Table of Contents

poetry

(the passionate stuff)

performance art

(show “Erasure Poems” 4/1/16 National Poetry Month)

prose

(the meat & potatoes stuff)

lunchtime poll topic

(commentaries on relevant topics)

Forbidden

bright & shining soul

just when i thought the dust was
settled
it gets kicked up again,
but i don’t fear
the past;
sometimes it’s integral to look back
to see where the wounds began
in order to prevent
them from
happening again—
you always jump into my veins
when i need a reprieve from
nightmares,
and i don’t know why you’re still haunting
my memory like a ghost
when you said that we ought to be strangers;
how come you’re the one that gets
to forget while i remember
everything?
i am always the one that loves and cares more,
but i am sick of bleeding from these wounds;
i am repulsed that i even remember
our escapades together
wish i could escape the reality of us
sew myself back together
in happier times
my smile hasn’t been the same since you shattered
pieces of me i’ll never get back,
but maybe it’s better
to have rose tinted glasses shattered
so the shine can come from within with more
truth and light.

Linda M. Crate Bio

    Linda M. Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. Her poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She has three published chapbooks: A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn (Fowlpox Press - June 2013) and Less Than A Man (The Camel Saloon - January 2014), and If Tomorrow Never Comes (Scars Publications, August 2016). Her fantasy novel Blood & Magic was published in March 2015. The second novel of this series Dragons & Magic was published in October 2015. Her third novel Centaurs & Magic was published November 2016.

clean up your own mess

you shouldn’t even be here
because you have
a thousand things to hide,
but i am done
with men with masks;
i am done with you haunting
my memories
because you asked to be a stranger
not a ghost
better learn your place—
wolves can turn on anyone so they’ve
told me to forgive myself,
but it’s hard;
why would i trust a wolf?
maybe i thought you liked my song,
but like the fox;
you only sought to steal the bread of the
lady raven
so now i am on guard
won’t let you anywhere near my heart—
i hate the way my heart leapt into
my throat when i saw you
again
or the way our eyes met for a mere split
second at her wedding or the way
it bothers me that you married the woman you
cheated on me with because it’s not
as if you’re some prize or sex god or anyone
to mourn,
but my heart has always loved
unconditionally;
i forgave all of you in spite of me—
to be honest, though, i just wish you’d leave
for a stranger you’ve left more than
enough jam on the table
at the very least
clean up your own damn messes.

Linda M. Crate Bio

    Linda M. Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. Her poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She has three published chapbooks: A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn (Fowlpox Press - June 2013) and Less Than A Man (The Camel Saloon - January 2014), and If Tomorrow Never Comes (Scars Publications, August 2016). Her fantasy novel Blood & Magic was published in March 2015. The second novel of this series Dragons & Magic was published in October 2015. Her third novel Centaurs & Magic was published November 2016.

run, boy, run

you better run
have had enough
of being the
bigger person
will shatter you down
to your core
with my sword
my weapon of choice has
always been my heart and my tongue
the agent of destruction,
and i’m done simply
turning the other
cheek;
you hurt me in ways no man ever has
before and took from me things
no other man will ever be
able to—
married the woman you cheated with me
on,
and i can’t make sense of these tea leaves
the readings seem so
unclear;
maybe ask your woman
i heard that she’s a wicked witch
she might know
what this all
means—
next time i won’t bless you with silence
you will feel the thorns of these rosebud lips
will never surrender my soul to a devil
like you
will only expose you for the fraud
you are
so you better run boy and never stop
because when i find you
you’ll be fodder for the forest animals.

Linda M. Crate Bio

    Linda M. Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. Her poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She has three published chapbooks: A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn (Fowlpox Press - June 2013) and Less Than A Man (The Camel Saloon - January 2014), and If Tomorrow Never Comes (Scars Publications, August 2016). Her fantasy novel Blood & Magic was published in March 2015. The second novel of this series Dragons & Magic was published in October 2015. Her third novel Centaurs & Magic was published November 2016.

i am the lone wolf

some people always search
for a reason of
complaint,
and i am tired of reaching for the
stars to find myself with singed
fingers
all for the sake of helping
others;
i am done crucifying myself for anyone
not anyone’s messiah—
if they lack imagination or talent then
let them flounder
because when i need help they’ve all left me
without lifeboats
maybe they need to taste the salt water
feel the fear of being sung to by
sirens,
and maybe then they could build up a fraction
of the strength i have;
but something tells me they’d only seek someone else
to help them because not everyone
can be a lone wolf—
i refuse to be anything less than a hundred proof
from now on,
and if they can’t take it;
let them suffer my void in their lives.

Linda M. Crate Bio

    Linda M. Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. Her poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She has three published chapbooks: A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn (Fowlpox Press - June 2013) and Less Than A Man (The Camel Saloon - January 2014), and If Tomorrow Never Comes (Scars Publications, August 2016). Her fantasy novel Blood & Magic was published in March 2015. The second novel of this series Dragons & Magic was published in October 2015. Her third novel Centaurs & Magic was published November 2016.

Something Definite About This Article (“and”)

In German, that’s
“Und”,
Begs memory of a buddy
Watching a bootleg German broadcast I had
Of a fight,
Commenting on the fact of knowing
When the “’black’ trunks fighter”
Was referred to,
As he knew the German word
For “black”,
Which begs memory of listening to a tape
Of a buddy
Who had an “opera” phase after he saw
Amadeus,
And his attempt to enjoy Wagner
Trying to figure out the plot,
Every once in awhile, a valkyrie belting out,
“Ja!”,
And him thinking,
“Ah! She’s saying, ‘yes’!”,
Things like the two Above examples
Begging memory of George Dubya coining,
“They hate us for our freedom!”
Noooooo, that’s not the reason, Dubs

CEEmics Cavalcade: Hugger Orange
shatters the bones of a certain harlequin
who shall remain nameless

It was easy to break the bones
It shouldn’t have been that easy
This winkie-party-thing is supposed to be able to
Take a punch
Take a kick
Take a train in the chest
Or all manner of bullets
Or, maybe I got that wrong,
Maybe she’s just great at Not being touched
Let alone you shatter her arms in eight places
Apiece
Then string her in midair, paper doll as marionette
The goof-trickster-chick’s scream stuck
One a’ those things ending with
A big sloppy asterisk
And maybe a double hyphen
Then, the fantasy dancing girl party cake playing card
Well, she went limp
And she hung from my hands, in midair
I shook her
Jiggled her
Like King Kong would jiggle the things he killed
Disappointed
Always sorry and sad
It IS sorry, it is so
You kill something all the way
You can’t kill it, anymore

CREEPY #48
(reprinted from issue #38)

I remember there was this
Spook-space story
Where they land on a planet
And everyone melts
Into some mass consciousness of
One big ooze of whatever,
Or, something like that, I forget, exactly
But, what I remember
Is the hero and babe astronauts
Having this “excited realization” conversation
As they’re melting,
Still babbling the bullshit away
Even to the point they’ve oozed away
Into Gahan Wilson monsters,
And I found the story freaky and gross
Because, hey, homes, it was a Warren pub,
But, mainly, their excitobabble
Pissed me off
Which is the same feeling I get
From the genders, here, in The West,
Still playing parliamentary procedure
What each demands, each expects,
Dealbreaking with SpaceTime
Melting away
All alone

Gonna Gitch Ye (Apt. E)

1983
I was young
I had It
You were a rural trailer park
Aliens had made into a person
Heard you hoping
Every day I lived next door
Breath, at night, past our wall
The kind of sound one sees,
Thank God for the mystic artifact
Forged perhaps, in breadlines
Perhaps, in Catskill summers
My salvation, my apocryphal cop out
Known today only in legend, as
A 3-month lease

Or Torpor

“Is that all you want from me?”

No
I don’t want even that
I want to sit with toy soldiers and
Antiquarian books on populism, lost in
CD singles, extended singles, import singles
Dance remix singles, radio promo singles
Dreaming of Tommy Tutone days
I wanted at least ‘that’ and dreamed
I wanted more,
Just to sit here, to pour a meaningful
Delusion                of grandeur
Delusion                Is The Actual Term
It’s over, any part valued
That shallow only, ever
Its tin mirage value, and so it remains
So
No
I don’t want a thing from you
Anything at all
Maybe fresh ice for my Dew
Nectar of the gods

By The Sea

    Arching its neck over the undulating highway to feed from the other side, an orange dinosaur fittingly forms a gateway for my passing, a secrete portal to new things in a world of vivid color. In awe of this unexpected find, I smile and look aside at the jungle flashing by. Along its face smiling heads of scaly creatures look out to welcome me. Huge friendly eyes, shaded by leathery furrowed brows, seem to say, “What took you so long?”

    Turning to Bill to share my joy, I exclaim, “After all the looking, I have finally found it!” Bill is undisturbed to part from his muse and turn his mask of calm my way. Simply meeting my eyes, he knows, yet he needs not say. Turning back to his muse and calmly tooling the little VW through the herds of prehistory, Bill drives on.

    In the back seat Rocky laughs and says, “Danny tried to set me on fire.” Looking back between the seats, I see that Danny has lit a cigarette, its blood red swirls of smoke flashing tracers from the rear window sunbeams. Immune to Rocky’s claim, Danny returns my look and shrugs. Rocky immediately forgets his outcry but likes the attention anyway. Scrunched together, excitement in their eyes, like Bill, they are watching. I watch too. And together, the miles suck us in.

    For a moment the late autumn sea leaves me a child standing in the middle of an empty slate dump, grey expanses running to steep hills of leafless timber. Then, I am here again, as slate grey seas kiss a cumulous scattered sky.

    Danny squeals and dances in the surf while I and others sit in the sand, our sneakers wet by his dance’s reach. Suddenly across the tableau of what seemed untouchable for so long, a string of pretty girls parade, all enjoying the ancient interest of our smiles, yet bemused by them a stitch.

    Wildwood by the Sea blesses our short stay as another portal begins to close. Still whooping and high kicking the curled white froth, Danny does not see. Grinning at this sight, like a silent monk, I wait. It will not be long now.

Charles Hayes bio

    Charles Hayes, a multiple Pushcart Prize Nominee, is an American who lives part time in the Philippines and part time in Seattle with his wife. A product of the Appalachian Mountains, his writing has appeared in Ky Story’s Anthology Collection, Wilderness House Literary Review, The Fable Online, Unbroken Journal, CC&D Magazine, Random Sample Review, The Zodiac Review, eFiction Magazine, Saturday Night Reader, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Scarlet Leaf Publishing House, Burning Word Journal, eFiction India, and others.

Tides of the Heart

Sat on a beach,
watching the waves
roll in, out,
and back again...
like love’s promises
to me

Just out of reach,
waiting for your love
to roll in, out,
and back again...
like the finest poetry
and prose

Winging, calling
to you among sea birds,
now high, now low,
nature’s wry comment
on humanity’s tides
of life

Alone on a beach,
its beachcombing hearts
on the look-out
for any such as ours,
among love’s flotsam
and jetsam

Lost in Translation, or Poetry,
Making Sense of Human Identity

When people ask where I came from;
I answer, my mother’s womb,
so why am I so haunted by a sense
of having been somewhere else,
distant, unknown, as if I’d crossed
mythical territories of time and space
just to find my way here?

When others ask if I have a ‘real’ goal
in life, I confess I’m never sure
which doors are left ajar just for me
to take a peep (our choice, enter
or not) and may let a still, small voice
out of time and space persuade me to try
the safer (better?) path

Sometimes I am even accused of sitting
on some metaphorical fence
rather than explore secret passages
of the mind, and the doors open
to tease me, dare me enter, have a go
at translating the ages-old hieroglyphics
lining Mother’s womb

Yes, I have a ‘real’ enough goal in life
if prompted by a poet’s feeling
for wrestling with the hieroglyphics
between womb and tomb,
writing up an alternative autobiography
of my life and death than trust local graffiti
on doors kicked shut

The Yard:

11:00 pm- Light’s out on E block.

Sour judgment and slanted jurisprudence,
like an impound dog, the recycled felon, held captive.

Behind ancient granite and iron forged the previous century,
a medieval tutorial to quiet his defective mind,
halt criminal conduct- confiscate time.

Beyond barred windows and steel doors,
the impossible stockade, its dank compound walls,
sky high and elephant thick.
Confinement has a parched aspect to it.
Tastes dry- an aura of desolation, like eating sand.

2:11am,
The yellow stink of corruption assails his senses,
ripping the side of his face.
Depression, anxiety, worry- his niggling companions.
Another sleepless night with uninvited guests
who refuse to vacate the premises,
latching on like barbed hooks.

Silent masturbation, up and down the aisle.
Cancerous coughing, gas ejection,
an echo chamber after lights out.
The neighborhood, floor to ceiling,
a vile place, an ominous- living thing.

He stares overhead- spirals inward
to the core of his troubled mind.
Alone in the dark,
the mask of rigid severity dissolves to nakedness,
replaced by despair and uncertainty.
He screams inside his head
at the mother fucker two cells down,
a mobbed up, heavy hitter with sleep apnea
The bastard at it again...

He boils with anger, brutality on his mind.
The snoring fills his head, trashes his sleep,
the pattern fixed in his brain...

Over and again- the predator’s jagged inhale,
his struggling exhale-
followed by a 3 second pause,
then gulp and gasp,
only to resume like an insufferable rerun.

But none dare disturb Rocco.

Two weeks to go
until the classification board meets
and assigns him to a different facility.
Can’t happen soon enough.
...

Daybreak- 6:00am- lights on,
like a dormant beast come to life.
Khaki covered flesh and walls of voices,
raucous- like some strange birthday party,
of unwell children.

The schizophrenic in the tier below yells himself hoarse,
screaming to the cops to let him out for med call.
...

Breakfast, followed by early Rec in the yard.
A playground of weeds and black flies
where crabgrass doesn’t do well.

He kicks a dead pigeon from the gravel track,
its entrails missing.
Hawks thrive close at hand
on a diet of fattened, lice ridden cousins.

The yard; illusory- devours pleasure.
Route 95- a short distance away,
the sound of rush hour traffic- a terrible thing to hear.
He accepts that escape from this place,
to freedom... is years away.
The price of addiction- wielding a gun,
and participating in conspiracies.

On the breeze- under the guard tower
the stench of piss hits him in the face.
Reminds him of the old train station
at Kennedy Plaza in downtown Providence.
...

Shouldering the state towel, he taps his shirt pocket.
A pathetic bar of motel thin, Ivory soap beneath.
He gazed out over the playground of anarchy,
then up to the sky.
A silver air bus of travelers- the law abiding free,
has taken off from the airport in Warwick.
Soon to be long gone... the exhaust trail of a jet
breaking up as it ascends.

“To where,” he ponders...
“West” he blurts out- then continues around the track.

The undead walking, an army of uniforms,
doing laps in groups and alone.
White, black, and brown ones,
in varying shades of cruelty, distrust,
and “Stay the fuck away!”
... Some are yellow, sick with hepatitis,
the color of school paste and the flu.

Contained, controlled, programmed,
all are motivated by fear, pain, and ugly.

At the outside shower stalls, like unruly adolescents,
a crowd of near stripped inmates
stand waiting for the water to be turned on.
He thought to himself that blacks, have a habit of
grabbing at their dicks,
like a reassurance their manhood is intact.

Puffed up in false bravado
he overhears their bragging.
Talking about all that pussy they be fuckin’ on the outside,
or the money they be makin’ on da street...
Spitting words of hatred, the language is cloned, counterfeit,
words of the coarse and illiterate.

Others, veterans like himself,
merely holding to reputations and guts,
the high performance tough.

A snarling voice, booms like a threat.
Six and a half feet of south side blackness,
‘Bumps’ is heated over the water that’s still turned off.

He shouts...
“Fuck this joint Man- and every cop in it!
Fuck all these mutha fuckin’ cock suckin’ bitches!”

Towards the end of the line,
a young kid argues with his partner.

“Oh, man- don’t hand me dat- I was there!
Dat’s jus mutha fuckin’ booshit!
You just comin’ out your ass now!

On it goes and seemed everybody
is someone else’s personal bitch...
...

He wished he could silence it all,
put it to sleep, kill it all with some kind of poison,
murder them all in their sleep...

He wasn’t street stupid, far from it.
Knew the language and balls it took to survive.
If he had to, his fists would do the talking.
If things got desperate, he had the shank.

Prison is no place for the meek or fragile.
They gather in the prison yard, walk the track,
all part of the mix.

