Editorial cc&d, May 22, 2004, v. 136

It took me flying to China to read about this story in the Shanghai Daily newspaper.
Now, it’s hard to be a vegetarian in China; when you want to order food, everything has meat in it (even the meals that say they don’t have meat in them have two different kinds of fish in it...). But even meat-eaters would agree that it is crossing a line to eat human meat, and this was a potential peril those in Vancouver, British Columbia (Canada) learned about when it was reported that a pig farmer became a serial killer, and may have potentially placed human remains in pork that he gave to friends.
http://www.karisable.com/skazpicton.htm said that 15 victims were among 63 missing women, from the Vancouver Downtown Eastside in October 2002. But March 2004 newspapers revealed that human remains may have been in the processed pork products from this man’s home. CNN reported on March 11, 2004 that pork products processed and distributed from the farm of accused Canadian serial killer Robert Pickton may have contained human remains. I checked outmore sources on line, and saw that www.seattletimes.com even carried an AP story about this. The AP article stated: A news release issued by B.C.’s Health Ministry said RCMP investigators have evidence that some products were handed out by Pickton to friends and acquaintances in the area prior to his arrest in February 2002.

the freedom pendulum swings around the globe

Editorial cc&d, April 22, 2004, v. 135

To visit a friend and to see the amazing historical sights, we decided to take a trip to China. We looked back over our lives — we were raised knowing that we couldn’t trade with China, that they were so violently Communistic that we would never be able to experience their culture or their history first-hand. So we stopped listening to AM talk radio, hearing about how the U.S. government could search flight records for potential terrorist activity, to head to the other side of the globe and see how the other side of the planet — and the other political side of the coin — functioned.
Now, I have to remind myself that I was seeing urban areas, Beijing and Shanghai, and that I was not witnessing the destitution of the rural expanses of China ... I have to remind myself of that because it was so much like the United States that I could forget. Corporate monoliths like Starbuck’s and McDonald’s were on every corner. People driving on the roads and on bicycles were more demonic than the city streets in the United States. Surrounded by skyscrapers and a ton of construction for the development of the city, the only thing that reminded me that I wasn’t on an American street was the fact that no one anywhere spoke English. Other than seeing signs in the street written in Chinese and not English, it was amazingly comfortable to manage in Shanghai.
While taking a flight to Beijing, we read an English newspaper (the Shanghai Daily, March 9 2004), whose main headline was “Historic Progress Hailed in constitutional amendments.” The draft amendment to China’s constitution went over the inviolability of private property. The Shanghai Daily article even stated that “the constitutional amendment is also expected to enshrine human rights protection.” I even kept this paper, so I could have written record of the expansion of rights given to the people of China. This story seemed to mark a remarkable time in history.
It was remarkable because I saw the inverse happening to us in the United States. I thought about John losing unemployment benefits because the U.S. government saw (by searching flight records) that he flew to Puerto Rico, which is outside of the United States; in other words, a weekend trip cost John his unemployment benefits. I also heard that the U.S. government wanted to access anyone’s hospital records to be able to search for people who had abortions.
The Patriot Act was passed six weeks after 9/11. We know now that it greatly changed the balance between liberty and security in this nation’s framework. Now the Domestic Security Enhancement Act is a draft for the sweeping expansion of Anti-Terrorism Act — and one of the provisions in here (if I’ve got this right) is that the government could actually strip citizenship from someone if — for example, if you were found making what you thought was a legitimate contribution to some non profit organization. People can argue about the “favorability” of particular non-profit organizations (that some non profit organizations are fronts for terrorist groups).
All I know is that I see that we’re walking on a slippery slope; once we’ve abandoned some rights, we can lose them all. And in China they are working to give their people more rights. It’s amazing how the pendulum can swing from China’s side of the globe to our own to change how everyone can look at the world.

