… this fine, gentle man. Later that day had come her closest college friends; Carol Hirata, Mitsumi Nishamura and Kako Nabu had collapsed in embrace in front of her. They wailed together as “relocating” parents and siblings stood stoically by, wanting but failing, to disappear from this lie. She couldn’t go to her friends. They were on the other side of her station and guards ordered them to move on. All day would be like this and so would tomorrow.
At twenty-two, Louise had been grateful for a first job after she had graduated; the Great Depression still stunted aspirations. Add to that, being a woman, educated but with a degree in fine arts, becoming, at best, someone’s clerk or typist seemed inevitable. Then, a friend of a friend put her on to an opening with the Tulare County Social Welfare Department as a caseworker.
For two years she had mostly liked the work. She’d made several friends her own age and was taken under the wing of a sociable and savvy older woman whose husband and she would become lifelong-friends. Louise had youthful sympathy for most of her clients who were usually very young or very old, often unhealthy and always poor; if her understanding of the world was innocently superficial, that was to change, hurried with more days like today and the beginning of World War II.
She was standing with other women from the department in the parking lot of the Tulare County Fairgrounds. There were long tables lined end to end separating “American them” from the arguably “other” American Americans” getting off the buses while being guarded/protected by American soldiers. Her group’s job was singular and simple ,,, offer tea to stunned, devastated people; ask no questions; answer no questions, no “fraternization”.
Big cauldrons steamed on the tabletops. From them, tea would be “spigoted” into metal pitchers, then to metal cups and finally offered to someone who would carry it in one hand; the other would be holding the only suitcase allowed, brought from a “no more” home, a “no more life”. The tea was to be drunk while walking down that gauntlet and the cup left on the last table. Exiting the “Welcoming Area” they were herded to “temporary shelters” at what was, in reality, a racetrack. Here they would live in horse stalls and hastily added “barracks”, multiple families, 25 people to a room. The real “relocation camps”, were still hastily being built in unknown places with yet unheard of names: Manzanar, Tule Lake, Poston, the like, 10 in all, in seven inland states.
This was to be the hardest job Louise would ever have in her remaining 62 years. Near her death, for a countless and final time, she thought of April 27,,1942. She had never talked about it; she had never confessed her truth…the failure, the wrong she felt in her participation. She heard it though, the silent inner-whisper that had lasted her lifetime: the echoing misery, the impotence and betrayal behind her words, something to gratefully be given up and finally put away… “Can I offer you tea, Sir? Here, Miss; please, take some tea.”
*****
Chosen Ones
By Mitchell Waldman
I’ve never been one of the Chosen Ones
never sipped my soup with a silver spoon,
but have stood by watching,
servile,
hands behind the back,
tail between my legs,
watching ladies sip tea,
slipping out of stoles,
jumping,
bending down to pick them up
when the precious animal hides
fall to the floor,
grabbing them
and returning them
to their owners,
unseen
unheard
unnoticed
invisible
out of sight
out of mind
of the powers of privilege,
as they,
with white gloves,
continued to sip,
over idle chatter of the latest fashions in
dresses, soirees, and wine,
their smooth tanned elbows tilted
at just the proper angle,
quite,
47 1/2 degrees I think it would be,
munching on biscuits, scones,
speaking of all their charitable contributions,
their fund-raising efforts,
smiling the pearly white smiles
that only those
in the clouds of grace
can smile,
while down below,
the rest of us carry umbrellas
or don’t,
waiting for the endless skies of gray to clear.
Years Pass - Memories Remain
By Patricia Miller
I kiss the spot between
your eye and ear. Whisper
“Wake me”
You left while I slept.
One year after your death
when I awoke
you are gone.
It is a pillow
I hold.
Two tears after your death
I crawl into bed,
pull the covers up.
I don’t reach
for your hand.
Three years after your death
I snuggle into the warmth
at my back knowing
it is only my blanket.