Violent felons welcome,
homicide, rape, robbery, heroin and coke dealers,
assault with a deadly,
unsympathetic beatings with bats, smoking 9mm’s,
mutilations...

But no skinners allowed in population.
PC- protective custody, for baby fuckers.

Muscled, scarred- ugly- weak- fragile...
black, white, yellow, red, brown,
young, and old men- some dying with Aids.
None are innocent- most guilty of far more,
than their lock down conviction.

They all belonged there, even him, and he knew it,
didn’t cry about it, took it, hated it,
but didn’t whine about it or proclaim a bum deal.
This was home for 3 or more years,
depending on the leniency of the parole board.
The street was two weeks in the past.
His woman and freedom, all back there.

But booze was brewing in the plate shop
and a sleazy cop named Sully kept a lucrative sideline.
Weed, skin magazines, dope, needles and pills,
a 5th of liquor if you want...
Whatever your tastes- Sully was the man.
He delivered satisfaction.
The con’s people make the pay off outside the walls.
Inside, smokes and store orders are cash.
A carton of Marlboros- in return; four pencil lead thin joints.
But that’s how shit works...
...

Outside showers in the summer months
leave a guy open and vulnerable,
open to defective men, with cold stares.
Today’s Rec was surreal; a scene from a movie,
but he kept his mouth shut- stayed uninvolved,
safer that way.

He could smell his own ass.
His bunk mate bitched at him to get in the car wash.
The stink certainly needed attention.

The scene last week in the cell block showers
blew his mind, had him stepping back.
The most dangerous man on E block-
an Irish/Italian dude, dubbed, “The Bat”
was getting his dick sucked by the drag queen Marcel.
The Bat, warned him to step off,
and to keep his fucking mouth shut.

He did that and kept it to himself...

Sanding wary, he regarded the outdoor shower scene,
too many still in line- decided to wait,
and walked the track one more time.

He looked over to the group of dangerous faces.
A group of Italians were playing Bocce,
talking with their hands,
cigarettes hanging perfectly between narrowed lips.
Two of them he knew from Federal Hill.
Genuine heavy hitters, their voices carried,
rebounded off the stockade walls.
Nobody dare fuck with them.

An old friend, a mechanic turned arsonist,
did some work for the one named Rudy.
Stevie was found dead,
body dumped close HP Lovecraft’s grave...
at Swan Point cemetery.
After being shot in the head, his body was lit on fire.

The Italians were disputing the merits,
and individual preferences, of Caddys versus Lincolns.
They argued on- swearing on their mothers souls,
and their children’s eyes,
that the eggplant parmesan at Camille’s,
blew the The Old Canteen’s, Tortellini Alfredo, away.
“Like ya read about- Fo-gedda bout it!”

Calling out to the group of men, he smiled- waved, jerked his chin up,
kept moving.

A tight group of Spanish guys passed him on the right;
hustled on by, chattering at impossibly high speeds.
He wondered, if they actually understood one another.

It was time he headed for the showers
before the triggers on the wall blasted the horn,
gathered up the state’s errant children,
sending all of them back to their cages.

But he had time...
...

Brothers from the South Side, one like a mountain,
stood like purple blackness,
his eyes focused, taking in the situation.

He saw that they were watching a silly white boy
waiting his turn in the car wash,
who, standing there giggling- was oblivious to the threat.

They kept moving around the track...
but they’d be back.
...

Twenty minutes before Rec was over
a shower finally opened and he jumped in,
felt the cool water, cleanse and massage
closed his eyes, and reminisced...

For a moment he was somewhere else.
A lifetime ago...
The Green Mountains-16 summers past
and a young gal he once thought he loved.
In a deep hole below the falls he tread water,
felt the sparkling mist beading on his face.
Once again, he swam the river, teased his girl,
and made love in a shallow...

Memories his comfort, his only getaway.
...

The noise of scuffling brought him about.
A body hit hard with a “Smack!”
The sickening sound had a feel to it.
The silly young kid lay under the shower
on his back, blinking, bleeding,
face up and frightened.

The mountain that put him there
had him trapped- the kid curled fetal.
3 others, were keeping the peek,
turned their backs to the beating,
blocking the view of cops on the ground
and in the towers.
None to be seen- the light was green.

The shower floor ran red in seconds.
Rivulets of crimson sluicing off the tiled floor,
snot and blood raced to the drain.
... not a sound though- the kid didn’t cry out.

Gruesome stood over skinny white’s ruptured face-
reached down, cut him across the cheek with a blade,
then swung his fist one last time.

Retribution and ruin- blood and cartilage,
a broken spirit in absolute terror.
It was over in seconds- the attackers broke.

Amazed at the speed the attack occurred
the floored kid, was no longer giggling.
His lip split wide- mouth closed shut,
chin quivering, and right eye swelling fast.

Like an embarrassed, naked child,
the kid cowered there, on the blood splashed
white tiles obviously disorientated.
Curled in a ball for all to see, the kid lay motionless
The punks pointed, and yelled, laughed, some spit...

“Snitch!
Mutha Fuckin’ Snitch!
That’s What You Get!”

It was time to hit the bricks,
get the hell out of the way.
He wanted no part of this shit, wasn’t his fight.
He could do nothing anyway- too many of them,
and no support from the glee club.

In struck dumb fright the target shit itself,
puked its breakfast onto the tile
as blood surged under to his damaged face.
Next stop, the infirmary- then PC for the rest of his bid.
There he’d stay with the skinners and snitches.

The uninvolved, walker of tracks wanted only
to be far away from this place,
but didn’t want to go there.
Couldn’t do a fucking thing about it
and that was that!
After a hasty drying he dressed quickly.
One hundred fifty four weeks to go.

Or so he figured, anyway...

Ho Chi Minh

My grandmother played
co-ed volleyball on a team
with Ho Chi Minh at a Y
in lower Manhattan way back
before the first world war.

He used to have everybody over
after matches to his tiny apartment,
in Hell’s Kitchen, she said, for bowls
of steaming pho tai, but only if they won.
He was weird that way.

homestead

grandparent’s homestead
we walk barefoot on green grass
toes tickling the earth

reflection

window reflection
talking with my own image
we’ll call this the blues

Take a Letter, Maria

There had long been laws lurking
on the statute books of several states
making it criminal libel to
“blacken the memory of the dead”,
though such laws were rarely enforced
But during the twenty-first century
there was a sinister synergy of several movements
usually at odds with one another

and thus the act against such offenses
(relevant portions only)

Be it enacted by
the Senate and House of Representatives
of the United States of America
in Congress assembled

THAT
it henceforth constitutes a crime
to speak ill of the dead
in any medium
written, spoken, pictorial
(either still or moving),
or implanted directly into the brain,
or in any other manner
that in the future may be devised

In keeping with current libel law
the truth will be an absolute defense,
but such truth can only come
directly from the deceased
either in word or deed known
during the deceased’s lifetime,
or from the testimony of others,
under oath, in a civil or criminal proceeding
Anything not known during the deceased’s lifetime
will forever remain unsettled as to its truth
The same standard will also apply
to any group of persons no longer living,
no matter how that group is defined
or whether it was defined as a group at the time

In keeping with concurrent changes in the copyright law,
all nonfiction books depicting the deceased,
and any fiction book depicting an actual
person or persons no longer living,
will have to show no violations of this law
in order to have such copyright renewed
Anything disseminated without such copyright
will face increased penalties
for violations of this law

Enacted this Eighteenth of June
20––

34

back at his childhood home
with two children of his own
mommy’s baby boy returns

served all his favorite dishes
given constant hugs and kisses
hearing “I remember whens”

as his sons learn of times
Dad did those same crimes
they get “time outs” for today

Carl “Papa” Palmer Bio

    Carl “Papa” Palmer of Old Mill Road in Ridgeway VA now lives in University Place WA. He is retired military, retired FAA and now just plain retired without wristwatch, iPhone or Facebook friend. Carl, president of The Tacoma Writers Club is a Pushcart Prize and Micro Award nominee.
    MOTTO: Long Weekends Forever

Close Only Counts

Missing the metal stake again,
yet to score my first point
in the backyard pitching match,
my team partner contends,

“You’re not all that good at horseshoes, are you?
I haven’t seen you throw a ringer, yet.
It seems to me a person with a college education
ought to be a better player than what you are.”

Carl “Papa” Palmer Bio

    Carl “Papa” Palmer of Old Mill Road in Ridgeway VA now lives in University Place WA. He is retired military, retired FAA and now just plain retired without wristwatch, iPhone or Facebook friend. Carl, president of The Tacoma Writers Club is a Pushcart Prize and Micro Award nominee.
    MOTTO: Long Weekends Forever

Heated Words

I heard my son
say to his wife
the same words
I said to his mother.

Those words I heard
my dad yell at mom
her crying
me covering my ears.

My father never took
them back.
I haven’t either.
My hopes are my son will.

Carl “Papa” Palmer Bio

    Carl “Papa” Palmer of Old Mill Road in Ridgeway VA now lives in University Place WA. He is retired military, retired FAA and now just plain retired without wristwatch, iPhone or Facebook friend. Carl, president of The Tacoma Writers Club is a Pushcart Prize and Micro Award nominee.
    MOTTO: Long Weekends Forever

Virtual Celebration

33 birthday greetings
posted by Facebook friends
fellow Farmville farmers
from four foreign countries
not a card or phone call
from daughter or son
from sister or brother
no flowers from her husband

Carl “Papa” Palmer Bio

    Carl “Papa” Palmer of Old Mill Road in Ridgeway VA now lives in University Place WA. He is retired military, retired FAA and now just plain retired without wristwatch, iPhone or Facebook friend. Carl, president of The Tacoma Writers Club is a Pushcart Prize and Micro Award nominee.
    MOTTO: Long Weekends Forever

A Billionaire is Offering Millions

A billionaire is offering millions
for someone to come up with a model
for effective world government. Now
that refugees have made borders porous,
and constriction and restrictions are in place
new models for EU, Brexit, Republics and Nation States
ask us to re-examine our social organizations.
Bombs are dropped to make sure ISIS has no definable territory
Same with Taliban and Al-Qaeda. Walls go up/insecurity comes in.
Who are we but a pattern of migrating tribes over time?
The scale of our circles and spirals is millennia
We settle down - but there were people here before us
And other circles and spirals long after!

Route 803

Dear Mr. Pedestrian

    walking slow on the crosswalk because you’re texting;

    Clearly you DGAF.

    By the time you get your lame ‘do as you please’ lookin ass across the fucking street, it will be time for you to go back to work tomorrow.

    Matter of fact, I don’t even think you work over here. I think you just wake up everyday going to random crosswalks just to upset the natural order of things. That’s what I think, matter of fact.

    Googlin shit for no reason

    You make me wish the bus had a horn that sounded machine gun fire.

    Movin slow like you in a hurry to get back to yesterday

    You make me wish that you could just be catapulted across the street, or at least have God shot put you some where.

    You make me want to get out of the bus momentarily just to beat you with a wiffle ball bat filled rubber cement until you were safely on across the street.
    Hurry the fuck up, please.

I am writing on this Empty Notepad
to Quell the Paranoia that all will be Lost Tomorrow.

I hate that animal.
The one that disregards my pursuit of a saner me, myself, and I.
And maybe someone who will love me on the weekend nights,
when they have nothing better to do. Nothing better to love.

I’’ll try not to trouble you during the interim of this poem,
but my thoughts of dying are not obsolete.
I’ll trail behind us with mop and broom for the spills
and the puddles of my mother’s tears.

The ads on the TV are hardly subliminal. The anti-depression commercials mock me.
A mother pushes her daughter on the swing
With a smile filled with tears and spiders and tells me:

“Lyrica may cause serious allergic reactions or suicidal thoughts...”
Swelling of the face
The lips
The tongue.
I wish my tongue would swell
so I would stop telling everyone
the dark thoughts I have of dying
when I get very very drunk, because nobody likes spiders.

Maybe if my lips were swollen you wouldn’t have kissed me,
just to never call again the next day.
But I keep checking my phone.

The cured school teachers ramble on about the ambiguous ways
in which I might die
until my ears beg my brain to douse them in acid.

They sound like robots
but at least they sound happy.

I just want to be happy.

The school teacher’s eyes are spider’s eggs- they burst and are born.
They run down her face as she tells me:
“Wellbutrin may energize people who were previously too depressed to act on suicidal thoughts...
...and a decreased ability to fight infections.”
Which to me sounds a lot like giving up.
I chime in with their catchphrase,
I think “I am ready”.

The newborn spiders have cloaked and enveloped me now
like my favorite comforter.
Am I a flawed human because the weight of the world is often too much to bear?
Just like how
sometimes I don’t feel like holding doors open for people.
It’s just a mood I’m in.

Reasons to Stay Alive

Smiling-
“You should smile more.”- I don’t want to fucking smile

Holidays-
made to distinguish endless nights
And keep us from drawing lines on cave walls, counting.
Gives you a reason to stay alive
But I never know what I’m celebrating.

Wine-
I thought you were drinking too.
But my double with plum painted lips stands behind shattered glass, alone.

Forbidden

In a crowded elevator, your hand
touches my hip and lingers long enough
for me to take note, then you drop it to your side.
A sweet indiscretion, a moment never really
repeated, the narrative lost in circumstance,
the confusion of memory and desire—

It’s raining again today—after years of drought,
it rains and rains. The lake is swollen—beautiful
though threatening. Thunder rumbles. We live
on high ground—lightening strikes are common.
But we will not drown here.

Still, I feel I am under water—deep.

We meet at a coffee shop and talk about poetry
and lovers, about sitting in a parking lot
when a cop taps on the car window and asks
for IDs. What are you doing here, in official tones.
Just talking. Is that okay with you, you snap back.

I’m impressed with the audacity of your response.
Is that okay with you—not asking permission,
not even close. We sip our coffee, and you confess
you don’t remember the incident. You, on the other hand
remember everything, you say slightly annoyed.

That was just something that happened
a long time ago. I sip my coffee, looking at my cup—
my hands. Fragile clay, I mutter to the table.
What—nothing. The coffee shop now distant,
and it is raining.

This poem also appears in the Brady Peterson book From an Upstairs Window.

“The American People”

I absolutely hate
politicians invoking,
“the American people,”
as if we’re all breathlessly awaiting
their indispensable legislation,
when the only thing
most of us can agree on
is we despise
self serving,
“if their lips are moving,
they’re lying,”
politicians.

Island-hopping

Living in Manhattan
is living on an island,
a tiny fragment of New York state
that’s part
of the North-South American land mass
which, if vastly larger,
is still an island
and, by the same token,
residing anywhere else on the globe
is also living on an Island,
with this fact’s clearness
a function of each map’s
depiction and scale.
But why stop there?
In the scheme of things,
isn’t this seemingly immense earth
only a small island in space?
And, much as humans spilled out of Africa
to populate their whole planet,
if the time finally comes
when we venture from our home world
throughout the solar system and beyond,
won’t we simply be following
the uncertain voyages of Columbus,
seafaring Maoris,
forebears in dug out canoes,
Admiral Zheng,
and all of our kind’s other mariners,
who left their safe island harbors
to pursue those fabulous, almost inaccessible worlds
of their dreams?

Your Imaginary Soul
      Weighs 21 Grams

Different cultures
call it different things.
Your spirit. Your soul.

I know that we creatively
believe there’s something
special we possess.

But this elusive
imaginary creature
that lives within us

causes much debate.
Does it even exist.
Is the soul real.

So I found it funny
that a doctor
100 years ago

wanted to measure
the weight
of a soul.

He found people
sick, dying,
and he weighed them

just before they
were about
to die —

and he weighed
their corpses
right after death.

And what do you know,
there was a difference
in each person —

the doctor found
that each person
was less than

an ounce lighter,
or about
21 grams.