Bad Dreams

Billy sat up like a shot in his sweat soaked bed. He was breathing hard and his eyes were wide, his dilated pupils trying desperately to see through the dark. Perspiration oozed from every pore, even though it was a chilly October night. Was that a draft he felt coming from the hallway? He tried to remember what the bad dream bad been about, but all he got were meaningless fragments.
It was just a dream, he told himself, but his mind and body were still flooded with adrenaline and weren’t responding to his reasoning yet. He wiped his brow with the sheet and finally got his breathing under control. Man, that must have been some nightmare, he thought, falling back on his pillow. If it was that bad he wasn’t so sure he wanted to remember it.
A sound coming from the bathroom directly across from Billy’s bedroom caused his heart to resume the race. He sat up again and peered into the night. Both his bedroom and the bathroom doors were open, but except for the faint moonlight filtering through the frosted window in the lavatory it was too dark to make anything out. A tree branch scraped the bathroom window, as a gust of chilly October wind moaned outside. Billy let out a heavy sigh of relief. And even though the waving limbs of the tree were casting weird shadows across the tiled floor of the john, he allowed himself to relax a little. He turned on his side and faced the wall closest to his bed. Every inch of wall- space was covered with his obsession: monsters, and the men who played them It was, as his mother liked to point out, the very reason for his recurrent nightmares.
“If you’re not careful Billy,” she would often lament. ”You’re going to get lost in that awful world of horror, and never get back.”
He wondered if Forrest 1. Akkerman was plagued by his imagination as well. F. J. Akkerman was the Editor and Chief of Billy’s favorite magazine: Famous Monster’s of Film/and. A monthly publication devoted to the horror genre and its devotee’s. It was from that magazine the 8xlO, black and white stills came from that papered his wall. Of course, this sacrilege was only committed if he had enough dough to buy two copies of that month’s issue.
Once a month, Billy would bike over ten miles to the only newsstand in town that carried Famous Monsters. The magazine’s covers were nearly worth the one dollar price tag alone! With their blood-dripping font, they featured a different monster every month. The classics, such as Universal’s Creature Quartet: Frankenstein’s monster, Dracula, the Wolfman, and the Mummy-played respectively by Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney Jr., and the great Karloff once again-were usually sure bets to grace the cover. And all had found their rightful place on Billy’s wall. But lately, the great imitators at Hammer Studios-in England, of all places-were taking their bloody turns as well.
Christopher Lee-who in Billy’s opinion was the greatest Dracula of all time- stared down at Billy from his spot on the wall. His blood-smeared mouth was open, lips curled back to reveal two razor sharp fangs, which were ready to plunge into the neck of the next available virgin. But if a virgin weren’t about, an eight-year old boy would do in a pinch, Billy supposed.
He pulled his Spiderman sheet up to his chin and tore his eyes from the hypnotic gaze of the Dark Prince. He quickly passed over the color pictorial featuring a scene from The War of the Worlds—those weird Martian dudes, with their long rubbery fingers, really freaked Billy out-and tried to focus his sleepy eyes on the relatively benign countenance of the greatest monster of all time: the undead creation of Baron Von Frankenstein. Boris Karloff’s gentle interpretation of course, not the remorseless creature Christopher Lee played in the Terror of Frankenstein.
A feeling of overwhelming Deja vu swept over Billy just as he closed his eyes to go back to sleep. His eyes snapped open and he sat up in bed once again. Over in the bathroom, the shadows still played eerily across the cold tile floor.
”I’ve seen this before,” he muttered softly.
He reached over and picked up his wind up Mickey Mouse alarm clock from the night-side table. Mickey’s glow in the dark hands told Billy that it was nearly twelve o’clock. He &owned as he set the clock back down. Feels like it should be later, he thought, as he reached for the pull chain on his bedside lamp. Nothing. The bulb must’ve burned out, he reasoned. But the feeling that he had already been through this before grew ever stronger.
He was swinging his feet from out of the covers when he heard a sound that made his balls shrivel up into a tiny wrinkled sack. Plink, plink, plop, it went. The wind outside had settled down and the house was deathly still, except for the strange dripping noise, which now seemed amplified for the lack of outside noise. He quickly discounted the idea that it might be a leaky faucet or showerhead.
Plink, plink, plop.
No, the sound was coming from in front of the bathroom window. Besides, what- ever was dripping had a viscous quality to it, like maple syrup or.. .the feeling of deja vu became more pronounced, and a tangible sense of anxiety was playing along the hairs on the back of his neck.
Plink, plink, plop.
What the heck was that? He took a deep breath and tried to reign in his emotions. It’s probably the toilet making that noise, he told himself. Just go in there and jiggle the handle and it’ll stop.
Another shadow flickered across the bathroom floor. I sure wish the wind would stop shaking that tree... it hit Billy like a punch in the gut that the wind had stopped. Then what made the shadows move?
Plink, plink, plop.
Another movement of shadow followed the dripping. Billy quickly drew his legs back under the sheets and pulled them tight to his quivering jaw. The bathroom was shaped like an L, with the toilet being hidden ftom view at the end. He squinted into the darkness, as his eyes began to adjust to the night. By the faint moonlight coming through the window in there he could just make out the tiled wall where it turned the corner.
Plink, plink, plop.
It would be so easy for somebody to hide back there, he thought, as his pupils drank in all the available light. Then when 1 go to use the toilet... Oh, great! Why’d you have to think about that Einstein? Now J really do have to go!
Plink, plink, plop,
Okay, this is really creeping me out. Maybe 1 should call mom, he thought, but immediately dismissed that idea. Eight years old was too darn old to be calling for your mommy! She really would make him tear down his pictures then! No, he’d just have to turn on all the lights in the hall and bathroom. That would make it go away. The shadow returned.
Plink, plink, plop.
The combination of the two nearly caused Billy to cry out in fear. The shadow moved again. it almost looked like...he shook the disturbing image from his mind. He couldn’t have seen that I Billy knew that if you stared into the dark long enough you could make yourself imagine anything. He took a fortifying breath and once again swung his feet from under the protection of his covers. Usually when he got up in the middle of the night he worried about something grabbing his legs from underneath his bed (the Creature from the Black Lagoon sometimes hid underneath there) but all thoughts at the moment were on the dripping monster in his bathroom.
Plink, plink, plop.
Billy got out of bed and swayed there for a moment on shaking knees. The shadow was moving again, but he kept his eyes pointed on the light-switch on the wall beside his bedroom door. If he could just turn on that light he was sure it would chase the bogeys away. Besides, staring at the switch kept his mind from visualizing what he thought he’d seen.
Plink, plink, plop.