Remember you
Mindset
By Mike Hickman
Maurice eased the window shut behind him and pulled at the cellophane tab on a new cigar. There was time yet. The cigar broke before the tab did and he threw it down onto the stained lino. If he had his timing right, Jack would be through the door any moment now. He’d have the knife. He’d think he hadn’t been observed on the way out here. And yet Maurice had predicted his every move right from the moment he had been provoked.
‘Thoughts?’
Maurice turned round to see Laurie, drink in hand, giving him the look that tried to read his collar size. He turned back, checked on the window latch, and looked down at where he’d thrown the cigar. Right at Laurie’s feet.
Laurie was wearing the Berluti brogues he’d introduced Maurice to the last time Jo had thrown a bash. Not a scuff on them. Not a cigar to be seen, either.
Maurice was wearing his usual Hush Puppies. His suit was worth about tenth of the price of Laurie’s. When new. And Maurice had not bought it new.
‘It’s a nice area, isn’t it?’ Laurie said, and he was right – Jo’s condo was in just the right part of town to make someone like Maurice feel doubly inconspicuous, even though he went perpetually unnoticed. A suit like his wasn’t worth the noticing. Jack knew that, too. With the knife concealed, they wouldn’t see him.
Although it wouldn’t be concealed for long.
Maurice reached for the cigars in his inside pocket, hiding the packet from Laurie in case a judgement was made. He pulled at the tab on another cigar, succeeding this time in tying a curl of cellophane around his fingers. He broke the cigar in the process.
Laughing, Laurie offered him one of his own. A Cohiba something or other. Maurice could have asked. Laurie would most likely tell him anyway.
He did.
‘Something wrong with the window?’ he asked, and Maurice realised he had absently checked on the catch again while attempting to rouse a flame from his elderly Zippo. Perhaps he should have used the patio doors – an easy out there for when Jack came.
He must have been told enough. How easy it was to get in via the fire escape; how easy it would be to get out the same way, too.
‘Original Crittall,’ Laurie said, and Maurice again didn’t need the explanation. ‘Jo had them shipped over from the UK. 1930s, I think.’
Maurice pulled on the cigar. He’d have had more luck with a tree trunk. Nothing. A damp mulch nothing. He waved at Jo as she went past with her latest beau. Another one with showy shoes.
If Jack was coming up the fire escape then he ought to be in view now. If only Maurice could distract Laurie for a moment, still rambling about designer windows.
Luckily, a passing tray of blinis did the trick.
Maurice looked out and down and there, in the light cast by the lamp on the corner, there he caught sight of a mac and a hat and perhaps the glint of something that ought to have been better hidden. Slightly later than anticipated, but here, on the street, as primed as Maurice had known he would be, and – most importantly – on his way up. The door would open and the knife would flash and Maurice would be there.
This time.
‘You know, if you don’t mind me saying,’ Laurie said through blini, ‘you’ve been a bit out of sorts lately, Maurice, old man. I mean…’ And now he was going to do it. Just standing there in those shoes of his ought to be enough, but no. Now he was actively going to make the comparison between them. ‘I know it’s been a rough patch but it’ll come back to you – with the right mindset.’
Maurice had a perfectly serviceable mindset, thank you very much.
‘You’ve got to be, if you don’t mind me saying, more…avaricious, old man. You’ve got to go for it. Go for what you want more. You know, best thing anyone ever said to me was to picture it – really picture it. If you can picture it, then it can be yours.’
Laurie’s cosmic ordering, Maurice thought. He’d pictured himself the helicopter, Maurice thought. His father’s money seemed not to come into it, Maurice thought.
Jack must, by now, be out there on the landing. He’d had time to negotiate the stairwell. He’d be out there. Primed. Pumped.
‘I only say this to help you, old man,’ Laurie said.
Maurice saw the door begin to open and he tensed. He popped the already extinguished cigar in his top pocket and he readied himself for the move.
He’ll be here tonight in the Berluti brogues and he’ll be full of himself as he always is, Jack. Ostentatious, as he always is. Belittling you and everything you’ve ever tried for, as he always does.
Here’s the address. Get rid of the map before you get there. Just in case. We never spoke about this, alright?