And, this didn’t
prove anything,
but it makes me wonder...

is 21 grams
the weight we carry
for our soul,

or do some souls
carry more
from the weight

of the world.
Is that why
we’re forced

to share our stories,
to lift our burden,
so our invisible soul

won’t weigh
us down
anymore.

erasure poem:
the Meaning of Art

the endowment of a true artist
is that his work of art
expresses the general will of a period

works of art rightly mirror
the inner mind
of age
of life

at present,
expression of the world with race
will turn to ages which
have already possessed
freedom of the spirit,
of the will, and of the mind

This, naturally,
the manifestation in art
shall be influenced
in a thousand ways
through the evidences
and memories
of that which still,
as an ideal force
lives on
and works on
in the imagination

The more the modern approaches this
more and more will civilization be influenced

art is
in its purpose
no mystic cult,
only the care of a people
We have no religious retreats, but arenas,
and our assembly is not the mystical gloom
of a cathedral, but brightness and light

mystically-minded steal

art,
works of culture, positive facts,
speak louder than any

we can speak of a new awakening
of our cultural life,
which finds its confirmation
not in mutual compliments
and literary phrases, but
in positive evidences
of cultural creative force

architecture, sculpture, painting,
drama, and the rest bring proof
of a creative period in art,
which for richness and impetuosity
has rarely been matched
in the course of human history

try to turn these facts upside down,
we know that cultural achievements
will have won respect and appreciation
far more than the material

have no doubt
that creative work,
since it is
the most sensitive
expression of a talent,
cannot be understood,
far less appreciated,
by individuals
who are not the same

make art
it is a proclamation
of body and spirit

it does not make
propaganda
for an individual work,
for the subject,
or for the artist;
it makes propaganda
for the world
which confronts us

and so art will announce and herald
that common mental attitude,
that common view of life,
because these can meet
with understanding
only if it reveals in itself
the true essence of the spirit

The mystic narrowness
and gloom of the cathedrals
began to recede and,
to match the free life of the spirit,
buildings became spacious
and flooded with light

mystical twilight gave way
before increasing brightness

freedom of the soul and of the will,
for centuries, opened the way
to new forms of expression
and artistic creation

erasure poem:
corner stone against slavery

This     would    split.

conjecture with
the great truth
may be doubted.

prevailing
formation of the old
were the violation
of the laws of nature;

socially,
morally,
politically.

It was an evil.

Those ideas
were fundamentally wrong
rested upon the
assumption of equality.
This was an error
a sandy foundation,
it fell
when the
storm came.

Our laid corner stone,
the great truth
is not equal to the
natural and normal.
this great physical,
philosophical,
and moral truth,
It has been so amongst us.
The errors of the past still cling
with a zeal above knowledge,
from the mind of insanity.

conclusions are right
if premises were.
the equal,
warring against principle
founded in nature,
should, ultimately, succeed,
and would ultimately fail.
That impossible war
against a principle
was warring
against principle.

equal
made
unequal.

secure peace,
show your ability,
maintain your rights.
Never allow slavery
to the soil.
clamor against
getting or
letting go.
fight this strange paradox

There seems to be
but one rational solution,
notwithstanding humanity,
give up the benefits.
labor to the necessary
they come from nature

this seceding question,
the desire

peace

simply
a recognition
of our independence

erasure poem:
a Declaration
of Female Freedom

it becomes necessary
to dissolve this

to assume power

separate from man

i impel the separation

hold these truths
to be self-evident,
men create no rights
on life and happiness—
men derive power
from the weak

and i am not
more disposed to suffer

evils are themselves
a long train of abuses
and it is right for me
to provide new
future security

it is now necessity
to avoid injuries
and the absolute tyranny
over me

He has utterly neglected me,
refused me
thought I am only a body
for the sole purpose of
compliance with his measures

He has dissolved my rights

He has refused for a long time
any power I have

He has prevented
obstructed justice
on his Will alone,
to harrass
with Military power

his acts
on all parts
on us without our Consent
depriving us benefits

for offenses
on the free

Bound at once
an example
for introducing
the same absolute rule

For once

what is
Right
for us

and with this firm reliance,
we pledge
our Lives
and our sacred Honor.

erasure poem:
‘One of the Most Hated
Women in America’

These are chosen words spoken by Casey Anthony
after she was charged with the murder of her infant
daughter Caylee (for which she was later acquitted).

she keeps a lonely,
guarded life now

in her words,
“I was in confinement
for twenty-three hours a day
for weeks at a time.”

in her words,
“My sentence was doled out
long before there was a verdict.
Sentence first, verdict afterward.”

Guilty long before a day in court.”

in her words,
she does not have a
“significant problem
with not telling the truth.”

in her words,
“I hate to say this, but
cops believe other cops,
cops tend to victimize the victims.

I see why I was treated
the way I was even
had I been completely truthful.”

“Cops lie to people every day.
I’m just one of the
unfortunate idiots
who admitted they lied.”

in her words,
“I don’t give a shit
about what anyone
thinks about me,

I never will.

I’m OK with myself.

I sleep pretty good at night.”

    These are chosen words spoken by Casey Anthony since the 2008 death
of her infant daughter Caylee. The toddler’s remains were found
in a wooded area near her home, and wasn’t reported missing
until a month after she was last seen.
    Casey Anthony was accused of killing her daughter —
prosecutors could not establish how Caylee died,
but Judge Belvin Perry Jr., who presided at Anthony’s trial,
suggested that Anthony may have accidentally killed her daughter
while trying to calm her with chloroform
(according to the Orlando Sentinel).
    An investigator claimed that her lawyer, Jose Baez,
told them “that Casey had murdered Caylee and dumped the body”.
    Casey Anthony was convicted of lying to police, but was acquitted
of murder. Casey Anthony was described by a Florida Department
of Corrections spokeswoman as ‘One of the Most Hated Women in America’.

erasure poem:
a Poetic History

history
proud
of
exploitation of others

history
an exercise in mutual destruction
history
drenched in the blood of war

history
made slaves of the meek
murders climbed to glory

entire past is wet with blood
if not, with tears

decimated populations
echo history

connivance   jealousies   conflicts
prove the course of history

grand murderers and thugs built
a bridge of swords to time

artificial laws with other forces
fell down as houses of cards

The deception
the heinous crimes of the mighty
the schemes
can’t be allowed

exploitation
of one person by another
one race by a different race
can’t go on

All the down-trodden peoples
the different races of all continents
will broadcast in one voice
the true nature of history

Which battle took place?
Which kingdom lasted how long?
the dates, the documents
these are not the essence

stories hidden under
the dark corners of history
are wanted

truth won’t hide by being hidden

In the twilights of history
what was the development
of the human?
What achieved grand truth?

Which sculpture? What literature?
Which science? What music?
Which renunciation?
Which dream?

Janet Kuypers Bio

    Janet Kuypers has a Communications degree in News/Editorial Journalism (starting in computer science engineering studies) from the UIUC. She had the equivalent of a minor in photography and specialized in creative writing. A portrait photographer for years in the early 1990s, she was also an acquaintance rape workshop facilitator, and she started her publishing career as an editor of two literary magazines. Later she was an art director, webmaster and photographer for a few magazines for a publishing company in Chicago, and this Journalism major was even the final featured poetry performer of 15 poets with a 10 minute feature at the 2006 Society of Professional Journalism Expo’s Chicago Poetry Showcase. This certified minister was even the officiant of a wedding in 2006.
    She sang with acoustic bands “Mom’s Favorite Vase”, “Weeds and Flowers” and “the Second Axing”, and does music sampling. Kuypers is published in books, magazines and on the internet around 9,300 times for writing, and over 17,800 times for art work in her professional career, and has been profiled in such magazines as Nation and Discover U, won the award for a Poetry Ambassador and was nominated as Poet of the Year for 2006 by the International Society of Poets. She has also been highlighted on radio stations, including WEFT (90.1FM), WLUW (88.7FM), WSUM (91.7FM), WZRD (88.3FM), WLS (8900AM), the internet radio stations ArtistFirst dot com, chicagopoetry.com’s Poetry World Radio and Scars Internet Radio (SIR), and was even shortly on Q101 FM radio. She has also appeared on television for poetry in Nashville (in 1997), Chicago (in 1997), and northern Illinois (in a few appearances on the show for the Lake County Poets Society in 2006). Kuypers was also interviewed on her art work on Urbana’s WCIA channel 3 10 o’clock news.
    She turned her writing into performance art on her own and with musical groups like Pointless Orchestra, 5D/5D, The DMJ Art Connection, Order From Chaos, Peter Bartels, Jake and Haystack, the Bastard Trio, and the JoAnne Pow!ers Trio, and starting in 2005 Kuypers ran a monthly iPodCast of her work, as well mixed JK Radio — an Internet radio station — into Scars Internet Radio (both radio stations on the Internet air 2005-2009). She even managed the Chaotic Radio show (an hour long Internet radio show 1.5 years, 2006-2007) through BZoO.org. She has performed spoken word and music across the country - in the spring of 1998 she embarked on her first national poetry tour, with featured performances, among other venues, at the Albuquerque Spoken Word Festival during the National Poetry Slam; her bands have had concerts in Chicago and in Alaska; in 2003 she hosted and performed at a weekly poetry and music open mike (called Sing Your Life), and from 2002 through 2005 was a featured performance artist, doing quarterly performance art shows with readings, music and images. Starting at this time Kuypers released a large number of CD releases currently available for sale at iTunes or amazon, including “Across the Pond”(a 3 CD set of poems by Oz Hardwick and Janet Kuypers with assorted vocals read to acoustic guitar of both Blues music and stylized Contemporary English Folk music), “Made Any Difference” (CD single of poem reading with multiple musicians), “Letting It All Out”, “What we Need in Life” (CD single by Janet Kuypers in Mom’s Favorite Vase of “What we Need in Life”, plus in guitarist Warren Peterson’s honor live recordings literally around the globe with guitarist John Yotko), “hmmm” (4 CD set), “Dobro Veče” (4 CD set), “the Stories of Women”, “Sexism and Other Stories”, “40”, “Live” (14 CD set), “an American Portrait” (Janet Kuypers/Kiki poetry to music from Jake & Haystack in Nashville), “Screeching to a Halt” (2008 CD EP of music from 5D/5D with Janet Kuypers poetry), “2 for the Price of 1” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from Peter Bartels), “the Evolution of Performance Art” (13 CD set), “Burn Through Me” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from The HA!Man of South Africa), “Seeing a Psychiatrist” (3 CD set), “The Things They Did To You” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from the DMJ Art Connection), “Hope Chest in the Attic” (audio CD set), “St. Paul’s” (3 CD set), “the 2009 Poetry Game Show” (3 CD set), “Fusion” (Janet Kuypers poetry in multi CD set with Madison, WI jazz music from the Bastard Trio, the JoAnne Pow!ers Trio, and Paul Baker), “Chaos In Motion” (tracks from Internet radio shows on Chaotic Radio), “Chaotic Elements” (audio CD set for the poetry collection book and supplemental chapbooks for The Elements), “etc.” audio CD set, “Manic Depressive or Something” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from the DMJ Art Connection), “Singular”, “Indian Flux” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from the DMJ Art Connection), “The Chaotic Collection #01-05”, “The DMJ Art Connection Disc 1” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from the DMJ Art Connection), “Oh.” audio CD, “Live At the Café” (3 CD set), “String Theory” (Janet Kuypers reading other people's poetry, with music from “the DMJ Art Connection), “Scars Presents WZRD radio” (2 CD set), “SIN - Scars Internet News”, “Questions in a World Without Answers”, “Conflict • Contact • Control”, “How Do I Get There?”, “Sing Your Life”, “Dreams”, “Changing Gears”, “The Other Side”, “Death Comes in Threes”, “the final”, “Moving Performances”, “Seeing Things Differently”, “Live At Cafe Aloha”, “the Demo Tapes” (Mom’s Favorite Vase), “Something Is Sweating” (the Second Axing), “Live In Alaska” EP (the Second Axing), “the Entropy Project”, “Tick Tock” (with 5D/5D), “Six Eleven” “Stop. Look. Listen.”, “Stop. Look. Listen to the Music” (a compilation CD from the three bands “Mom’s Favorite Vase”, “Weeds & Flowers” and “The Second Axing”), and “Change Rearrange” (the performance art poetry CD with sampled music).
    From 2010 through 2015 Kuypers also hosted the Chicago poetry open mic the Café Gallery, while also broadcasting weekly feature and open mic podcasts that were also released as YouTube videos.
    In addition to being published with Bernadette Miller in the short story collection book Domestic Blisters, as well as in a book of poetry turned to prose with Eric Bonholtzer in the book Duality, Kuypers has had many books of her own published: Hope Chest in the Attic, The Window, Close Cover Before Striking, (woman.) (spiral bound), Autumn Reason (novel in letter form), the Average Guy’s Guide (to Feminism), Contents Under Pressure, etc., and eventually The Key To Believing (2002 650 page novel), Changing Gears (travel journals around the United States), The Other Side (European travel book), the three collection books from 2004: Oeuvre (poetry), Exaro Versus (prose) and L’arte (art), The Boss Lady’s Editorials, The Boss Lady’s Editorials (2005 Expanded Edition), Seeing Things Differently, Change/Rearrange, Death Comes in Threes, Moving Performances, Six Eleven, Live at Cafe Aloha, Dreams, Rough Mixes, The Entropy Project, The Other Side (2006 edition), Stop., Sing Your Life, the hardcover art book (with an editorial) in cc&d v165.25, the Kuypers edition of Writings to Honour & Cherish, The Kuypers Edition: Blister and Burn, S&M, cc&d v170.5, cc&d v171.5: Living in Chaos, Tick Tock, cc&d v1273.22: Silent Screams, Taking It All In, It All Comes Down, Rising to the Surface, Galapagos, Chapter 38 (v1 and volume 1), Chapter 38 (v2 and Volume 2), Chapter 38 v3, Finally: Literature for the Snotty and Elite (Volume 1, Volume 2 and part 1 of a 3 part set), A Wake-Up Call From Tradition (part 2 of a 3 part set), (recovery), Dark Matter: the mind of Janet Kuypers , Evolution, Adolph Hitler, O .J. Simpson and U.S. Politics, the one thing the government still has no control over, (tweet), Get Your Buzz On, Janet & Jean Together, po•em, Taking Poetry to the Streets, the Cana-Dixie Chi-town Union, the Written Word, Dual, Prepare Her for This, uncorrect, Living in a Big World (color interior book with art and with “Seeing a Psychiatrist”), Pulled the Trigger (part 3 of a 3 part set), Venture to the Unknown (select writings with extensive color NASA/Huubble Space Telescope images), Janet Kuypers: Enriched, She’s an Open Book, “40”, Sexism and Other Stories, the Stories of Women, Prominent Pen (Kuypers edition), Elemental, the paperback book of the 2012 Datebook (which was also released as a spiral-bound ISBN# ISSN# 2012 little spiral datebook, , Chaotic Elements, and Fusion, the (select) death poetry book Stabity Stabity Stab Stab Stab, the 2012 art book a Picture’s Worth 1,000 words (available with both b&w interior pages and full color interior pages, the shutterfly ISSN# ISBN# hardcover art book life, in color, Post-Apocalyptic, Burn Through Me, Under the Sea (photo book), the Periodic Table of Poetry, a year long Journey, Bon Voyage!, and the mini books Part of my Pain, Let me See you Stripped, Say Nothing, Give me the News, when you Dream tonight, Rape, Sexism, Life & Death (with some Slovak poetry translations), Twitterati, and 100 Haikus, that coincided with the June 2014 release of the two poetry collection books Partial Nudity and Revealed. 2017, after hr October 2015 move to Austin Texas, also witnessed the release of 2 Janet Kuypers book of poetry written in Austin, “(pheromemes) 2015-2017 poems” and a book of poetry written for her poetry features and show, “(pheromemes) 2015-2017 show poems” (and both pheromemes books are available from two printers).