His bare feet felt like blocks of ice on the hardwood floor of his room. (Where was that draft coming from?) He slowly tiptoed across the floor-as if that might fool a bogeyman-until he was standing by the door to his room. An STP motor oil sticker glowed on the wall just above the light-switch. The mundane memory of putting the sticker up somehow bucked him up and he reached for the switch. He flipped it six times before he realized the power was down. Either that or the overhead bulb was out too. But that was too much of a coincidence.
Plink, plink, plop.
Then again, someone could have cut the power by killing the switches in the breaker box upstairs in the kitchen. Billy stepped out in the hall and was about to run upstairs to his mother’s room-screw being too old, right now all he wanted was to smell the Noxzema on his mommy while she hugged him tight-when the shadow caught his attention.
Plink, plink, plop.
From where he was standing, Billy could clearly see the end of the bathroom wall where it turned into the corner. In the darkness a hand waved up and down from behind the corner. Billy opened his mouth to scream but nothing came out. He faintly felt the hot urine as it splashed down the front of his Scooby Doo pajamas, running down his legs and warming his ice cold feet. But his piss hitting the hardwood floor still couldn’t block out the immutable dripping.
Plink, plink, plop.
It was too dark to make out any features on the hand, but Billy knew without a doubt that he wasn’t imagining it. The hand moved deliberately in an up and down motion, as if waving hello to him. A cold draft coming down the hall made Billy aware that a door or window was open somewhere in the house to the elements outside. That IS how it got in.
A giggle from the bathroom turned his blood to ice.
”Hee-hee-heel” followed by the interminable, plink, plink, plop.
A gust of wind outside slammed the open door shut with a loud bang. Billy screamed and ran for the questionable safety of his bed. He pulled the covers over his head, but the muffled sound of the bogeyman’s laughter made him realize his mistake. Why hadn’t he run upstairs to his mother? His bed would be no sanctuary from the monster in his bathroom! Spiderman wouldn’t leap from his covers to save him, nor would his monsters come down from his wall to rescue him.
Plink, plink, plop.
If only he could turn on a light! The light always vanquished the bogeymen! Suddenly, Billy remembered his Boy Scout flashlight tucked away in the drawer of his night-side table. He yanked the drawer open-nearly pulling it all the way out-and rummaged through the mess of boy-stuff he kept in there. Past the loose marbles that rolled and clattered, past the useless slinky with the bent wire, and past his nearly complete collection of the Planet of the Apes trading cards, to get to the flashlight that was shaped like a periscope.
Plink, plink, plop.
He frantically pointed the light at the bathroom and slid the on switch up but nothing happened. From the tiled” floor of the bathroom, Billy heard the distinctive sound of a footstep. Then another, followed by the unearthly giggling. “Hee-hee-hee!”
Plink, plink, plop.
Everything was louder now. Billy realized he’d taken the batteries out of the flashlight so they wouldn’t corrode; they were also in the same drawer. The bogeyman took another two steps towards him. He could feel the lengthening shadow of the monster as it crawled across the floor and into Billy’s room. Billy refused to look up though; for he knew to look in the monsters eyes would be the end of him.
Plink, plink, plop.
Trying to ignore the now booming sound of the dripping, Billy scrambled around inside the drawer until he came up with the batteries. The slow and methodical footsteps towards him, and the insane giggles, which accompanied them, weren’t nearly as awful to Billy as the intolerable dripping though. There was something altogether evil and potentially earth-shattering about the otherwise innocuous sound.
Plink, plink, plop!
Billy didn’t want to see the cause of the dripping, but the light was his one lone hope. His mother couldn’t help him now. She didn’t believe in bogeymen and wouldn’t see the monster until he was on top of her. His father couldn’t help him; he had died when Billy was but a baby. But the light.. .yes, the light could save him! If only he could correctly insert the batteries into the flashlight in time. Was positive up or down?!
PLINK, PLINK, PLOP!
The dripping was nearly deafening now, making it difficult for Billy to focus on the task at hand. It’s up stupid! Up! He slammed the batteries home, nearly dropped the screw on top, and finally spun it on. The monster was almost out of the bathroom now, Billy could hear its ragged breathing and throaty laughter, as it approached him. The thing’s shadow now fell over him like a lion over a lamb.
PLINK, PLINK, PLOP!
Still refusing to look up into the eyes of the monster, Billy instead pointed the flashlight at the creature’s feet and, with trembling fingers, flicked on the light. He had known the thing was near, but was unprepared for just how close. It was standing in the doorway of his bedroom, not ten feet away. There was no sigh of relief though when the light came on, spotlighting the worn work-boots. Monsters and bogeymen didn’t wear boots, so naturally the light didn’t banish the creature back to hell, from whence it had come.
Plink, plink, plop.
The volume inside Billy’s head became muted as he realized for the first time in his young life that some things in this world are far, far worse than the horrors of make believe. He watched in stunned terror as a thick, red liquid dripped on the intruder’s boot three times in succession.
Plink, plink, plop.
Quiet. Billy’s world had become deathly quite, as all of his senses became narrowly focused on the scarlet splashed boot. The only clamor now was of his own terror driven breath; loud and violent, as it hammered his eardrums. The toe of one scuffed work-boot was covered in the crimson stuff. Blood, Billy’s mind numbly corrected him. It’s blood
Plink, plink, plop.
His bladder released the remaining fluid left in it, but Billy was beyond caring. Even his hands had stopped shaking. Death was at hand. He slowly panned the flashlight up the madman’s legs. The crazed intruder made no further attempt to enter Billy’s room for the moment, but seemed satisfied with standing in the circle of light. It was as if the man wanted Billy to witness something before...
Plink, plink, plop.
The source of the dripping, it had been in the man’s hand the whole time, dripping blood on his left boot at regular intervals like a leaky faucet. Billy’s eyes flew wide at the cause of the dripping. He could literally feel his mind begin to bend toward the snapping point and idly wondered, so this is what it feels like when you go mad?
Plink, plink, plop!
The volume had returned to Billy’s world with a thunderous crash. He blinked in confusion as his flashlight finally found the face of the murderer. The face of a creature more terrifying than any monster featured in his favorite magazine. The face of a man. His mother’s murderer. The killer, with hair wild, and eyes red, tossed the severed head at Billy. The head, his mothers head—oh dear God, his mother’s head!—turned end over end, flinging a parabolic splatter of blood across his room from the ragged flesh and bone jutting out from his mother’s neck.
Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat, went the blood, as it painted an abstract of madness on Billy’s floor and ceiling.
He felt a warm drop hit his face as the head fell heavily onto his lap. His mother’s final look of horror was frozen on her face at the moment of death. She seemed to stare up at Billy, imploring him to run, but Billy was gone. Whether it was his mother’s head falling into his lap, or the warm spatter of her blood on his cheek, or the once comforting aroma of Noxzema that now filled Billy’s nostrils, his mind had finally, and mercifully snapped.
He didn’t hear the monster (A real monster, mind you, not the sort you tore from your favorite magazine and taped to your wall. Real monsters went by the names of Ted, or Jeffery, and even John Wayne.) laugh loudly as it approached him.
But he felt its shadow descend upon him.