Not a word.
The door swung inwards and Maurice leaned back against the wall, ready for it.
His eye was caught by the cigar, crushed in its own cellophane, down there on the lino. He stooped to pick it up. He wound the cellophane round his fingers. He lost the moment.
He wasn’t there.
Maurice turned to look out of the window at the street beyond. Jo’s apartment was three blocks away. It would take him about half an hour to get there. Laurie would have arrived by then.
He could picture it.
Tripping
By Paul Lewellan
His wife Jo was already at work by the time he awoke. He’d submitted his grades after midnight the night before. She would administer a multi-section final at noon and grade the rest of the day. By then he’d be in St. Paul visiting his mother. His sister Irene needed a break from Mother Care. Henry was it.
I don’t feel well.
Henry dismissed the idea. He wasn’t sick. He just didn’t want to make the six-hour trip, didn’t want to pick up deli chicken and pasta salad for supper, or play cribbage with his mother until her bedtime after the 10 o’clock news. He didn’t want another night alone in a motel room when he could be sharing a bed with Jo. But then it didn’t matter what he wanted. Until Mother died, or he died, Henry and his sisters would continue making the trips. Mother had cared for her parents and her husband. Now it was his turn.
Enough said.
After coffee and a bowl of cinnamon and raisin oatmeal, he read the Des Moines Register, hoping the nausea would pass.
Nerves.
He got on the treadmill.
Relieve the stress. Get my heart started.
Henry watched CNN, sweating profusely, though he’d barely begun to exercise. When he increased the speed, he stumbled and fell. The safety cord shut down the machine but only after he’d scraped his knee. He sat awkwardly on the floor.
Nothing broken.
If he’d broken something, Henry could have called Irene, explained that he was unable to travel, and spent a quiet weekend with his wife once her grades were done. They could have enjoyed dinner at La Figero, like they did when they celebrated her tenure. Or his latest publication.
Shower up and saddle up.
If he was on the road by 9:30, he could avoid the worst of the Twin Cities traffic. But then the nausea hit. Henry made it to the toilet in time to vomit. Kneeling on the floor, his knee throbbed. His chest tightened. Sweat poured from him like it had on the treadmill, except he wasn’t moving.
Classic heart attack symptoms.
A heart attack would be a good excuse not to go see his mother. Irene couldn’t blame him if he had a heart attack. A heart attack was like money in the bank on the list of good excuses.
Suck it up. Shower time.
The warm water on his back–normally soothing–felt like pin pricks. His forehead flushed, the tightness in his chest returned. Henry vomited in the shower–dry heaves–and the sweats returned. He seized the shower rail to keep from falling. He turned the shower water to cold and the sweating subsided. He stepped out and toweled off.
Much better. Good to go. Time to hit the road.
Deodorant, mouthwash, shave. While he shaved, his arm tightened, his heart rate elevated. He took three aspirin from the medicine cabinet, crushed them, and washed them down. He’d read somewhere that would help. He reached for his underwear. If I call 911, and it isn’t a heart attack, I’ll feel stupid. He put on his shirt and reached for his khakis.
If I die on I-80 because I didn’t call 911, I’ll feel worse.
Henry put on his pants and reached for his cell phone. The nausea returned. His palms were wet, and he’d already soaked through his t-shirt.
“911. What is your emergency?”
“I think I’m having a heart attack.” Henry confirmed his location and relayed his symptoms.
“Please stay on the line, Mr. Morgan. Help is on the way.”
He made his way downstairs and unlocked the front door. He was already feeling better. He checked his fly. He wanted to call Jo, but he was still on the line with the 911 operator. “You know,” he told the calm female voice, “I’m feeling a lot better.” An unmarked police car pulled into his driveway, red and blue lights flashing. A man in a suit appeared at his door. Detective Swanson made Henry sit down, checked his pulse, and spoke briefly to the operator. A firetruck appeared. A paramedic named Bob asked Henry for his name and birthdate, a summary of his symptoms. “When did you first notice something wrong?”