We Are

    Cutting the Bohol-Siquijor gap, Carloi and Rosa Santiago lead their band of Sama Bajau sea gypsies through the dark choppy waters of the Philippine Sea. Dan Chan and his liaison banglo, or family boat, sail off their port side and slightly behind, using lights at night and flags by day to keep good visual contact with the tribe. It is an old system that they have long practiced and it has proved its worth many times. Off their starboard bow, far beyond the flashing navigational lights of a Bohol outlier, the fuzzy glow of Tagbilaran obscures the star sprinkled sky. From his rudder seat aft, locked on the constellations above the Western horizon and tacking for the central coast of Cebu and its Queen City of the South, Carloi considers what they must do.
    A large foreign fishing trawler that lies at anchor in the Mactan Channel of Cebu has brought them North from the waters off the Northern tip of Mindanao to these crowded shipping lanes where culture and commerce are a lot different from their home seas. It is a distasteful sail for them but they must do what they can to remedy a situation that affronts the senses of all their people.
    Coming aft from the small living quarters with the step and poise of a life at sea, Rosa perches on the gunwale beside Carloi and hands him half of a papaya before biting into the other half. Many are the night snacks that they have shared from this spot while following the glory of the stars.
    Quietly enjoying her fruit and listening to the pleasant pops of the mainsail as the wind quarters to and fro, Rosa ties up her hair and watches Carloi as he guides, intent on his tack and the directions of the blow. As he ties off the rudder and reaches for her hand, Rosa brings up the unpleasant subject that has put them so far at sea.
    “Lita said that she could see the foreign fishermen beating Rolo after they pulled him from the sea. It wasn’t enough that they ran through and sank his banglo, they needed to kidnap him as well.”
    “Nor enough that they have sucked up all the fish of our waters,” Carloi replies. “Word around the Islands is that they have Rolo in their brig and intend to take him back to their country to make an example of.”
    Rosa searches the stars as if there she can find a meaning for this tragedy. Finding none she turns to her husband.
    “But we are going to fix that, aren’t we Carloi?”
    Looking at his young and beautiful wife, still almost a girl, Carloi feels his fire of indignation spread to his loins. Sliding his tongue up Rosa’s thighs, his desire is further waxed by her sea-spiced scent.
    “You can bet all your beauty,” he says, “and my unerring response to it, Rosa. We will fix it.”
    Mussing Carloi’s hair as she surrenders to the sensations of his touch, Rosa knows that her papaya will again bring her the pleasure of its fruit.
    Bringing his eyes up to the look of his wife’s want, Carloi watches her unbutton and pull down his shorts.
    Firmly greeted by the object of her desire, Rosa covers it with a sheen of spittle, drops her own shorts, and folds over the rudder arm. Watching Orion’s belt flame from the sky to light the niceties of her mind, she delightfully welcomes her hunter home.

    As the banglos enter the greater port area of Cebu at mid-day, a large passenger ferry slowly passes on its way to the dock. People lining the rails toss coins to the sea, watching in amusement as the gypsy children dive from their banglos, follow the tumbling glitter down and snatch it before it gets too deep. Sometimes the glitter, tossed by a good hearted patron, turns out to be something more valuable than a peso coin. It is the custom here.
    Carloi watches this spectacle with mixed emotion, not begrudging the ferry passengers their enjoyment, nor the skill and enjoyment of the tribal children, but aware of the caste values that bring it all together. Mostly he just tries to let it be as he reconnoiters the area. Far into the channel, half way toward Mactan, he can see the fishing vessel that holds Rolo. That is where his real attention lies.
    After getting a layout of the waters in his mind, he calls Dan Chan to and instructs him to position all the banglos slightly down the coast, ready for a night departure. Carloi and Rosa will join them after they scout the waters of the channel near the fishing vessel.

    Using only the small forward jib, the couple meander into the channel and around some larger freighters to close on the trawler. Passing about 100 meters off its port side, they see a loaded launch departing from a set of metal stairs that lead directly to an open hatch on the lower deck. Having already learned enough to know that most likely this hatch leads to the deck where the brig is located, Carloi starts putting together his plans for the raid. Thinking that it would be nice to do more than free Rolo, he envisions a lasting impression of vengeance as well.
    Moving quickly to the far side of an anchored freighter nearby, Carloi pops the main and starts tacking South to rendezvous with the tribe. Getting the raid set in his mind, he looks forward to Rosa who is handling the jib.
    “That was perfect, Rosa. The most gorgeous fo’c’sle figurehead I’ve ever seen and you handled the jib as well as ever. We can do it tonight. The crew has apparently gone ashore and the welcome mat is out.”
    Letting the jib go according to Carloi’s tack, Rosa comes aft to the rudder and sits on a nearby bench. Her face shows none of her husband’s enthusiasm as she stares off to the open water.
    Knowing that there are thoughts that need to be spoken, Carloi touches her knee and says, “Tell me, Rosa.”
    Bringing her eyes back to the man she loves, she does not speak at first. She seems only to surrender to this moment and their being together. As if it is a memory that must develop in her mind.
    Carloi knows his wife and simply waits for her reply, knowing what the gist of it will be already.
    Clearing her throat, Rosa finally says, “Please be careful Carloi, that was not a welcome mat and they might kill you if you are caught. Or probably worse, take you off with Rolo. I think that a rescue can be done as well but if it is different tonight don’t push, I need you.”
    Smiling, Carloi takes Rosa’s hand with one of his own, and touches her cheek with the other.
    “You are right dear heart. There will be no welcome and the utmost care will be taken. If you will, you will hold the banglo and Dan Chan and I will go aboard. If the risk is too great, we will abort.”
    Without hesitation Rosa replies, “As always, I will. That is why we are.”

    Taking the fleetest banglo and running without lights, Carloi, Rosa, and Dan Chan enter the Mactan Channel under a half moon in the wee hours of the morning and stay to the shadows of the larger ships anchored there. Riding the fo’c’sle for the best vision ahead, the two men scout the waters until Rosa steers them alongside the trawler launch and boarding stairs. The boarding hatch is closed but a sliver of light indicates that it is not locked. After belaying the banglo to the launch for a quick release, Dan Chan and Carloi leap over and scale the stairs to the hatch. Squeezing through the hatch, they look at each other with large eyes and adjust to the light. One passage way forward appears to lead to the sleeping quarters while the passageway aft heads toward the fantail and the probable location of the brig. Following the aft passageway on bare feet, quite as cat paws, they come to the brig, right where they had hoped it would be. Lying on a drop hinged iron rack, Rolo stares at the bulkhead until his peripheral vision picks up his two friends creeping in. Almost unable to believe his eyes, Rolo, with mouth agape, rolls to his feet, comes to the cell door and points to a secured cabin door across the way. A set of keys hang from it and snoring can be heard coming from within. Taking the keys with two hands, Carloi proffers them to Rolo. He does not accept them but points to a single key among several. Using this key, Carloi opens the cell door but the latch clangs as he does so. The snoring immediately ceases, and the three tribesmen freeze, prepared for the worst. Just when they again start to withdraw, the door where the keys had hung suddenly flies open and a huge hairless man with North Asian features appears, a large leaded nightstick in hand. Carloi and Dan Chan are on him, both stuffing chloroform soaked rags from a retired tribal medical worker to his face and in his open mouth. Rolo has his legs until, like a Pisa Tower that can lean no more, he crashes to the deck, unconscious. The noise is petrifying but they remain as calm as possible, placing their rags near his face, far enough from his air passage to do no lasting damage.
    Quickly and silently they go back out the exit hatch and into the launch. Rolo and Dan Chan bounce over to Rosa and the waiting banglo while Carloi sticks a block of C4, bartered from some Moro’s, to the bulkhead of the launch below the water line. Inserting a 3 minute fused cap, Carloi lights it and jumps to the banglo. Pulling the lash loose, he hops to the rudder while Dan Chan runs up the main and Rolo sets the jib. Rosa, excited as everybody else and wearing a number 10 Cheshire smile, scurries to the living quarters and secures a first aid kit for any unnoticed injuries.
    Catching a rare night blow the banglo mates are tacking South out of the channel by the time a flash of orange followed by a loud crump travels across the water to their senses. Carloi watches through his binoculars as the trawler lights start to come on and the launch goes down bow first, pulling the metal boarding stairs with it. In the back lit hatch he can barely make out the huge turn key, arms spread to the hatch edges, like a crucified one, looking out.

    ***

    In an isolated Siquijor cove facing the Mindanao Sea and the stretch of Ocean that will take them back to their native waters the Sama Bajau rest and welcome Rolo back with a feast. Several small fires dot the white sands along the azure waters of the cove, all situated more or less near one large bonfire. Spirits are high and bamboo canisters of tuba, or coconut wine, pass freely among the various groups. Children frolic and dive for tidbits of sea life to eat with the baking Katambak, a delicious white fleshed fish wrapped in banana leaves and buried in the sand under the mounting coals of the smaller fires. Rice, as always, is plentiful and fresh fruits gathered from the jungle by Rosa and Dan Chan’s wife, Mary, are cleaned and ready for snacking. Luck and life are good.
    Always off a little bit, whether it be from the weight of leadership or the preference for a more subdued child free relaxation, Carloi and Rosa watch Rolo and his wife, Elsie, approach with their two girls, Epi and Louella. Rosa rises and quickly places nipa mats around the small fire for their guest. Once the niceties of embracing the same fire are done Rolo, with glistening eyes, nods to his girls. Each holds a gift wrapped in batik.
    Louella, the oldest at ten, stands and carries her gift around the fire to Carloi. Placing it in his lap she says, “For bringing our father home and giving us a banglo to live in please accept this from us to always keep your home safe.”
    Her part done with grace, Louella quickly bows, scurries back around the fire, and drops to her seat as eight year old Epi stands, carries her gift to Rosa, and places it in her lap. Looking to her mother, whose nod unlocks her memory, Epi turns to Rosa and says, “For bringing papa back to where he loves to be please accept this from us to keep you strong.” Forgetting to bow but delighted to have gotten through it, Epi bolts back to her seat, her giggle like the sweet chimes of a monk’s wind instrument.
    Smiles and warmth crisscross the fire, its yellow flickering flames casting wet diamonds in eyes all around.
    After a pause for composure, Carloi nods to Rosa.
    “You first.”
    Lifting the flaps of batik one at a time, Rosa exposes a hand weaved bamboo platter, its four corners afire with varnished over bougainvillea blooms. It holds a Crystal covered dish of choice cuts of glistening brown lechon, or roasted pig. Clearly moved, Rosa looks to her friends.
    “Thank you, dear people. The rudder will move like a feather because of this. Such a nice gift.”
    Rolo, rubbing his face first, as if in aggravation, says, “You are welcome, as much as a life is worth, and beyond.”
    All eyes turn to Carloi.
    Smiling and nodding to those across the fire, Carloi unwraps the gift delicately. It is lighter and of more irregular proportions than the other. Lifting the last fold of cloth, Carloi reveals a beautiful hard carved Santo Niño, an ornate statue of the baby Jesus. The fine red velvet of the cape and the semi-precious stones of the crown dazzle Carloi and Rosa’s eyes with reflected fire light. They seem to become solemnly transfixed by the magnificence of this religious icon. One of the few tribes of the Sama Bajau that are Catholic, its leaders consider this a truly blessed gift.
    Stung with awe by the spirit, Carloi and Rosa travel light years in moments, captured by the smiling face of Baby Jesus.
    Rolo and Elsie, knowing that their gifts are truly loved, silently stand, gather their girls, and fade back to their fire.
    Carloi and Rosa, somewhere beyond, cry.

    ***

    Having sailed South into the Sulu Archipelago, the Sama Bajau return to the waters that they originally came from. The fishing grounds here are still good and interference and disrespect by foreign trawlers is minimal. Here the repercussions of such is much more severe, given a more decentralized power structure. Here blood would be spilled, not just the wasting of a trawler launch.
    It has been a long journey back to these waters. While most of the tribe rest and restock at Jolo, Carloi and Rosa take some of the remaining stocks and sail on to one of the smaller islands that dot this part of the Southwest Philippines. It is time they rest as well and let Dan Chan handle things until they can refurbish their spirit.
    Finding an island with fresh water not far, they pull their banglo to the sands of a pretty lagoon and tie it off to a coconut palm. While Carloi tunes the shortwave to the news from Guadalcanal, Rosa collects driftwood for a fire. After making a landside kitchen to go with their banglo berth they cook up some steamed rice, dried fish and stir fried ampalaya, or bitter melon. As is often the case, once the food goes down the spirits go up. Listening to the sounds of a soprano backed by the melodic twangs of a pipa they decide to test the pure waters of the lagoon.
    Playing like otters among the colorful coral, their brown bodies kiss and dive, finally to wrap and drift to the sand. Play turned to passion, they rock in the rising tide as it gently abets their union.

    Clean and complete, with the top of the banglo pulled back, Carloi admires the body of his wife while Rosa studies the glory of the star scattered sky. Such repose has been so long in coming but now it is here. And as fresh as ever. Dragging his finger, as if it were a feather, along Rosa’s body, Carloi brings Rosa back.
    “You are my all, babe. To have you here like this is so beautiful. I am filled. Does it scare you, Rosa?”
    Dark eyes of wonder come to Carloi, as if he need only wish it so.
    “Sometimes, baby,” Rosa replies. “It is wonderful but it is a lot. Maybe it is too much.”
    Knowing what Rosa means, Carloi surrenders to her with a trust that is reserved for only one.
    “We have led well because we are strong but I am getting older and the ways of the world are heavy as it grows smaller. Too heavy for any man...or woman.”
    With a humanity that few possess, Rosa takes Carloi’s face and pulls it to her breast.......and lets him know that, after all, it is as it should be.
    “That is certain my love. But it is also certain that we have our God. God is strongest. And God is good. And because of that we have now.”
    Turning to his back and pulling Rosa closer, Carloi listens to the sea. A shower of stars streak through the constellations, burning bright and gone. So fast they are.
    “You are right, Rosa. You are always right.”

Charles Hayes bio

    Charles Hayes, a multiple Pushcart Prize Nominee, is an American who lives part time in the Philippines and part time in Seattle with his wife. A product of the Appalachian Mountains, his writing has appeared in Ky Story’s Anthology Collection, Wilderness House Literary Review, The Fable Online, Unbroken Journal, CC&D Magazine, Random Sample Review, The Zodiac Review, eFiction Magazine, Saturday Night Reader, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Scarlet Leaf Publishing House, Burning Word Journal, eFiction India, and others.

Bird Island
Chapter 1
Balls

July 2, 1992
Thomas Risk
14 Clarke Street
Narragansett Island, RI
02815
 

Tom,

    I am writing to you as a concerned friend to make you aware that your crow may be in danger. I know that he is a pet to you, but he has made himself a nuisance down at the golf course, where he, along with other crows, have angered many golfers by stealing their balls.

    You may not believe me if you have not seen this. I have, since I am a member of the Narragansett Golf Club. The crows wait to make their move and then always dive after a ball that has been hit into a clear area on the fairway where they know they are out of range of anyone who might chase after them. Your crow or another will descend from the pine trees along the fairway, pick up the ball in his beak, and fly away. He flies over the fence, usually to some old stump or post, and drops it. We had a grass fire last fall and it exposed THOUSANDS of black golf balls. One player actually cried.

    The local pro said we should carry a shotgun (unloaded) in our golf bag. The crows seem to sense danger and stay away, but not your crow. He continues the game. Anyhow, we’re all out to have a round of golf, not carry weapons to scare off birds. But a handful of players have singled out your crow as a particular menace and have talked about “eliminating” him because he is fearless and smart. I believe his name is “Bird.”

    We have tried different colored golf balls – ones which do not look like eggs – and the crows love them just the same. One day a golfer brought a dead crow he had found in the road to the course and that seemed to keep them in the trees, except for one. You can guess who. I have no problem with Bird and I have shared that around the clubhouse. They’re only golf balls, it’s just a game. But I thought you should know there are golfers taking it very seriously.