Billy sat up like a shot in his sweat soaked bed. Perspiration oozed from every pore, though it was a chilly October night. Was that a draft he felt coming from the hall? He tried to remember what the nightmare had been about, but all he got were meaningless fragments.
It was just a dream, he told himself, as he brought his breathing under control. A sound coming from the bathroom across from Billy’s bathroom made his heart resume the race. And as a foreboding sense of deja vu washed over him, Billy had a curious thought. What’s worse, being trapped in a nightmarish reality or a dream that never ends? Or was there any difference at all?
Plink, plink, plop...

Sunrise Confuses Day One

1939: EVICTION DAY

IN THE PUBLIC SQUARE

Exfoliation

A SPECIAL BLUE HOUSE WITH VELVET RESTRICTIONS

Another American Night

so many lies

by colin madison

Essay on a News Report (67)

Scrubbing the Juicer

Sense of Urgency

GREED

The next stop light or pause light as I call it, stop me good momentum, to allow fat, money grubbing state power executives to break into traffic the moment they reach the end of their drive ways. Suddenly, the light turns red, and an expensive car paid for by my power bill money, rolls out through the screeching tires , and angry faces. When the working people’s revolution happens there people’s homes, cars and playthings will be melted down to base cash value, and shared with all people, by the form of a check in the mail. I work my health down to a few sighs, a breath, a wrenched back (it took me fifteen minutes to put my underwear and pants on); I had to sink money into aspirins to control the pain. Later, I locked my bike and helmet to a bike rack. As I walk to the library to check my e-mail, a man asked me,
“Can you help me with a little change.”
“I was thinking about asking you the same question.”
He looked at the faces to two retro-hippies coming behind me. They emptied their pockets into his plastic cup, and walked off.
Somehow, either side of the situation didn’t seem fair. Maybe, sometimes, I’ll give him some change. It’s the rent for me each month that’s a worry.