“About forty-five minutes ago.”
Bob looked at Detective Swanson and then back to Henry. “Most men don’t call for five or six hours.”
“Or not at all.”
“Really?”
“They think it will just go away. Have you taken anything?”
“Three aspirins.”
“Did you crush them first?”
“Yup.”
“Good man. People forget that step.” He handed him a gel tab. “Let’s pop a little nitro for good measure.” Henry heard the siren before he saw the ambulance. “And here’s the A team. Right on time.”
“Is there anyone you’d like me to contact?” Detective Swanson asked.
“My wife.” Henry gave him her cellphone number as they strapped him on the gurney.
“Let’s take a ride.”
As Henry talked with the EMTs, and later the ER nurses, and finally the doctor, each in turn expressed surprise that he’d recognized the symptoms and called 911. Men typically dismissed the symptoms, delayed making the call, or tried to drive themselves. “Stupid.”
“Exactly,” the nurse confirmed as she hooked him to a monitor.
Jo arrived outside the ER treatment door. Henry sheepishly waved. She waved back. Her friend Donna appeared at her side. He mouthed the words, “I’m okay now.”
The ER doc stepped away from the gurney. “Well, Mr. Morgan, you’ve obviously had some kind of heart event, but you haven’t had a heart attack. Things have stabilized. I see your wife is here. I’m going to send you home.”
At that moment a giant hand reached into his chest, seized his heart, and squeezed. Alarms sounded. “Code Blue in ER 4. Code Blue in ER 4.” Henry curled into a fetal position.
“Morphine,” the doc ordered.
This could kill me.
Time stopped. The ER faded away. He stood in a long corridor. His fear evaporated.
I’d be comfortable with that.
He made no move toward the light.
But I think I’d like to stay a while.
Henry woke up in a hospital room. Jo held one hand while a nurse inserted an IV in his other. “Did you know seventy-five percent of the people who have a heart attack in a hospital don’t survive it?”
“Call me Mr. Lucky.”
As soon as he expressed the thought, he knew it was true.
“I called Irene,” Jo told him. “Your mother’s going to have to wait to see you.”
“Do you have plans for the weekend?”
“No. Why?”
“My calendar has opened up.”
A Perfume
By Diarmuid ó Maolalaí
winter crowds
through windows
in the ellis
quay apartments.
the stairwell, thick
with a perfume
of spice and frying
steaks. someone
on the landing
has opened
their apartment,
clearing the kitchen
while they cook. steam
comes out, rushing
like a person
late for a train,
their wallet
in their mouth,
keys frantic,
fiddling their folded
up jacketsleeves.
it rolls along
the windows
which run on down
the stairwell,
makes mushroom
shapes which flatten
on the glass and frame
of winter. rises
on my footsteps,
like I left
something behind.
I turn, stepping brightly
along another flight,
quite delighted
and searching
my pockets for keys,
tasting the savoury
perfume.
Sing Me
By Niles M Reddick
In a pub in Underground Atlanta, Georgia
“We all got a song. What’s yours?”
“Oh, I’d say about dreams sidetracked. Screwed up in college, had to take a job I didn’t want, got stuck with bills, had a family. Never quite got where I really wanted to be. Get me another one.”
“Here you go.”
“What’s your song?”
“If you want to sing me, then it’s got to be a country song. Something about drinking, a bad relationship, being poor, but end it on a high note with Jesus, family, and hard work. That pulled me through.”
He nodded and sipped. “Wish it had been different.”
“Me, too, but it ain’t too late.”
He laughed. “Maybe, but the energy’s gone.”
“You above ground, ain’t you? Start a new show. Don’t be a rerun.”
“You’re right. Give my family a reason to be proud.”
“Do it for you, not for someone else.”
He nodded. “Appreciate it. Gimme one for the road.”
“You’ve had enough, Jack. I’ll call you a cab.”
“It’s okay. I’ll take the M.A.R.T.A train home. See what I can do different tomorrow.”
“That’s right. Get you a new song.”
Fairytale 05
By Elizabeth Lueth