Sincerely,
 

Henry Clay Stevens

Bird Island
Chapter 2
The Quarry

    WAWP! WAWP! WAWP! WAWP!
    C’mom, Bird! You can do it!
    What are you doing to him? says the away boy.
    Teaching him to fly.
    WAWP! WAWP! WAWP! WAWP! WAWP!
    He’s gonna scare the fish, says the curly it.
    C’mon, Bird. You can do it. Look! A Fish!
    He’s feeding him our bait. It took an hour to catch those sunnies, says the curly it.
    WAWP! WAWP! WAWP! WAWP!
    Wawp is walking away with the fish. Wawp put Bird high on a ledge above the pond where the boys catch fish with their sticks. Bird is alone here and hungry. Wawp is calling Bird like Wawp is not coming back with the fish.
    Jump, Bird!
    The curly it and the away it are throwing. Wawp goes past them. Wawp goes away behind trees and appears on the other side of the water..
    WAWP! WAWP! WAWP! WAWP! WAWP!
    C’mon, Bird! Wawp stands, Wawp’s arms open, a fish moving in Wawp’s fingers. Wawp lifts Wawp’s arms and lowers Wawp’s arms, legs up and down.
    He’s not gonna do it, the curly it says.
    He can do it, Steve, Wawp says. He has all his feathers. He needs a push. His tail is almost grown in, it’s the last part. He can’t walk around forever.
    What’s the tail do?
    Stability, direction, I think.
    What if he falls in the water?
    He’ll float. I’ll go get him.
    That water’s deep.
    Deeper than a crow, I heard.
    He’d float just like a seagull, the away it says.
    Not if he’s upside-down, the curly it says.
    He’s gonna fly it. He wants the food.
    WAWP! WAWP! WAWP! WAWP! WAWP! WAWP! WAWP!
    Out of the sky dives a brown and grey bird who takes a feather off Bird’s back.
    WAAAAAAAWP!
    Mockingbirds are on him, the away it says. He better fly.
    WAWP! WAWP!
    WAWP! WAWP!
    C’mon, Bird. You can do it. I’ve got your FISH! Right here. That’s it, just flap those wings and jump. C’mon, jump!
    The water half in shadow, Wawp in the sun yelling with the fish. Can Bird get to Wawp? Bird does not want to stay here and Wawp will leave Bird here. The curly it and the away it are throwing with sticks and talking and give Bird no fish and Wawp is across the water, moving Wawp’s arms and shouting at Bird to come. But Bird is afraid to jump from this place where Bird cannot stay.
    WHAT ABOUT A GUN? The curly it says.
    WE DON’T WANT ANYTHING TO DO WITH GUNS, the away it says.
    HOW ARE WE GOING TO ROB A BANK WITHOUT A GUN? The curly it says.
    THE PERFECT BANK ROBBERY WHERE NO ONE IS HURT, IT’S ART, the away it says. THERE ARE SO MANY SYSTEMS IN THE WAY, YET EVERY SO OFTEN SOMEONE PULLS IT OFF.
    ART?
    Bird stands . . .
    YOU NEED INTELLIGENCE, CUNNING, TO MAKE YOUR LUCK, AND ABOVE ALL, SILENCE.
    WAWP! WAWP! WAWP! The brown bird, but why?
    what purpose? The curly it says.
    Crows are cool. Tommy is an ass.
    That mockingbird hates him, the curly it says.
    Crows eat their young.
    Not this crow. This crow can’t even fly.
    A crow is a crow to a mockingbird.
    I THINK A GUN WOULD CONVEY THE POINT WITHOUT A WORD, the curly it says.
    A GUN WILL GET YOU TWENTY YEARS, the away it says. WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT, IF THEY SO MUCH AS PUT THE CUFFS ON YOU, THE BANK IS LOOKING AT A LAWSUIT FOR WRONGFUL ARREST.
    MAYBE WE CAN TRAIN THE CROW TO GO IN AND SCARE MONEY OUT OF THEM.
    Bird stands . . .
    LISTEN. THIS IS LEGIT. WE’RE USING THE SAME STRATEGY THEY USE TO GET PEOPLE TO PUT MONEY INTO THE BANK, EXCEPT WE’RE APPLYING IT IN REVERSE.
    WAWP! WAWP!
    WHAT? Says the curly it.
    ALL YOU DO IS GO IN THERE AND GIVE THE LADY THE NOTE, the away it says.
    ONE OF THOSE?
    NO. THIS NOTE IS DIFFERENT. IT WILL SAY: “do not say a word. This is not a gun in my pocket. This is not a bank robbery. Do not give me all the money in all the drawers. If you scream or alert anyone, I will not shoot you in the face.”
    YOU WANT ME TO BRING THAT IN?
    YES, says the away it. STAY CALM. THEY WILL BE GIVING YOU THE MONEY. WALK OUT. WE’RE NOT BREAKING ANY LAW. IT’S THEIR DECISION TO GIVE YOU THE MONEY. WE’RE JUST TAKING ADVANTAGE OF THEIR FEARS. IT WOULD BE BEST TO GET A TELLER WHO LOOKS LIKE SHE HAS SOMETHING TO LIVE FOR.
    LIKE FAT, the curly it says.
    The away it and the curly it are laughing.
    Bird stands . . .
    GIVE HER THE NOTE AND DO NOT SAY A WORD. NOT A WORD.
    WHAT IF SHE SAYS HELLO?
    JUST SHUTTUP.
    The brown bird.
    WHAT IF I GET ARRESTED ANYWAY?
    YOU’LL SUE THEM, the away it says.
    I DON’T WANT TO GO TO JAIL A VIRGIN, the curly it says.
    THERE ARE FIVE SUCCESSFUL BANK ROBBERIES EVERY DAY IN LOS ANGELES. THAT’S LIKE A THOUSAND A YEAR. OURS IS JUST ONE.
    THEY PROBABLY USE GUNS.
    I THINK IT’LL WORK, the away it says.
    I GOT ONE! The curly it says. I GOT ONE! Its stick bent toward the water, jumping while it spins its hand. It bends down to the water and reaches into the water and pulls out a big silver fish by the mouth. It hangs still in its hands. It is big. It holds it toward Bird and says, WOULD YOU KNOW WHAT DO WITH THIS ONE, BIRD? THIS IS A BASS. The curly it kneels and slides the fish into the water. It splashes its hands and stands up.
    C’mon, Bird. I’ve got a fish for you. Look! Fish! C’mon! Jump!
    Bird cries. WAWP! WAWP! WAWP!
    He’s not coming, the away it says.
    You don’t know his stomach. Since he’s been sitting up there, he’s missed three meals. He’s starving. When he becomes convinced that he will perish, he’ll take the leap. He’s perfectly prepared for flight. He’s just never had a reason.
    Who woulda thought you’d need to show a bird how to fly, the curly it says.
    Some birds. Bird! C’mon! Look! Fish! Fish! Fish! Fish!
    Bird jumps . . . Bird’s opened up . . . Bird flaps . . . Bird is over the pond . . . the pond comes up to Bird . . . up from under inside Bird  . . . his wingtips touch . . . his life below him; sky above him: life in the sky . . . Bird flaps wings out of Bird’s Bird . . Bird is stroking away from the glassy surface . . . Bird strokes up and away . . . Flapping faster, flapping . . . Bird is lifted . . . Bird feels it inside BIRD . . . Bird sees Wawp waiting on the shore across the water . . . Bird rises from the pond and the air is in Bird’s eyes . . . Bird is going free with Bird . . . there is Wawp with the fish . . . Bird hits Wawp in the body . . . Bird falls flapping. . . Wawp’s hands catch Bird . . . Bird grips into Wawp’s shirt . . . Wawp is laughing . . . the curly it and the away it are laughing . .
    YOU DID IT, BIRD!
    Almost went into the drink, says the curly it.
    Good job, Bird! Fish!
    Wawp holds the fish. Bird takes it and swallows it.
    I told you guys he would do it. Wawp is walking Bird and Wawp around the pond through the trees toward the curly it and the away it. They are moving their sticks.
    Today is a big day for you, Bird, Wawp says. We’ll do it again.
    I got one, says the away it. Lost ‘em.
    Bass.
    Small one.
    Wawp bends over the metal bait bucket and traps a handful of fish.
    You can’t give him all our bait, the curly it says.
    He just had his first flight. He deserves a party.
    Wawp pinches a fish by the tail and holds its flipping body. Bird grabs it and swallows it. The fish flips inside bird. Wawp offers bird another.
    Bird is hungry.
    Let’s catch him a bass, the away it says.
    He wouldn’t know what to do with a bass, Wawp says. He’d be curious, but he couldn’t swallow it. Maybe we could teach him how to peck the eyes out and pull the intestines out the asshole like a seagull does.
    Waste of a bass, the curly it says. Why do you have to teach him everything? He’s a wild animal. He has instincts.
    Crows are different. They have brains more like us. Their parents teach them things. They live in family groups. They’re not hard-wired like sparrows or seagulls. They’re like dolphins, or us. They come out helpless and become the world’s most successful communists.
    No wonder he sounds like a baby.
    Seeing him skip across the water like a stone and then slam into you is worth a couple minnows, says the away it.

Bird Island
Chapter 3
Black and Bored

    Wawp is in the building for little humans. Wawp is no longer free to play with Wawp’s wheels or swim. Bird has followed Wawp here for days and Wawp sits and sits. Wawp is held by the big humans inside the brick building. Wawp is by the open window. Bird can see Wawp sitting with the little humans. Wawp looks out at Bird. Bird is sitting in a tree above the arranged stones. Bird found one worm here and caught a hopper, but this land is hunted.

    Wawp is held by a big human with big hands and round glass eyes. The big human is at the other end of the room, talking, while Wawp sits, looking at it. The big human has a low, hard, hurting voice. Wawp slides low in Wawp’s seat until Wawp looks like Wawp is hiding. The big human moves back and forth before a black space, holding in its hands something which makes it bark. Wawp looks out at Bird.

    Kek kek kek kek kek kek kek . . .

    Wawp looks at one of the little female humans.

    “Mister Whitfield, please read for us the beginning of ‘The Cask of Amontillado,’” The big human is standing in front of a little human who sits far from Wawp. The little human clears its throat and speaks like Wawp when he gets near to sleep. Wawp reaches into Wawp’s bag while the little human speaks like he is asleep.
    “Excellent, Mister Whitfield. Thank you. Nice job last night on the court too. Mister Jones, please continue.”
    “I . . . Uhm . . . Forgot my book . . Sir,” Jones says.
    “Forgot your book?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Take it in the hall, Mister Jones.” The big human goes to his desk. Jones opens the door and is gone. The door closes. The little humans are quiet.
    “Mister Bookmark! Would you please continue for us where Mister Jones, where Mister Whitfield left off?”
    The little human speaks for a long time.
    “I GOT ONE!”
    Wawp looks out at Bird.
    There is silence in the room.
    “Does someone have something to add?” the big human says.
    Humans smaller than the small humans are outside now, playing and screaming. They run beneath Bird. Wawp closes Wawp’s eyes.
    “No?” the big human says. “Well, if one of you ‘has one,’ I think the rest of us would enjoy hearing about it, so feel free. Poe can wait. In the meantime, Miss Raleigh? Could you please tell us what is the significance of the ‘Cask of Amontillado?”
    It is the little human with red hair that Wawp looks at.
    “Ooo . . . Uh . . . It is the wine?”
    “Yes. And?”
    “It’s significant because it’s their wine in the story,” she says.
    “And who is ‘they’?”
    “fortune—atto— . . . And . . . Mon-tres-sor.”
    The big human steps toward it. It is in the center of the humans. “Go on, Miss Raleigh. What do you think Mister Poe is getting at with his cask of Amontillado? Michelle?”
    “Uhm . . .”
    “Uhm. Is there something symbolic about the cask of Amontillado? Do you think?”
    “Symbolic? I mean, yes.”
    “And what is the symbolic significance of the cask of Amontillado?”
    “Uhm . . . Uhm . . The symbolic significance of . . The cask . . . Of Amontillado . . . Is . . . Uhm . . .”
    “I LOST ‘EM!”
    The glass eyes flash over the small humans. “Who said that?”
    Silence.
    “The entire class just earned a reading assignment and a quiz. Tomorrow. And whoever said that, I know you and we will be spending some one-on-one time together very soon.
    “Now, did you read the story, Miss Raleigh?”
    “Yes.” It looks up.
    “Good. Tell me how the story ends, Miss Raleigh.”
    “Uh . . . It ends when he’s like, putting the stones . . .”
    “And who is he, Miss Raleigh?”
    “Edgar, like Allen Poe is putting the stones—“
    “Edgar Allen Poe?”
    “I mean Montressor.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Uhm . . . Yes . . . I think . . .”
    “Do you think the story is funny, Miss Raleigh?”
    “Uhm . . . A little?”
    “Miss Raleigh, how does the story end?”
    It giggles.
    “Miss Raleigh?”
    “With Edgar, I mean Mon-tres-sor putting the stones—“
    “And Miss Raleigh, what is the point?”
    “Uh . . . Uhm . . . I’m not sure. I . . .”
    The little human is under its hair. It looks down.
    “Would anyone like to help out Miss Raleigh with how the story ends?” The big human is loud and walks at the black wall.
    Wawp looks out at Bird like Wawp hears the men with feathers and shells. The feather men like mist pass by Bird, calling Aye-aye, aye-aye-aye-yah. Aye-aye, aye-aye-aye-yah. They know bird. Charcoal and blood, these men rose from the grass on the wind. This place is claimed.
    “Mister Risk, in the back. Something out there we should know about?”
    “Yes, sir. The school is haunted by dead Indians.”
    The little humans turn to look at Wawp.
    “Is that a fact?”
    “That’s a sense.”
    “And how did you come to this conclusion, Mister Risk?”
    “A crow told me.”
    “A crow told you.”
    “Yes, sir. And I’ve sensed them myself, as well, here at the school. We built this school on the highest ground. We moved their graves. That’s a fact.”
    “Mister Risk, I think you read the wrong story. Could you come back and read us the last pages of ‘The Cask of Amontillado?’”
    “Yes.”
    Wawp says something to the little human next to Wawp. “Now!”
    “Mister Risk, do you not have your book?”
    “No.”
    “See me after class. Mister Smith, lend him yours.”
    The little human gives Wawp a book. “Now read,” the large human says.
    Wawp looks down. Wawp turns it around. His voice cracks and settles, easy and alone.
    “It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth tier . . . . But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply . .”
    “But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply,” the big human says on top of the red headed human. “What do you think that means, Miss Raleigh?”
    The little human is still. The little humans are silent. The big human stands over the red head.
    “I . . . don’t . . . know . . . I . . .” The little human brings its hands to its face and cries. The little humans look at it. The big human is looking at Wawp.
    “Mister Risk, would you care to tell us why it is that Mister Fortunato cannot reply to the hearkening of Mister Montressor?”
    Wawp looks at the large human. The red head is crying.
    “Mister Risk?”
    The cries of the little human answer.
    “Mister Risk!”
    “I don’t know. I don’t know why Fortunato doesn’t reply to Montressor. I don’t know.” Wawp looks outside at Bird.
    “Stand up, Mister Risk!”
    Wawp gets up.
    The big human walks to Wawp and the glass eyes look down on Wawp.
    “The way you read, I said to myself, ‘Now here is a smart kid,’ but I was wrong. Are you stupid, then, Mister Risk?”
    “If I was, would I know it?”
    A small human laughs.
    The big human leans forward. “Can you say, ‘I am stupid.’?”
    Wawp stands still.
    “Say it.”
    “You are stupid.”
    Laughter.
    “We wouldn’t here have the source of the outbursts, would we, Mister Risk? You ‘got one?’”
    “No, sir.”
    They came from your direction. I don’t believe you. Mister Smith. Did you hear Mister Risk mouthing off?”
    “I don’t know. I wasn’t looking.”
    “Do you want to sit on the bench forever, Mister Smith?”
    “I heard something, but – I don’t know.”
    “Your teammate can’t cover for you,” the big human says. “You and I, Mister Risk, have a date with the principal. In the meantime, you might do your best to take advantage of this class. Can you say I am stupid?”
    “I . . . am . . . stupid.”
    “Say it again!”
    “I . . . am . . . stupid.”
    “Again! Hustle!”
    “I am stupid.”
    “Again!”
    “I am stupid.”
    “Say it until I tell you to stop!”
    “I am stupid. I am stupid. I am stupid. I am stupid. I am—“
    “Give me the subjective pronouns!”
    Wawp is silent.
    “Today!”
    “Uh . . . I, you, he, she, it, we, you, they.”
    “Again!”
    “I, you, he, she, it, we you, they.”
    “Objective! Now!”
    “Me, you, him, her, it, us, you, them.”
    “The forms of the verb to be, Mister Risk.”
    “Am, is, are, was, were, be, been.”
    “Again!”
    From Bird’s branch, Bird hears Wawp make the warning sounds again and again, speaking things Bird does not understand in a voice that calls out danger.