The Book of Matthew

His entire body trembled right along with the tremors of the train. He seemed to hang suspended, crucified and Christ-like as both hands clung to the metal pole above his head. He tried to stay focused, his head jerking back and forth like a weathervane, his body whipping side to side, obediently following every snap of the subway. At that moment he was one with the train. He wasn’t thinking about work or his brother whom he was on his way to see. No busy streets, bustling passersby, lights blaring like a summer carnival, saxophonist carrying on like he’s Miles Davis in the next car over. No thoughts, no frantic Penthouse fantasies playing out as the hot blond chick enters no worries about what mom would say if she saw his rough tired eyes. No thoughts, no noise. Quiet. His mind was empty, focused entirely on every jerk of the subway rushing through him filling his lungs with the rich taste of oxygen.
A man came crawling towards him. He looked Casey right in the eye. His clothes were all torn up and Casey could see through the man’s torn pants to the open wounds, red and sticky, like a fine wine glazed over an animal carcass. Casey strained to make out his features but everything blurred. He stopped in front of Casey and dropped to the ground in one soft eloquent motion that stumbled into eternity. There was no struggle, no frantic last-ditch effort; he simply collapsed dutifully, quietly, like a mother bowing out after baseball practice. Casey watched reverently as the man’s chest began to convulse, calm itself and then simply stop. A moment so still, so precious, Casey couldn’t help but stare. His job as a journalist had taken him into many dangerous situations. He had seen men go down in showers of gunfire and crowds trampled in protests gone bad. But they had all struggled, were all taken by surprise unlike this man who simply gave in.
Casey jerked forward suddenly, his head rushed back as he took one swift breath. His hands were red and his clenched fist had left an indent in the side of his face. It was almost time to go home when he awoke with a start to find himself alone in his office surrounded by papers and memo pads. He had been researching an article for the morning news when he had fallen asleep. He tried to go back to work but his mind just wouldn’t focus. He kept watching the man stop, just stop in front of him and then that was it. Gone. When he looked down at the sheet of paper he had been absentmindedly scribbling on he was startled to find that he had written in huge black letters, “Go see your Brother!!!”
Casey stared up at the immense stone walls of the church. He gazed intently at the bright purple and yellow stained glass windows looking down on him with heavy, disapproving eyes. Matthew greeted him warmly with a kind genuine smile. He reached out slowly, grasping his brother’s shoulders as Casey stared into his brother’s tranquil, lost boy eyes. Matthew had always been different. He had the face of a child, bright-eyed and innocent. In the summer while all the other boys were out playing Matthew would simply pace back and forth talking to himself near the front of the house. When someone would approach him Matthew would hide until his brother ushered them away. For a while Casey was convinced his brother was a zombie. “Should I call you Father?” Casey asked nervously as he scanned his brother’s attire. The black slacks and proud Roman Collar sent shivers through him.
Casey had snapped the last time he had been in a church. It was after the services had ended and everyone was up mingling. The thick stuffy air and the mass of bodies, which spoke in hushed whispers as they bent down to hug Casey, suffocated him until Casey instinctively felt he had to fight his way out. He ran for a ways until he saw Matthew the zombie child, still and submissive as ever, waiting patiently in that hot stuffy cage. A hot trembling rage suddenly ripped though Casey. “Get up and do something!” He had screamed in his brother’s face. “Run around!” He had screamed before he was ushered out. Matthew did not flinch, he stayed perfectly still throughout the assault. “He’s not my brother,” Casey had called from the open doorway of the church before his father carried him to the car and drove away with him.
“Whatever makes you comfortable,” Matthew said, shaking his brother’s hand. “It’s good to see you. I’m glad you came. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”
“What’s going on, Matthew?” Casey asked, suddenly feeling foolish that his dream had seemed so important up until a few moments ago.
“Do you remember that tennis match your senior year, the one when they stopped the match for a few minutes because the ball retriever got sick on the court? You stood in the sun a while and watched a moth walk by you as you waited for the game to resume.”
That had been Casey’s last big tennis tournament of his senior year. He had been standing off to the side, clutching the fences as the heat pressed against his soaking wet t-shirt, when a large Monarch butterfly had caught his eye. He observed it for several moments before it stopped dead in its tracks on the baking concrete courts. After a while Casey lightly tapped the Monarch with his racquet. The crisp brown bug did not flinch and finally crumpled like dry parchment against his racquet.
“I never told you about the bug,” Casey began. In fact he had made it a point to tell his brother as little as possible while growing up. “But now that I think of it I had a dream like that a little while ago.”
“Things bother you that don’t bother other people,” Matthew said suddenly, as if he had been trying for several minutes to change the subject. “I want you to think about the world from now on, Casey.”
“What do you mean, think about the world? Don’t you like my brand of journalism?”
“I didn’t mean it like that at all. I just think that…I just know that if you thought about the world for a little while you’d see something bigger than what they see. There are messages sent through the universe all the time and it doesn’t take a man of the cloth to understand them. There’s something inside you, brother. Remember when they found out the Attorney General was stealing public funds? You saw that before anyone did and broke the case.”
“That doesn’t mean a thing, Matthew. There’s nothing inside me, I just know how to follow my gut.”
“Yes, you follow your gut. I follow my gut too, but my gut didn’t tell me that if you tear up housing downtown it would lead to a mass exodus.”