Herons

    Ward glanced at the route again and tried to stop his hand twitching. The emergency cord was right next to his head, and someone had stepped on his foot again. He took a breath of body order and bad nerves and tried to make a space amongst the solid mass of commuters crammed onto the tube. By the time he’d made it to the street, he was glad of the rain hitting his face. Bodies flooded past as above city spat the last of its passengers into the Edge, and Ward plonked his arse on the nearest car wreck. He sat lotus style for a few minutes, getting his breathing under control. There’d been too many fights between him and Liv recently for him to hurry home.
    ‘Text her, tell her the bad news that way.’
     When his fingers came back up holding nothing but lint and old job center receipts. Ward put his head in his hands and tried not to move. Maybe nothing else would go wrong if he stayed still.
    ‘There.’
    Ward lurched through the puddles to the storm drain before it could disappear into the city’s guts. When a van rattled on its springs, interior lights flicking on and off his first thought was he should have known better. You didn’t hang around after dark round here.
    ‘Looters?’
    He peered into the storm; there were shapes moving in it now that had nothing to do with the bomb-scarred wrecks littering the street. Ward was quickly deciding he needed to be inside. Anywhere would do, pub, or cafe, even a newsagents would be fine so long as it was off the road.
     Ward’s feet shuffled back without him stopping as the whine of a motor struggling to cope with the weather reached his ears.
    ‘Who is it? Come on; let’s be having you.’
    Feet ticked their way over a car roof, and something landed on his back hard enough to steal the air from his lungs. He rocketed his elbow into its side and realized his mistake as stars burst across his eyes, not a bio then.
    ‘Be still. Not move. Make hurt more.’ The voice was so full of static it was hard to make out the words. ‘Subject should stay still and try not to scream; procedure will complete quicker that way.’
    The whine grew worse, and Ward felt his neck sting.
    ‘Sod that.’
    He was up and in the road a moment later, trying not to bite his tongue in two until he heard the noise he’d been praying for. Ward bucked his shoulders, and the passing vehicle took care of the rest. When the debris had finished rolling into the gutter, he fingered what was left of his jacket.
    ‘Those were my best threads.’

    Ward pulled the curtains back letting light flood into their tiny rundown flat. There seemed a lot of it for such a tiny place; he watched dust sift through the air as an artic rumbled past.
    ‘It’d be quicker doing ourselves in.’
    There was a whine in his voice that made him want to punch something.
    ‘Then stop being so high and mighty. The landlords on the phone every other day asking why his stately home’s rent isn’t being paid.’
    ‘Don’t be like that Liv. We did the best we could with what we had after you paid your Dad off.’
    They watched each other like cats through the sunbeams.
    ‘That’s not all.’
    Liv’s voice tailed off; the job she’d taken to keep them afloat was rubbing at her smile like sandpaper.
    ‘I’m pregnant.’
    She looked away, and when he could see her face again, her skin was taught, like she wanted to run but wasn’t sure where.
    ‘Pregnant?’ He stopped, and blood roared through his ears. When she looked up her eyes didn’t meet his.
    ‘I want to keep it.’

    It was Christmas before he was stood looking down at what they’d produced.
    ‘Do you think she’s beautiful?’
    Liv sounded uncertain as if for once she didn’t know what he was going to say.
    ‘Yeah, she is. I wasn’t sure I’d think that, but she is.’
    Liv gave him the smile; the one she wore when they lay on sweat stained sheets, and she slid close enough to kiss.
    Ward was watching telly when they got the visit.
    ‘Who’s there? That you Tony?’ The doorbell stopped; its noise soaking into the flats walls, ‘What do you want? Liv and the kid are asleep. You trying to give me a heart attack?’
    He made himself laugh; the landlord had been threatening them with a visit. Ward slid the chain off and peered into the darkness.
    ‘...’
    The ringing in his ears didn’t stop until he was on the floor. In the gap where his front door had been were his visitors. All he could see of one was its chest, and the high viz jacket it wore. The smaller of the two spoke first.
    ‘Good evening sir. My names Time and this is my associate, Tide. We’d have liked to be quicker, but you know how it is.’
    There was movement in the stairwell behind it, and Tide lowered its head so it could see Ward. It’s voice sounded like water hitting the hollows of a cave.
    ‘Deep water got in the way you see.’
    ‘Don’t forget the crevasses.’
    ‘That’s right, didn’t want to stay long down there, too salty. No choice, though, never a choice. Spat us out like dead fish, in the end. Spreads barnacles like a plague, the sea.’
    ‘Dry now, though.’
    ‘Yes, dry, but thirsty.’
    Time smiled at Ward, ‘You’re going to help with that.’
    It stepped through the wreckage and produced a clipboard that matched the decaying overalls hanging from its ribs. There was a little badge with the name ‘Time’ and a mug shot on a chain round its neck.
    ‘Bugger off chum.’
    ‘Not yet, Ward, we want to talk to you.’
    Ward let fly and felt his knuckles catch in the nearest’s hands with a sound like a bone snapping.
    ‘Robots? You aren’t supposed to be down here. This is residential only.’
    He went down again as a blow that felt like it could punch through brick took him in the side.
    Ward heard Time say, ‘Leave him, I hate not being able to understand what they’re saying because they’re choking on their teeth.’
    Ward flipped on his side. He could just see the bedroom from where he was. He knew what Meks down here was likely to mean.
    ‘Liv, Jesus Christ. Get the kid, and get out.’
    That got their spokesman’s attention.
    ‘Funny, you should mention that. Your daughter’s what we came to talk about.’
    Water dripped from the things joints as it flicked through the manifest in its fist. ‘No 302 isn’t it Tide?’
    ‘Yeah, let him up. We’ve got paperwork to fill out.’
    Time stepped further into the flat, and Ward got a good look at the thing in the remains of an above city employee’s uniform. It had skin the color of old fat, and when he looked closer, he could see why. It was plastic, and its eyes were as empty as the ocean floor.
    ‘What are you? You’re not the same as them.’
    He nodded at the rest of the figures in the shadows.
    ‘I’m their supervisor. I represent the Rig. We’ve come to serve notice on your daughter.’
    ‘You want to repossess her? She’s my kid.’
    ‘She was, but she’s ours now. We’ve made more than a few alterations via you. You’ve the municipality’s thanks, but we’ve full rights to her. You can see the documents. Should have stayed up to date with your payments Mr. Ward.’
    There was a low chorus of amusement from its friends.
    ‘What are you talking about?’
    ‘You destroyed our implant drone, Mr. Ward when all it was trying to do was implant the correct code. Totally unnecessary, we’ve a job to do and it isn’t helped by uncooperative sods like you. Get the bar code reader ready Mr. Tide.’ Tide produced a device in its fist as its colleague continued, ‘Now Dividends have to be paid, debts reimbursed, salaries as well. Fortunately, the procedure worked, and your daughter got what she needs; even if she doesn’t know it yet. Where she’s going, she’s going to find it very useful. Now we must be off we’ve appointments to keep.’
    It’s eyes blurred as data swept across their surfaces.
    ‘Come in here, and I’ll string you up from the ceiling.’
     ‘Of course, you will Mr. Ward. I’d do the same myself in your shoes. You see she’s quite precious to certain parties. They’re very insistent about keys and sacrifices. As far as we’re concerned its all a bit irrelevant. They’re very old fashioned when what we’re looking at is a straightforward product exchange, blood for oil; that sort of thing. It’s been going on for centuries. Without the stuff black to extract what’s the reason for living? But, your daughter’s what they want, so that’s what they’re going to get, particularly after all the others died in transit. The city’s been kind enough to donate her in return for services rendered. She should survive the transition if that’s any consolation. Whether or not she’ll enjoy her life afterward is another matter.’
    ‘Transition?’
    ‘To where we’re sending her. It’s all pretty standard stuff. We’ve got quite good at it what with all the practice we’ve had.’ Time stopped, ‘...at least the repossession part.’
    Ward’s eyes darted about looking for something he could use to take the smile off its face.
    ‘Please try and stay calm Mr. Ward. You’re only going to make things worse if you get excited.’
    There was a noise behind him.
    ‘Liv?’
    She was stood in the bedroom doorway, blinking the sleep from her eyes. He felt his heart thump.
    ‘Ward?’
    The bundle in her hands twitched, and an arm groped at the air.
    ‘Ours, out of the way.’
    Tide’s figure moved into the corridor filling it from side to side as the others flowed in after it.
    ‘No.’
    Ward felt himself lifted up and slammed into the wall so deep he must have left an impact crater.
    ‘Behave yourself, Mr. Ward. This is a quasi-legal transaction, all above board I’ll think you’ll find. You’re supposed to wait until after we’ve served notice before you attempt to make a complaint.’
    ‘What’s wrong with you, why can’t you see this is wrong?’
    ‘We’re sick, Mr. Ward, so sick with hunger it hurts. It’s been a long time since we weren’t.’
    Time’s face began to unfold, and soon Ward was looking down a tunnel made of razors.
     ‘Don’t worry Mr. Ward we’ll be quick.’

    Ward sat up.
    ‘Liv?’
    At least he knew who that was. His head was spinning so fast he could barely remember his name.
    She was at his side in a second; wrapping herself around him like she wanted to climb inside.
    ‘Where’s Gem?’
    ‘They took her. I tried, I really tried to stop them, but they said if I didn’t let them all they’d leave me with was her skin. What am I supposed to do with that?’
    He couldn’t see her tears, but he could feel the shudders as she let them out.
    ‘We’ll get her back; where did they go?’
    ‘They didn’t say, just that she was there’s.’
    ‘I’ll find her. They’ll be in some rat hole round here judging by the state of them, moonlighters are worse than scabs.’
    ‘How do you know?’
    ‘Where else they going to go? They’d be cleaned off the streets in seconds up above. They’re more rust than metal. They must be desperate.’
    ‘But the Edge’s huge; there’s thousands of people living here.’
    ‘I’ll ask your Dad.’
    ‘You won’t. You said next time you saw him you were going to knock his teeth out.’
    Liv’s Dad was six foot two and built like the meat factory he used to work in. Right now Ward would have fought him just for the hell of it.
    ‘He’s friends with all the scallywags round here. One of them will know where she is. Come on Liv we’ve got to try.’
    ‘What about the cops?’
    Ward laughed.

    ‘I can’t believe you lived in that.’
    He looked up at the peeling boards flapping from Franks tower block,
    ‘Not just me.’
    ‘I bet your Dad feels right at home.’
    When they reached his flat Ward belted the door loud enough to wake the dead, but no one appeared to find out who it was making the noise; you didn’t where Frank was concerned.
    ‘Reckon he’s in?’
    Liv got her answer a second later.
    ‘Who the fucks that?’
    ‘Your daughter, open up.’
    The sound of enough bolts being drawn back you’d have thought they were standing on the doorstep of a prison filled the corridor as Frank appeared in the darkness.
    ‘What do you want? I thought I told you not to come back here.’
    ‘You did, but it doesn’t look like I listened does it?’
    Liv elbowed past the figure in the doorway, leaving Frank and her boyfriend to stare at each other.
    ‘You.’
    Frank’s eyes narrowed to slits.
    ‘Yeah me, Frank. How’s life?’
    ‘Crap.’
     Liv’s father looked like the curries and late night violence had finally gotten to him, but the faded blue on his arms still told you what he’d been like in his glory days. Livs voice broke the deadlock.
    ‘You’re going to help us Dad.’
    ‘What’s that supposed to mean? It’s half twelve at night. I’ve told you before; stay away. You cause me enough problems as it is.’
    ‘Yeah, I remember that Frank. You stopped that pretty quick, didn’t you? With your fists.’
    For a man as big as Frank he could move surprisingly fast when he wanted. Ward found himself flattened against the wall with an arm at his neck.
    ‘Shut your mouth you little rodent. I never liked you.’
    ‘We got a visit last night, Dad.’
    ‘From who?’
    ‘They weren’t a resident, something took Gem.’
    ‘What the brat you had with him?’ Frank dropped his arm, ‘What the hell’s going to want something that came from that?’
    ‘I do, and it’s your granddaughter you’re talking about.’
    ‘If you say so.’
    ‘I thought you might be like that; course we can go it on our own, or call the cops. People might think a little differently of you, though. After all, you’re my Dad. How long do you think you’ll last if people knew you’d folded on something like that?’
    Frank gave her an odd look then, midway between exhaustion and fear, like he knew what was waiting out there where the lights didn’t reach.
    ‘Lotta young kids looking for a challenge, same as usual. I need to think.’
    Frank fingered the peeling wall paper for a second; tearing it into strips.’
    ‘Look, Frank,’ Ward made sure to try and sound reasonable, ‘You know everyone round here from before they roofed over. Just point me in the right direction. I’ll do the rest.’
    ‘You? You scrawny little runt. They’d snap your neck like a twig if you tried to throw a punch. I still can’t get my head round her falling for you. Still, I might want to do something about this; it depends. What did they look like?’
    ‘Most of them like the sort of gear you see moldering on the lower levels left overs from before they roofed over. But, I don’t think that’s what they are, and one was high tek, not a Kombattant, but close. There was too much water on them as well, and rust too. The lower levels are dry as cement dust.’
    ‘Tell him what happened when you got attacked.’
    When Ward finished, the look on Frank’s face made him want to leave right then. There was no help to be had from the old man; that much was obvious.
    ‘You’ve been poking your nose into things you shouldn’t have, haven’t you? You need to be careful. Things change, its not the same round here as when I was a lad. Back then, I pissed off a lot of things I shouldn’t, but I knew what they were. There’d be a queue right round the block if they all came visiting at the same time. Nowadays its different, I stay in here now its safer, what’s responsible for this is a sore loser.’
    ‘I’ve been waiting for you to say something like that. You know what it is don’t you?’
    Frank nodded, ‘It’s been looking for a way to get back at me for years.’
    ‘Tell me.’
    Frank headed into the lounge, by the vid box stood a half bottle of whiskey. The old man unscrewed it, and they watched his Adam’s apple pump as it brought the liquid to his gut.
    ‘They’re petrol addicts.’
    ‘They’re what?’
    Frank shrugged, ‘Some people like crack, some people like gear; then there’re others who like blood, and others still that like petrol, diesel. You name it; they’ll do it; LPG, gas, crude. Most of them are Meks, but there’s the odd Bio in the mix that’s been altered to deal with it. They’ll do pretty much anything to get to it too, gets them into a lot of trouble. There’s nowhere left above you can still nick it now the populations been upgraded. The Edge’s all that’s left. The rigs used to be on their side; they were suppliers for a long time after the collapse. At least the deep sea ones were before the oil ran out and they got fancy with all that fission cell rubbish. That white thing’s one of their automatons. You should be thankful that’s what’s got your boy not one of the spark heads. They’re a lot worse. You wouldn’t want to see the state of Gem once they’re done.’
    ‘Why do they want her?’
    ‘Probably coz I went and sold its friends a load of second-hand filters back in the day. I liked to take a risk or two when I was younger.’
    Frank’s lips twisted to reveal the gold still clinging to his teeth.
    ‘Problem was the source; I should have known better than to use Middle East surplus. They’d only been nuked the year before. Turns out Meks are susceptible to radiation as well.’
    ‘So now they’ve come for us, and my daughter in particular?’
    Frank grinned, and Ward started forward.
    ‘Calm down son; they’re out to get the oil flowing again. That’s all that’s important to them, remember that.’
    ‘Using humans?’
    ‘Oh no, they’re too frail, and its impossible anyway now the fields are dry. They want to make a bargain.’
    ‘With what?’
    ‘With things, you don’t want to mess with.’
    Franks smile was so wide now you could count the gaps in it.
    ‘Where are they then? It’s your granddaughter they’ve got.’
    ‘Hades Place.’

    By the time they left the block, it was dark. The warrens round Franks were well known as the worst in the estate, but neither of them could wait.
    ‘They’re going to be ready aren’t they?’
    Liv slid a hand down his cheek as he brought his face toward her.
    ‘They will.’
    ‘But, we’re going to get him back?’
    ‘We will.’
    ‘Then, why don’t I believe you?’
    ‘Because you’re not stupid. We’re going to try anyway.’
    Hades Place was where the virals had gone off back when the last of the Kombattants had been fighting themselves to a standstill. Now, all you could see through the windows were stars shining through the roofs.
    ‘He said the house was one of these?’
    ‘Yeah, don’t look like much do they?’
    Ward paused, the air felt like someone had brushed it the wrong way long enough to see sparks.
    ‘They’re in.’
    ‘Let’s go round the back.’
    The gardens were full of beams, barbed wire, and rats, and the low thump of machinery reached their ears as they went deeper.
    ‘No wonder the areas empty. Look at them.’
    Each house had a figure spread eagled figure across the girders planted in their yards.
    ‘How come no ones noticed?’
    ‘Hades Place’s empty has been for years. It’s a no-go zone. No ones supposed to live here, the contaminations too bad. Can’t you feel it?’
    Ward could, the bump where he’d been bitten was itching so bad he was surprised the skin hadn’t come off. He pulled Liv close, ‘You should go.’
    Liv looked like she was about to tell him what she thought of that when the nearest door opened, and the noise grew louder.
    ‘You’ve been waiting.’
    ‘Of course, it wouldn’t be the same if we didn’t welcome you.’
    The Rig’s puppet smiled, and Ward looked up, he’d thought the only thing the crosses held were the rain eaten corpses of the under projects former residents. He’d been wrong. Meks were crawling along the bars everywhere he looked.
    ‘Give me my daughter.’
    ‘Of course Mr. Ward. If you’d like to step this way? They’re getting impatient. It’s a long way through the muck, and they’ve been waiting a long time. You can go with her too if you like. The more, the merrier. It’s not our fault they were so specific about age. All we want is the black stuff back.
    ‘The oil.’
    ‘Need it.’
    ‘Dry without.’
    ‘Like dust.’
    The autonomon’s companions had crept close enough you could hear the ache in every word.
    Ward answered for them both, ‘We’ll go.’
    ‘Good, follow me.’
    ‘They’re going to kill us you know that, don’t you?’
    Liv sounded like she’d already worked out where all this was likely to end.
    ‘What else are we supposed to do?’
    There wasn’t much you could say to that. Their hands found each other as they stepped inside because pretty soon the sound of pistons working amongst the shattered brick drowned everything else.
    ‘Where is she?’
    ‘I’ll show you.’
    You could still see the automaton’s smile, even in the dark, each tooth gleamed like it was made of salt.
    Ward squeezed Liv’s hand.
    ‘If you get the chance, run.’
    ‘I wouldn’t do it Liv. There’s so many depths round here; so many holes to swallow the unwary, so many mouths to feed.’
    The noise of machinery was coming from a ragged hole torn through the foundations. Ward poked his head over the lip and looked down, ‘Down there?’
    ‘Yes.’
    His nostrils burned with every breath as he peered over the edge.
    ‘Gem...’
    Years back he’d seen footage of the old disasters when hydrocarbons had grown so rare they’d penalized their use. What he could see below him looked like a sea bird drowning in an oil slick, and the machines around his daughter were bleeding more from the holes in their tanks every second. As Ward stared the bindle twitched, and a ripple spread over the surface, the lake looked so weak, thin and easy to snap it put his teeth on edge.
    ‘We’re going to send your daughter through soon. It’s almost ready. With the drills striking oil again the rigs will run.’
    ‘Purpose.’
    ‘Fuel.’
     ‘Quiet now; he gets the message. We don’t want to scare them off. Wait...what are you doing?’
    The vibrations had grown stronger as more machinery came to life and Ward had used the opportunity to topple the nearest robot. He could see what he needed even in the dark as the lights began to fade, and the noise of plant kicking into life grew louder. Times fuel lines shone, fat, and full down its back just visible through rust pitted metal. He gritted his teeth and slammed his knuckles through eggshell thin metal until he held a fistful of them. In the end, Time dropped to its knees with the last of the light fading from its eyes like a flare stack going out as Ward finished ripping its spine out with a howl. He ran for Liv; the trophy clutched in one hand spilling petrol and oil like rain.
    ‘Take this.’ Ward gave her one end, ‘and don’t let go.’
    ‘It won’t reach; she’s too far down.’
    ‘It doesn’t matter, just be there when I get back.’
    He was beginning to wonder how far down the spill went. He took a breath of air that made his lungs burn, and for a moment he felt like he was in the flat when Liv had told him she had a kid inside her.
    Ward jumped.

unbounded

my unbounded love
makes me fight for you, against
impossible odds

John Harding’s Mom

    It is already blazing hot outside, oppressively humid and this hangover is too much for the bicycle so I am taking the moped to Charlie’s house to look in on his dog, Friday.
    The moped’s top speed is 33 mph, which is fine by me. Rolling by the Pier beach it is packed with the summer crowd in full Fourth of July madness. I bank a right into Charlie’s driveway and this sets off Friday into a fit of delirious barking. He will not shut the fuck up until I mix in a can of Mighty Dog with his dry kibble, take him for a walk and play a little fetch with him.
    I open the fridge to see if Charlie held up his end of the bargain. Presto! A case of Lowenbrau 7-ounce beers, 12 hamburger patties, a half pound of American cheese, a dozen bulkie rolls and a head of iceberg lettuce. This is my payment for a week of dog-sitting while he tears it up on Block Island. Plus, I get run of the house and all the half-smoked joints I can find in his bean-bag ashtray.
    On our way back from our walk, during which Friday relieves himself in 19 different locations, I see her: John Harding’s mom. She is bent over the lawnmower, wearing cutoff jeans, sneakers and a hot pink bikini top. Everyone in Charlie’s neighborhood wants to tear off a piece of John Harding’s mom. I walk by her nonchalantly and try not to stare at her absolute smoke-show of a body. She goes to the gym every day for aerobics and her tanned, lean body, covered in Hawaiian Tropic lotion, is stunning. Her shoulder length blonde hair is a tangled mess, which gives her an even sexier look.....
    John Harding’s mom is having problems with the lawnmower. She looks over at me and smiles. Friday somehow gets off his leash and rushes towards her, jumps, and nearly knocks her to the ground. Friday has a pink-on. Apparently John Harding’s mom has that effect on all animals.
    I walk over to retrieve the dog.
    “You’re Charlie’s friend, right?’
    “Yeah.”
    “Do you have a name?”
    “Oh, sorry, I’m Dean. You’re John’s mom, right?”
    “Yes, but you can call me Trudi. You go to school with John?”
    “Yeah, I just graduated, he’s a year younger than me.”
    “I see. Well, he’s up in Vermont visiting his dad and I’m left here to cut the lawn. I can’t seem to get this machine started,”
    “Oh, let me try.”
    John Harding’s mom is standing very close to me and I can smell the suntan oil smeared all over her delicious body. Her tits are nearly spilling out of her bikini top and her stomach muscles are ripped.
    I pull the crank on the mower. Nothing. I unscrew the gas cap and see that it’s bone dry.
    “You need gas. Do you have a container? I can go get you some.”
    “Why don’t you bring Friday into the house and we’ll take a ride together?”
    Suddenly I’m in John Harding’s mom’s sports car, a 1976 Triumph TR-6.
    She’s driving like a maniac on the way to the gas station. I pump the gas as she goes into the package store for smokes, a magnum of white zinfandel and a bag of ice. She dumps some ice into a large plastic cup and fills the rest with the wine. She knocks back half of the drink and hands me the rest.
    “I know you’re not 21 so don’t rat me out, Dean. Let’s go for a ride. The lawn will be there when we get back.”
    The way she says my name sets my mind reeling and my cock into motion.
    She wheels the car into the parking lot of the Neptune, a dive bar/tourist trap, the last of its kind from the Pier’s honky-tonk days.
    “Let’s shoot some pool.”
    She puts on a white cotton long sleeve shirt to cover up those immaculate tits and we walk into the bar, which is already packed.
    “What do you like, Dean?’
    “Gee, I don’t know, whatever you’re having!”
    She comes back from the bar with two shots of Jack Daniels and two Budweiser longnecks.
    John Harding’s mom is ready to fucking party!
    The pool room is empty, so we go in and I rack the balls.
    She proceeds to kick my ass all over the place, running the table with calm authority. After every shot that drops, she flicks the ash of her cigarette onto the carpet and looks me straight in the eye. She enjoys the humiliation she is inflicting upon me but then, with tenderness, she has mercy.
    “Let’s get out of here. Did Charlie leave you any pot?”
    “Yes he did. But you won’t be too psyched to cut the lawn once you try the shit he’s got.”
    “Well he bought it from me, so I’m not that worried about it.”
    We get back to Charlie’s house and John Harding’s mom pours more of the white zinfandel as I unroll a few long roaches and roll the resin-weed into a fat joint. We smoke half of it and now I am getting a little scared. She has taken off the shirt and the cutoffs and is walking around Charlie’s house in her pink bikini.
    “It’s HOT in here,” she says. “Let’s go for a swim at my place.”
    I had forgotten the Hardings have a swimming pool.
    We stroll over to her place, with its fenced in backyard and pool, which has just been cleaned.
    “I don’t think John would mind too much if you borrowed a pair of his trunks but you can swim in your underwear if you want.” This, is punctuated with a knowing laugh as she powers up the boom box with The Police, “Synchronicity.”
    The water is delightful, my buzz is perfect, Stuart Copeland’s drumming is exceptional and my courage is becoming enormous. I get the feeling I will be fucking John Harding’s mom today.
    This feeling turns into more than just a hunch as she gets out of the pool, dripping wet, lays face down on a chaise lounge and takes off her bikini top to reveal the most amazing female form I’ve seen. She’s twice my age but in dazzling shape.
    My courage is now through the roof, though it is tempered with a healthy dose of fear.
    “You need a little lotion on your back?”
    “I thought you’d never ask, Dean.”
    My hands are shaking as I pour the Hawaiian Tropic onto her back and start massaging it in.
    ‘You’re not scared, are you Dean?”
    “No, just very excited.”
    “Yeah, well I can tell....,that’s a little tough to hide. So.... here’s what we need to do. Let’s just unleash that tension right now.”
    In the blink of an eye, she sits up to reveal those perfect tits with small erect brown nipples and grabs the lotion from me. With a dazzling fluidity of motion she pulls down my soaking wet underwear, grabs hold of my balls and with her other hand covers my cock with the lotion. With five or six slow but glorious tugs, she has me where she wants me and I unleash a load of cum that lands in her hair, face, tits, and shoulders. She squeezes my balls to get the last drop out and then gives my pecker a friendly kiss.
    “I have some stuff to take care of,” she says, abruptly ending our date and diving back into the pool. “Why don’t you come back tonight for dinner?”
    Stunned by the afternoon’s events and a little relieved to be going, I grab my towel, finish the wine and head back to Charlie’s.
    Jen has called three times and left two messages on Charlie’s machine.
    They went from, ‘Hi honey, give me a call please” to “where the heck are you?” in the span of an hour.
    “A handjob is not cheating,” is what is going through my mind as I rinse off my horn with Charlie’s garden hose in the back yard.
    I’m grilling two burgers as Jen pulls up in her mom’s Subaru.
    “Sorry honey, I was cranking tunes when you called,” I say. More like getting my crank tuned, but, fuck Jen anyway, she’ll be buggering off to UNH in a couple months. This monogamy thing is not my style.
    She feels the power shift and doesn’t like it.
    “I just wanted to see you before I leave for the weekend,’ she says.
    “Oh? Where are you going?”
    “April and I are going to see the campus.”
    “On July fucking third?” I try to feign anger mixed with jealousy.
    “Yes, she has friends up there we are staying with. You’re welcome to tag along.”
    “That’s OK.” I want to add, “you smug fucking cunt.”
    “Do you need me to take care of you before I go?”
    Code language for a blowjob. Always a delicate one, Jen.
    “Sure!”
    My cock has barely had a 20-minute rest but it springs to life as Jen, who looks exactly like Dorothy from “The Wizard of Oz,” strips down naked and offers up her tight young pussy to me. I get her plump ass up in the air, bend her over the kitchen sink, and get my meat settled in. Slow strokes like the Tin Woodsman. The whole time I am thinking about John Harding’s mom.
    “Come inside me, baby. Shoot it in me!”
    Jen wants it to be over with, but I’m going to prolong it, thanks to my new friend with the perfect tits.
    I start slamming her with all my might and notice my pelvis is putting bruise marks on her ass. It must hurt but she won’t give me the pleasure of letting me know that for sure.
    “Come on baby, I’ll do anything you want.”
    To which I want to say: “Bullshit, you won’t let me fuck you in the ass.”
    Conjuring up images of John Harding’s mom, I drop a mid-sized load in Jen’s pussy. I couldn’t be more happy with the fact she’s on the pill.
    She turns frigid because she knows something is up. Jen is a seer. But she has no proof and I am starting to care less and less about my beautiful little high school sweetheart.
    We eat the burgers, drink a couple of beers and settle in for a nap.
    Two hours later I wake up and Jen is gone. She has left a note:
    “Bye sweetie! Behave yourself.”
    That’s not going to happen.

    Friday the shaggy dog needs another journey so I put on my bathing suit and head down to the beach. He’s not supposed to be there but it’s after five and Fourth of July weekend and the evening has become a free-for-all. I throw him the tennis ball until he’s exhausted and tie him off to a lifeguard chair so I can take a refreshing dip in the Atlantic. I am young, strong and happy.
    Back at Charlie’s I grill up two more burgers, one for me and one for Friday. He likes his medium rare with no bun.
    John Harding’s mom pulls into her driveway and Friday starts yapping his lungs out. He’s loud and relentless, sending out a mating call for me.
    She walks over, dressed to kill. A totally different look: white mini-skirt, red, white and blue striped v-neck shirt, tits at full attention, red shoes with stiletto heels, hair up in a bun, perfection. She is as close to a ten as I have ever seen.
    “You’re not ruining your appetite are you Dean?”
    “Oh no, not at all, I’m always hungry.”
    “I bet you are. Is Friday all set for the night? And can you put on something a little more dressy? I decided I don’t want to cook, we’re going out tonight.”
    Slight panic.... this will be twice in public with John Harding’s mom. This could be dangerous. She senses my fear and pounces on it.
    “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart, we’re leaving this town and going somewhere a little less familiar.”
    Later, freshly shaved, wearing a pair of Charlie’s linen blue pants and a brand new white t-shirt, I am a bit more relaxed.
    “You’re driving,” she says.
    We end up in Mystic at 41 Degrees North. We have killed a four-pack of Lowenbrau on the way there.
    Dinner is seafood bisque, shrimp cocktail, filet mignon with lobster tail and a bottle of Moet. I have 22 dollars to my name. She insists on paying and puts it on her American Express Gold Card.
    She has a few words with the bartender as we are leaving and he hands her a brown paper bag with two more bottles of Moet in it. She motions me over.
    “Dean, this is Hugo. He wants to buy us an after dinner drink. What would you like?”
    Hugo is a big motherfucker. 6'4" and jacked. I would not want to fight him.
    “Don’t worry, Hugo is gay!”
    They both start cracking up, laughing at my blushing face.
    “You’re not my type, Dean, I like older dudes,” Hugo says, handing me a Dewars on the rocks.
    After 10 minutes I’ve had about enough of their commiserating and excuse myself.
    “I’ll be outside, thanks for the drink Hugo.”
    John Harding’s mom has exactly five minutes to get herself out of the bar or I will be hitchhiking home. It’s not that far and there are plenty of cars on the road. This lady is hot but she’s not going to make a fool out of me.
    She comes outside, smiling and laughing, with the champagne and two flute glasses. She takes my hand and leads me towards a condo, right on the water.
    “We’re staying here tonight.”
    “Whose place is this?”
    “Hugo’s. He is heading to Newport after his shift and he insists we don’t drink and drive.”
    There’s mirrors everywhere at Hugo’s place. And dumbbells, lots of fucking dumbbells, 20 pounds, 30 pounds, 40 pounds, all the way up to 80 pounds. Hugo must work hard to attain that mass.
    There’s also a mirror on the kitchen counter that John Harding’s mom is wiping off with a paper towel. She unfolds a triangular-shaped packet and drops a mound of cocaine on the mirror.
    I have done coke once in my life, at an Elvis Costello concert. It didn’t seem to have any effect.
    This shit is different. It is yellowish in color and you can smell it from ten feet away. Jet fuel.
    We each snort two small lines and she starts pacing around the house, on a mission to find a bottle of Jose Cuervo. Finding it in the freezer, she pours us each a double shot.
    “You want training wheels?”
    “Huh?”
    “Lime and salt.”
    “Sure!”
    The coke has me absolutely jacked and totally horny.
    The tequila levels everything out.
    “Put some tunes on!”
    I find Hugo’s vinyl, boxes of it, inside the stereo console that is straight out of 1970, wooden cabinet and all.
    He has lots of Village People records. He also has Miles Davis “Live at the Village Vanguard,” which will be the perfect soundtrack for the rest of the evening.
    John Harding’s mom is ready to fuck.
    We lock horns in the kitchen.
    Her hands are all over me, her tongue is in my ear, she smells like tequila, lime, Anais Anais and sex.
    With her heels off, she is short. I pick her up and move her to the kitchen counter. I’m dying to get into that pussy but don’t want to get overly excited and blow a load in 45 seconds. She is tearing at Charlie’s brand new white t-shirt with her sharp nails. Fuck it, I’ll buy him another one. Her mouth is on my neck, flicking her tongue and striking nerves I never knew I had. Soon her shirt is off and my mouth is on her tits, which are firmer than my 18 year-old girlfriend’s. I start doing the math on how old this broad is....37? 39? 42? Whatever, she is an incredible piece of ass and as I reach for her pussy she jumps off the counter with feline quickness drops to her knees and gets my cock out. John Harding’s mom wraps her lips around the head of my cock and then slowly, delicately, works up and down the shaft. She is a pro. I notice how beautiful her skin is as her mouth slobbers spit on me. I’ve never been deep-throated until now. She is swallowing my cock and somehow manages to lap my balls with her tongue. An amazing effort. She gets up, whips off the miniskirt and black thong and takes total charge of the situation. Soon I’m on Hugo’s carpet on my back and John Harding’s mom is about to guide my cock into her tight, shaved pussy. Inch by inch she glides down on it and starts the motion. We get into a rhythm that matches Tony Williams’ drumming coming from the living room. Her tits bounce every which way and her lean stomach muscles are a thing to behold. I flip things around and start drilling her missionary-style as she wraps her thighs around me. Her fingernails are digging into my back, taking half my skin with them. I don’t give a shit about what kind of marks she’s going to leave. It’s just this moment.
    She leads me to the bathroom by the cock. I have a feeling about what’s coming next.
    “I want you to fuck me in the ass,” she says. “But first you have to say my name.”
    I draw a blank for a moment but then come up with it:
    “Trudi.”
    She finds an unopened jar of Vaseline and for this I am grateful.
    She takes two fingers-full and rubs it on my dick. I grab the jar and smear way too much of it on her ass. Stretching out over the tub in some kind of aerobics pose, she leads me into a long, luxurious anal session. She wants every inch, as far as it will go. I deliver the goods as she starts moaning, then panting, then screaming for more. Sweat is dripping off of me as I pound her amazingly pink asshole into submission.
    “Fill me up! Fill up my ass with your juice!”
    This sends me to the edge as an enormous wave of orgasm comes over me and my load pumps inside of her for what seems like five minutes.
    Showering, we soap each other up and kiss deeply, passionately.
    “So who was your little brunette friend who came by this afternoon? Is that your girlfriend?”
    “Uh, yeah.”
    Slight panic she’s going to do something crazy to Jen.
    “Oh don’t worry, I keep lots secrets. I’m just glad she took care of you today. Your endurance tonight was fabulous.”
    To this, she adds, “just keep your fucking mouth shut about today and maybe we can be special friends.”