“No, Matthew, my brain told me that, now get off my case.”
“No one else’s brain told them that. Then why did it happen anyway?”
“I think you should visit Mom more,” Casey stated defensively changing the subject. His brother’s naivetŽ had begun to get to him. Matthew looked hurt.
“You should visit Mom tonight, Casey. She’s going to need you soon.”
The water felt cool and fresh upon his face as Casey twirled around near the bottom of the pond. The mud squished slowly between his toes. It clung to his feet like the thick paste on the walls of their new house. Casey was five years old. He was full of pent-up energy from the long drive into town from the city and ran straight for the pond the moment he was let out of the car. His older brother followed timidly behind, bashfully dipping his feet into the icy cold water. It took a while to get Matthew to swim, but once he was in Matthew seemed at home.
“They turned off the phones last week, that’s why I haven’t called you,” Casey’s mother said as she put out a cigarette. “It’s nice to see you, though. I would have called when you moved back to town but the phone was off. So, how’s work been?”
“Work’s been fine. Here, Mom, take my cell, just in case there’s an emergency,” Casey said as he casually tossed the phone to his mother underhand. “I’ll get your phone back up as soon as I can. You should have come to see me. I could have fixed this.”
“I’m doing all right. It’s nice that you came to see me, though. I haven’t heard from you since you got that big promotion at the station.”
“Things have been pretty crazy there lately. They’ve been sending me all over the place, but that should settle down soon.”
“That’s good to hear. It’ll be nice having you back; perhaps now I’ll have some company around here.”
“Of course, Mom,” Casey said as he took his mother’s hand. “What about Matthew, Mom. Has he been around? ‘Cause he’s been acting kind of strange.”
His mother stared at him for a moment with worried, questioning eyes. “You think he’s acting weird. How would you know?” she asked angrily, throwing his cell phone at him with a tired, lifeless arm. Suddenly Casey’s mother fell forward. She hit the floor with a thump as Casey rushed to catch her. “Call a doctor!” She cried. He dialed 911 with his cell and stayed by her side until the ambulance came.
Casey gazed down at a timeline he had written out in the waiting room of the hospital. His mother had had a mild heart attack and would be in surgery for some time. While he waited Casey began a timeline chronicling every major event that had happened from the end of World War One to the present. “I want you to think about the world from now on, Casey.” He then clumped together the events directly before and after a war and compared them to the events going on in the world. The terrorist attacks, the small “invasions” and civil wars suddenly came together like the pieces of a giant cosmic puzzle. “There’s gonna be a war soon,” Casey pondered mater-of-factly.
All of a sudden the television caught his attention as Charles, a collogue from work began a report. “Breaking news, there has just been a deal struck overseas which will allow certain hostages to go free in exchange for classified information dealing with the arms programs implemented elsewhere.”
“Nuclear weapons,” Casey whispered as he stared down at the information before him. “There’s going to be a war and its going to bring about an unprecedented spread of nuclear weapons.” Suddenly a vision of two men in black suits shaking hands against a backdrop of rows upon rows of dark green missiles flashed before him. The weapons were endless; they went on forever in a march of power and order. And then he saw chaos. And then he saw black. Casey began to shake uncontrollably as he ran out of the hospital and into the flashing New York night. The streets seemed to be calling him. He could feel his feet pounding across the concrete as New York City lay sprawled out before him.
“Remember when you were little and I used to tell you stories while we were swimming in the pond?” Matthew asked as he let Casey into the church.
“Do you have a room or something, a place where you live where we could talk?”
“I live here,” Matthew responded as if Casey should know better. “Remember Cassandra? She was Apollo’s lover. She was just a mortal woman until Apollo blessed her with the gift of foresight granting her vision into the future. But after Cassandra left Apollo he tried to take her foresight away. When he realized he couldn’t he decided to curse her another way, by making it so that no one would ever believe her when she predicted things. Cassandra foresaw wars and traitors, she even saw her own death and the deaths of those she loved but there was nothing she could do to stop it because no one ever believed her.”
“Matthew, Mom’s in the hospital. Her phone had been turned off and she had a heart attack while I was with her. She needed me, just like you said.”
“Nothing she could do to stop it cause no one believed her,” Matthew seemed a bit angry as he repeated the last lines of his story. There was a glare in his tranquil blue eyes Casey had never seen before. “But seriously, I’m glad you were there for her. Obviously if you’re here she must be all right.”
“We’ll see. She’s still in surgery, but the doctors said it looks good. Still, it would be nice if you came back with me.”
“She’ll see me later,” Matthew replied reverently.
“What kind of priest are you? You won’t even see your own mother after she has a heart attack?” Casey asked, infuriated.
“Do whatever it is you need to do. We’re at a threshold, Casey, and you can see it. You know something’s going to happen.”
“I highly doubt that I have any control over what goes on in the world. You need to be thinking about your mother, not Cassandra the prophetess.”
“Most people need cameras and flashing lights in order to figure out what’s going on. Most people see only what is spoon fed to them. No one will believe the country’s planning on getting into a corrupt war unless it’s spelled out in nice, neat, easy to understand phrases. Not even when it’s too late.”
“Yeah, well what are you going to do? I don’t have a spoon. Now, common Matthew, come with me to go see Mom. She should be out soon. She needs us.”
“No, she needs you. You go to her.”
Matthew slipped when he started splashing with his brother in the pond. His feet slid with the thick slippery mud and he flew backwards as Casey rushed to the other side of the pond to catch a frog. He didn’t see that his brother had hit a rock. He didn’t notice that Matthew never came up for air. It wasn’t until he heard his mother’s screaming that Casey realized something was wrong.
“I need to talk to you,” Casey’s mother said as she clasped his hand. Her face was pasty, covered with a thin film of sweat, and the harsh fluorescent light reflected a sickly yellow glow upon her face.
“Its okay, we don’t need to talk about him,” Casey said as he grasped his mother’s hand.
“You haven’t spoken of your brother in seventeen years. You were so young when it happened and after your outburst at the church you completely denied his existence altogether. We took you to doctor after doctor but they only made things worse for you. You just stopped accepting that he was ever real. You told me I was crazy for making up an older brother you never had. Perhaps we shouldn’t have given up so quickly, but it was just easier to let you believe nothing had happened.”
“What are you talking about? My brother lives in a church and thinks I’m a prophet.” It was as if the subway tunnel was closing in on him and the bright lights of the city were becoming closer and closer, coming at him like a bullet on a battlefield. All at once Casey could see his brother, splashing with him inside the pond. He saw his brother, cold and stiff lying inside a box of blue silk. He looked like wax sculpture all nice and neat in a black suit with neatly folded hands. “That’s not my brother,” Casey had said as his mother tried to explain to him why Matthew looked so still. “My brother doesn’t look like that.”
“Honey, what happened? What made you think of your brother after all this time? Maybe it’s being back home?”
Casey looked hard at his mother. He stared her down John Wayne style as she lay in her bed. She looked weak and frail for the very first time. “He’s not my brother,” Casey said slowly and then bolted out the door.
Casey spent the night at the station, working on a piece that had to be in for the evening news. His hands shook as he took notes. They felt like ice, his entire body felt frozen solid. He couldn’t write a thing and so finally he closed his eyes. He began to see pictures of men in battles, still-life’s of crisp uniforms laid out on blue cotton sheets. Casey looked down at the sheet of paper in front of him and realized he had been writing again.
“You’re a little young, don’t you think?” Casey’s station manager said to him the next day.
“Yes, but I’ve done so much for you already. I’m the one who tore the lid off the Credence Case. I exposed the Fillmore scandal on a hunch and figured out how to get into the mayor’s office for an interview. I get the most fan mail. Our audience loves me.”
“I could send you overseas, kid, but there’s really not much going on over there right now. Just a few civil disturbances and that new treaty they just signed. I don’t understand why you want to be over there right now when there’s so much more going on right here.”
Casey laughed. All of a sudden it seemed ridiculous that his boss couldn’t see it. “Something’s going to happen soon. I want to be there when it goes down.”
“Well, kid, I can’t say I believe you but I’d like to prove you wrong anyway. Are you sure you’re up to the challenge? You’ll be overseas for a long time.”
“I have a hunch, sir. I think you should let me go with it.”
“Look kid, I don’t want you doing anything crazy over there, or saying anything stupid or miscalculated, you understand?”
“Yes, sir. I’m fully aware of the consequences.”
“Alright. You’re damn lucky we need your face on that screen no matter where it’s coming from. Be careful over there. We can’t lose our best reporter.”
War had come sooner than expected. It caught everyone off-guard. Casey gazed out at the battlefield. It seemed as barren and dry as the biblical wasteland where Cain slew his brother. Soldiers ran about him hurriedly, their tanks following in slow pursuit. The sun baked down upon the desert. It was a harsh sun, a bully sun unlike the soft Connecticut rays he had felt as a child. America entered the war a couple of months after Casey arrived. Bombs went off every few minutes, but he paid little attention to them. He just wanted it to fade away. He didn’t want to stop anything anyway.
Casey glanced over the notes he had been taking. He had given up on investigative journalism one morning and had begun sending his boss bad poetry and jumbled journal entries in the middle of a war. “I have truly been dying since the day I was born. The headaches are real, the dizziness is never psychosomatic. All of it’s a death march. Isn’t there always a possibility that my head could explode? Perhaps I’ve already passed and I’m experiencing memory now in some kind of flash. A three hundred and sixty degree tunnel just pulling us in at a million miles per hour. Perhaps right now, we’re just rushing through our memories. No wonder everything seems to go by so fast. As I get older it all seems to fly by quicker, like it’s going into overdrive. Maybe the plane’s going down, or the air supply’s lessening. I wonder what it feels like, this heavy moment with its heavy air and heavy thoughts circling about like a mid-western tornado. The universe, it’s got me, just like it got my brother. I can feel it all around me, in tiny whispers and roaring waves…it’s like thunder.”
The rains came down about the same time the gunfire began. Bullets intersected the pouring rain, they flew through the atmosphere like a train in a subway tunnel headed for the bright lights of New York City. The ground seemed to cave under him as Casey fell to his knees, his head spinning. His legs slid through the earth as he tried to move himself out of the shower of gunfire. His legs were numb and heavy, it was no use to try and stand. Slowly Casey fell forward. The mud felt like a blanket against his skin. It covered his lips and climbed up his nose. He laid there for several moments with his fists clenched, his mind racing as his legs struggled briefly to be free of the grasp the thick heavy mud had on him as he sunk further down. Suddenly he could feel the quick sharp tremors of the subway, the bright blue saxophone notes spraying him with cosmic vibrations, the lights flashing walk/don’t walk as he watched his brother slide slowly beneath the water. It all came together, colliding in a mesh of molecules, sound waves permeating his skin, colors blinding him through the darkness. It was all so busy, pointless and real as his breathing slowly, peacefully stopped.

how I imagine you

wrong attention

a tamil translation by Howard Shindo

Coffee

The 2000 Census

see you crawl

a Kyle Mackenzie Japanese translation

The Spirit in Between

If a lion had you in its jaws I would attack it,
If the ropes binding your soul are your own wrists
I will cut them.
Sharon Olds

Up a dirt road

Lena on the Bus

Worn Out

Makes Me Love To Hate You More

Flawless

Bullets Flying

At thirty-eight years old, Kara wrestled with the noun ‘hero’ these days. She hadn’t been for the war against Iraq-thought it foolish to impose America’s democracy on another country. She knew plenty about laws and courts as a Peace and Justice Advocate lawyer; she had a father who was a General in the Army, so life in her later years was never smooth. Plus, she was the only one now who could give her parents grandchildren. Through two husbands, a career and volunteering, time didn’t permit it. Besides, the heartache of loosing her young brother years ago left her emotionally wasted.
She glanced around at the deep green walls of her family’s library. Stacks of beautifully bound books alphabetically shelved, many read and enjoyed. But, what always drug her eyes across the wall to the left of the river rock fireplace, were the many medals and snapshots of her father’s days at West Point. Also, snaps of his buddies who served with him in his young years, pictures of old historic flags and his promotion ceremonies. She leaned her head back on the soft leather chair; her small head strangling in wispy auburn hair as she thought about her life, kept at arms length.
Many young people go into the Marines, Army, Air Force, Navy and Coast Guard because they don’t want to go to college and don’t know what else to do with their lives. Or they do want to go to college but can’t afford to and know the United States will pay their way. They join a service to travel and many times never have to shoot a gun. They get paid the minimal amount, but housing, food, clothing and time to grow-up are free.
Kara heard a door open then close. A voice yelled down from the second story home where she was raised.
“Ruth, is that you? It’s about time. It’s sixteen-hundred. I need a pain pill.”
Her father was still giving orders and treating them like soldiers, even though he was dying of prostate cancer.
“I’ll get it mom,” her voice loud as she jumped up and went into the kitchen.
“Hi Kara,” mom said, giving her a smile as she put the grocery sacks on the table. “Has he been awake long?”
“I didn’t hear a thing. I rested when he did. He must have just woken up or I would have heard him. How was the bridge game?”
“Oh Honey, I’m so glad you came and stayed with your father so I could leave for awhile. I enjoyed seeing my friends again and you know how much I love to play bridge.”
“No problem, mom. Oh, Mary Ellen Maffey from Hospice called and said she’d see you at ten for the in-take tomorrow.”
“Good. I’ll be here.”
“Ruth, did you forget me already?” Dad yelled. “Two women in the house and I’m still forgotten.”
“Coming daddy,” Kara said, grabbing the pain medication. She poured water into a glass from the refrigerator. “Your wish is my command, general.”
Her father was hard to talk to these past years. He was the soldier, the ‘I love America right or wrong’ guy; and she, the complete opposite. They always ran away from each other when in reality there was so much to talk about, especially the war. They were miles apart in an empty cocoon. It didn’t have to be. It wasn’t always this way.
Yet, with the war she argued with herself about the two-thousand who died September-eleventh; but at what price? How many others do we kill to make up for them?
“Daddy, would you like me to give you a backrub or read this mornings paper to you?”
Gruffly, “I’m not dying today and I read the parts of the paper I like this morning.” Then he turned his back to her and she was dismissed.
“Here’s your pain pill.” She left it and the water on his bed stand. This little power play drove her up the wall, but she wouldn’t acknowledge it. She wanted to ease his life in some way, but saluted his backside and went downstairs looking for her mom.
She saw the light under the bathroom door, so went into the library and sat back down in the dark brown chair she loved and closed her eyes again, waiting. When her mom came and sat down by her she told her mother what was eating at her.
“Those of us in the private sector made our way also after graduation, mom. We went to colleges, universities and rambled through books and studies and classes. We had part time jobs and many lived at home. Luckier ones lived in dorms and made do with one or two people living in close proximity like I did. When we graduated we had to find jobs and it wasn’t always an easy task. We had to pay back our student loans. Dad never asked me if he could buy my books. I was thrown out to sea. I was his only child, then. I would think he could afford it, mom.”
Honey, I’m so sorry he wasn’t there for you like you wanted.”
“Thanks, but those who join the service never think they’ll be engaged in a war. So, if one comes up they’re told to be ready to be deployed. Dad just won’t see there’s other ways to look at this war besides his way. I’m feeling so frustrated. The day before dad was diagnosed with cancer we had one of our many arguments.”
“I know Honey, I’ve heard them before.”
“You men are all alike,” I said, steaming hot like a tea kettle. “Not going to the doctor for regular check-ups; your macho-career getting in the way of good health. Now you’re hurting and I hate it.”
“Well Kara, you’re right in one way. We don’t run to the doctor every few weeks like you women do. Besides, we run the country. Our men are in Iraq. We have heroes coming home in body bags to keep you women-folk safe. We don’t have to run to the doctor all the time. We have important work to do.”
“It was just like him, mom, to put women down. He hated the idea of my being a feminist. ‘If I wanted two boys I would have had them.’ He yelled. I was devastated by the comment, mom. He made my blood pressure quicken. Here I worked my butt off to get through law school and do you think he ever gave me thumbs up? Hell no.”
I yelled back, “Yea, daddy,” my voice steaming like dry ice. “The next thing you know one is killed. The young man or woman is now a hero. They gave their life for their country. But who says just because they’re doing their job-the job they signed up for, they are Americas heroes?”
“Kara, watch what you say, here. Your uncle Karl gave his life in the Korean War for you and all other Americans. His blood poured out on the battle field. You bet he was a hero. Sometimes you disgrace me with your words. You went wrong somewhere, Kara-terribly wrong.”
“No, daddy, teachers, students, firemen, actors, parents and just plain others working in their line of work aren’t called heroes if they’re killed by a robber during a bank heist or by a drunken driver. But, we turn those in the service into heroes just for showing up. Not because they begged to fight, but because they had nowhere else to go; no skills, no nothing, but hoped life would be easy and it was a chance to get away on one’s own and see the world. I just don’t get it, dad!”
Her mom patted her hand, but got up from the couch. “I need to put the groceries away, Honey.”
Kara was agitated. Her thoughts hurled like wind, swooping in the cold dampness of life. Daddy wasn’t always like that to her. He was a sweetheart in her young years and she had him eating out of her hand. He read to her and played finger puppets at night when she was scared someone was in her room. He made hotcakes in the shapes of animals and made her laugh. It took him forever to get the food ready, but she didn’t care. After all, he was her dad.
Then when she turned thirteen and began developing he did a complete turnaround. Mom said it wasn’t about her. It was the same time her brother Josh died in a swimming pool accident at age nine. He had sneaked into the city pool two blocks from their house on a hot night, climbed over the fence and drowned. We never knew why, since he was a good swimmer. Her daddy closed up and slapped her from his fun loving ways. It seemed they turned into enemies. She missed their wonderful relationship.
There was so much grief in the house after that, she made herself invisible. She got good grades in school and sang in the church choir even though she hated it. She babysat the neighbor’s kids just to hear laughter. She had to admit she stopped being lovable, too.
She remembered coming home for the weekend once in college. Her mom and dad were relaxing after dinner, so she asked him to talk about her brother, Josh.
“What in the hell for, he’s dead. Leave it alone, Kara.” Then he knocked his chair down trying to hurry away from us. She looked at her mother, but her eyes begged Kara to understand.
“Mom, it’s been almost twenty years now. Why can’t we talk about what happened to Josh? Doesn’t he realize I hurt and miss him, too?”
Her eyes sprang a leak and she pulled me close. “We all do, Honey. I miss my son terribly. Sometimes I feel like I’ll break into little pieces if I speak his name. It’s not fair to you, but it just hurts us so much not to have him in our life any more.”
Then Kara realized how fractured the family had been since her brothers death. Love doesn’t always smooth the seam of life and hearts do break.
Each time they argued she’d leave and slam the door. They both got fired up, but now she wished she would have…could have…just stayed and met him head on. But she never did. She always chickened out. She let him take her power away. He never talked to her as an adult, so they stayed child to adult. She blamed herself as she was a red hot ember that never cooled, so she was more like her dad than she wanted to admit. She wasn’t a shrinking violet in court or on the job though. Her temper kept her sharp, but she couldn’t argue with her own father.
The night of his death his wife of forty-four years and daughter stayed close by his side, gently wiping his face with a cool cloth and holding his hand. They spoke softly with remembrances of old times. Only once his eyes opened. He stared longingly at his wife and slowly his head turned to Kara. Haltinly, laboring with whispered breath he said. “Give ‘em hell, honey,” and his eyes closed for the last time. The sobbing daughter fell apart.
Major General Ross Edward Morrisy died last Friday. He had a four star funeral attended by many hash marked individuals with impeccable uniforms and highly polished boots. His wife and daughter sat front and center at his funeral. As Kara watched the sad, stark ceremony she heard a close friend of her fathers talk about his beginnings.
“Over forty years he spent in the Army. Not because he had to, but because he loved the rules and traditions and American spirit and the democratic way of life. He was apple pie and all it meant growing up on a homestead in Wyoming as the oldest of six boys. From poverty he excelled to be a major general and we’ll deeply miss him.”
Yes, she thought through shimmering tears, he was one who went in the service to be taken care of and for him it worked. It really did. She lost it though, when the bugle played taps. She was proud of her father, but her blue tears only wanted the one thing he stopped giving her. She just needed-no, wanted back-more of his sweet loving heart.

Fever

Maybe That Is Enough

Gurmukhi translation by Carter Donovan

Pinioned

DES

in the room

a Gujarti translation by Sloane Emerson

Making Sense Out Of The Insane

know how the truth is

Ashes to Ashes

by Nicole Aimee Macaluso

even after 32 years

Woman, art by Dr. Deborah FerBer

I have my dreams