Roof Shot

    The first step is to visit my nurse practitioner and ask her for a script to get an HIV test. I need a valid reason to be in the hospital annex. What I tell her is, “I hate to admit I did this, but I had sex with this guy I met at a party and later my friend tells me the guy is a major slut and she hopes to God I used a condom. Well, we did use one the first time but then didn’t have any more and well...”
    She gives me an angry little lecture before scribbling out the order and I thank her humbly with my head properly hanging.
    The truth is though, I haven’t had sex for over a year and that was with my ex.
    With a little smile on my face, I slip the script into my pocket and leave.
    They say that women make better marksmen than men. Fine motor control and all. In fact, science proves that women hold a distinct advantage in long-distance shooting. Wider hips and a lower distribution of weight provide females with more balance and control in a standing position. I’ve known this for some time now, since my brother Sean and I practiced up at our uncle’s cabin. I was born to be a sniper, though hardly the military type since I enjoy physical comfort, pretty clothes and jewelry too much for that kind of suffering.
    The target is in my sight. From my position on the roof, I have a clear path between two five-story buildings straight through the park to the stage. His men stand on each side of him, tiny figures in black, so predictable and easy to see against the bright backdrop. The crowd is relatively sparse and wearing, since it is spring, a lot of light colored clothing. The target’s head is centered, from here a tiny peach blob. A slight breeze is blowing from the east and ruffles the bangs of my wig.
    The target has apparently begun his speech. A miniature arm is frequently in the air. My MO is to shoot on the exhale. I take several long, calm in-and-outs, my eye bores into the target’s head and slowly I pull the trigger.
    After that, I don’t waste even a second looking to see the results. Having trained for this for months, I quickly take down the rifle and tripod, fold the latter up and run with both across the roof to a long unused chimney. This is about three feet high and one and a half feet across. I dump the objects down it but don’t wait to hear the distant clatter as they hit bottom. My bag waits by the steps, so I grab it and run like hell down the next seven flights and out into the street to hear sirens coming from all directions.
    Two things are fortunate; the first that my grandparents had their apartment in this building for thirty-nine years and they watched Sean and me while Mom worked. We ran all over the place, including the roof, and I know every nook and cranny. That’s how I was aware of that chimney being sealed off at the bottom. The second thing is that my grandfather was a World War II vet and military gun nut and the rifle I just used was his very last acquisition, a Barrett Model 99, made in 1999. One year later Grandpa died.
    Looking as calm as possible, I slip down an alley and out a half block down, then cross the street and into the hospital annex through the side door I’d planned on. A single restroom is to my left and happily no one is in it, otherwise, I’d have to continue down that hall and turn right for the next one. Locking the door, I remove the short black wig, pop it into my bag and shake out my honey blonde hair. I remove my reversible navy jacket, flip it to its light tan side and struggle back into it. I peel off my up to the elbows surgical gloves, pull a good pair of scissors out of my bag and cut the gloves into tiny pieces into the toilet. Then I finish up by taking a pee, flush the toilet and carefully wash my hands and arms. It looks like everything flushed well, but to make sure, I flush again before making my exit. Oh, one more thing – I pull a hot pink scarf out of my bag and wind it around my neck. Anyone who looks at me now will note that scarf. This new chick looks nothing like the one who ran out of that building.
     A doctor walks by in his long white coat and we nod at each other. I continue on down the hall, make several turns and locate registration where I check in for my blood test. Not too long a wait and then off to the lab where I push up my jacket sleeve and endure the needle stick. Several sirens are approaching outside.
    “What’s all that?” I ask the tech.
    “I don’t know,” she says. “An accident or something.”
    “How long for the results?” I ask, being sure to sound anxious.
    “One to two weeks. Your doctor will call you.”
    “Thanks,” I say, pushing my sleeve back down. “Wish I’d been more careful.” The tech nods and tries to comfort me. “Chances are good you’re all right but even worst case scenario, they keep you up and running for decades now.”
    I smile at her, head out and am soon back on the street where a huge crowd has gathered that includes press, TV crews and police. One cop, a big hairy type with his head shaved is yelling at people to disperse. I approach a smaller, quiet one and ask, “What’s going on?”
    Instead of answering, he tells me to move on, so I do. I cross the street and walk two blocks to my own apartment. People are milling about in the street there too, but I cut through them and into my building. One of my neighbors, Mrs. Goldstein, says, “Can you believe it? I thought something like this might eventually happen.”
    I shake my head. “The world is insane,” I assure her and walk on by into the elevator. My apartment is on the top floor. It sure is good to be home; I feel like I might collapse but still have work to do.
    This old building has charms that new ones usually don’t unless you’re a zillionaire - marble floors in a few places and fireplaces in some of the apartments. Like mine. The wood and kindling are already stacked; all I have to do is light it. While it’s gearing up, I take the wig into the bathroom and snip off tiny bits at a time to flush down the toilet. After several flushes, I take what’s left back to the living room and toss it into the flames. Meantime, I remove my old leather ballet pumps and add them to the pyre. Tomorrow, I’ll clean out the fireplace and that will be that.
     My cat is interested in some loving but first I pour a glass of Chardonnay and pick up my photo of Sean wearing his fatigues in the Iraqi desert. He still looked relatively happy then before he had his arm blown off and got all crazy from PTSD... before that fucker I shot was instrumental in cutting off funds to veterans. Before Sean ran out of help and ended up hanging from the ceiling. Yeah, he still looked happy then.

My Answer To An Old White Well-Off Redneck Voter

    I kind of figured that you must be doing well. That’s good. We are OK but we are hurt by what is happening around us. It’s more incredible, in every sense of the word, than your “interesting” take on it. For the philosopher/writer or humanist, given that we are not poor, this spectacle shows just how low it can get. If we are poor or sick, most likely we are entering what is euphemistically called the end of life cycle.
    I was pissed off and hurt by this country after Vietnam, but comparatively that feeling now seems rather moot. At least back then one’s service held a smidgen of truth. If you died in the war there were no freight charges to exit the country. I know, because I flew next to tons of those dead. It was a truth to one’s U.S. service. Not one’s service to another country who holds a particular loan.
    Nihilism has always, to some extent, piqued my interest when writing about the cast out and moralistic of our culture. But what I’m seeing now makes it impossible for me to even draw a like-perspective. It seems that only those who will probably agree with me can try to bale out of this mess by calling it a “movement.” However they will be unable to do this. Proof of this will be painful when it comes. More than the old “we had to destroy it in order to save it.”
    Sadly, we wait for another war of distraction that will show the damage of such a “movement.” Initially the first stings will come with health care for the less than well off Trump voter. Later, beyond the nihilistic anarchist, Russian Oligarch, or them that ironically protest the elite, the sting will be felt by virtue of the old “what goes around, comes around.”
    Gird thyself. And if you have loved ones in the military, or close thereby, buy them protection. There will be none coming from their government. And take your blessings more vigilantly than ever. And please be careful of what you wish for.

Charles Hayes bio

    Charles Hayes, a multiple Pushcart Prize Nominee, is an American who lives part time in the Philippines and part time in Seattle with his wife. A product of the Appalachian Mountains, his writing has appeared in Ky Story’s Anthology Collection, Wilderness House Literary Review, The Fable Online, Unbroken Journal, CC&D Magazine, Random Sample Review, The Zodiac Review, eFiction Magazine, Saturday Night Reader, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Scarlet Leaf Publishing House, Burning Word Journal, eFiction India, and others.

Upon a Greasy Hill, Words in the Wind, as Arrows Come Down Like Rain

    “One last thought... There is no law in the arena. Many are killed.” —Best Supporting Actor (1959) Hugh Griffith, as Sheik Ilderim, to Judah Ben-Hu

    General George Armstrong Custer made a bad decision, and he and his men were stuck with its consequences. The payout of the gaffe, was a near-immediate, “oh, shit!”, then a demise not nearly as swift as Hollywood or mathematical odds would have us believe. Following too-fast an “oops!”, they stared into Death’s maw, moving backward, uphill and to their left, through a baker’s dozen retreat points, as this one died and that one was killed and another was picked off and more were cut down, over a period of time which, given the scenario and every painting we’ve seen, has the legions of Sitting Bull’s genius doggin’ it. Help which was notified in time and turned their way in time, dogged it slower. One Captain James Benteen, thought General Custer was pretty much like Richard Mulligan’s portrayal of him, in Little Big Man. And with no faith in Custer, no trust in Custer, no liking for Custer, and no allegiance beyond the uniform, James Benteen picked daisies and breathed good, territorial air, until the man whom he held in poor regard, was no longer breathing at all. So, a man unpopular in close association, no matter what position he held, got the same treatment as the boy who cried, “Wolf!”, when naked vulnerability was drawn from his deck.
    In 1876, one could turn away from any Other, blameless, with a silent, “Goodbye, Mr. Bond”, and sleep the sleep of babes, nearly always unfettered by fetters. Somewhere after Nagasaki, we supposedly tamped the dirt of the many graves in this nation, into a civil society—“civil”, meaning tasteless jokes and “Addams Family” cartoons in The New Yorker. A “making fun”, was where we set the bar. Laugh at Others, howl at them, reduce them to imbecile. Don’t kill them or cause them to die. And if they merely let you down or are full of hot air, tough. Selfimage is required to tend itself, but All must protect All. Especially those on high. A 7th Cavalry, with hidden Stallone and Banderas as hit men, must ring Olympus, but we as free may at least razz the gods, moon them, call names. Picayune diminishment. Keying on a proclivity or trait, or a short list of blunders committed by those in leadership roles. In the wake of Watergate, this became pop culture comfort for humanizing those we don’t trust. It didn’t have to be an American king. Any persons distant as image, fit the bill. Power, must be weakened, as seen. The Fonz, must say “I was wrong”. Edith Bunker must strike Archie, physically. Ditto, Halle Berry to 007. Michael J. P. Keaton, is yuppie and successful and brilliant and forward and sad and alienated and to be defeated, to “learn something”. As for 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, sound byte labeling. Actual Bush, an owlish effeminate. Bill Clinton, a walking penis. George Dubya, an eater of paste, simultaneously a foul mastermind. 2008-2016, No Commenting, Not Allowed. Ever thus. Throwing rocks of TV bricks, because if an ill wind of Real, one soldier uncaring if others die, the masses stop, and turn into Vampire LARPers. Paying far too grim an attention. So, let’s keep it smarmy and frothy. Jeering, that’s fun! It keeps We The People stimulated. As one-two, one-two DIY empowerment, it began in 1992, with the vice presidential choice of J. Danforth Quayle.
    Dan Quayle, whose key contribution to American legislation and jurisprudence, consisted of lengthening the faltering career of the star-crossed daughter of Edgar Bergen and by proxy, lending Johnny Carson a final, legendary Super Energy Pill of stage presence, was the youngest Indianan ever elected to the Senate. Elected indeed, with 54% of the vote, reelected with 61%, a man of (published, google it) genius IQ, who also, to his credit, was Jake LaMotta, in taking it on the chin. Power, formerly, was amazing at sucking abuse, as its essential admantium was, “I have ‘POWER’.” So, when everyone from Johnny, Ed and Doc, to subversive rags only available by subscription to homes with men in a car parked across the street, to a certain, “I’m obviously superior”-friend of mine in The Day, when any of these pronounced upon the subhumanity as characterized, of Vice President Dan Quayle, the man, I’m certain, had another brandy in the Halls of the Mighty, and spoke of things far from us all. My friend’s remarks, the grass roots Mein Kampf-ing of a one-man masses, was the trad ‘racial characteristic’ of appearance. Looking into the visage of one who committed bad plays on words or open mic blunders, Dan Quayle, to my friend, was the knuckledragger, ass at a party and little boy goofwad many condemned him as. He Was This, by God!, and incontrovertibly, as “You can just tell by lookin’ at ‘eem!”
    If, fighter in the ring, I’m set into the next punch of this combination, you, noncontroller of the means of production, parry, expertly. “Welllll, that’s just the ignorance of one person.” Ignorance, of course, being 50-50, everywhere, despite the best efforts of Maher and YouTube mouth bloggers. It’s understood, every demographic of every sort, down to worldview, POV and thought process, is, all of humanity together being equal, equally limited. If we concede any smaller or larger grouping, though the scope or (pardon me) spectrum of said group’s thinking be the factor, you have created a caste of ‘betters’, the ‘obviously superior’. The Deciders. And, we’re no longer speaking of Power smirking and turning away from our assholery, toward What Work Power Does. Power as “this is the group of the right-thinking” and making damned certain we grasp that, proscribes and determines, it changes, destroys, creates, recreates, edits and fixes as it wills. That’s “wills”, not “will”. “As it will”, means there is random chance as aspect to Life, the Shit Happens of existentialism; “as it wills”, means Power as These Are The Betters and We Accept This And Bow And Do Not Fight. Meaning Orwell. I hate to cop to Orwell as the bottom line, it’s tired. But, I dare you to find me something better, without blood and porn in it. Winston and Julia, are like a sad, hopeless Harlequin Romance.
    Are there determinable ‘betters’, and can they be corralled, so to corral Us? Is there, as my same, superior, simply condemning friend used to pine for, a panel of the greatest of each, larger, Rollerball Murder-divided field, to speak and caucus on a worldwide screen, then be able to tell us, in the end agreed, “the answers to all this stuff”? ...and, what you’re thinking right now? Yeah. I know. But what you’re also thinking is, “it’s never going to be that simple”. Not a panel, not a quorum of professors, not a state house of experts, not Hesse’s Castalia and glass beads flying. If there were 8 million people on the ball, let alone 8 billion, these things—the deplorable imponderables, what I’ve ever called “the mysteries of the universe”, what an acclaimed scribe called, “life, the universe and everything”, the lives of each and every, day by day—these things, cannot be determined so to have set definitions which don’t bleed past the boundaries of customizing. No group of thinkers or the rational, nor the archetypes of Donovan’s “Atlantis”, not fists, not praying hands, not those with hammers and bells, has any “solution”, which is anything beyond Persons Other Than You Know Best. Which brings into play the power play of a kind of finitude begging the “Fuck You”. At a near point, the children of the LCD, know, and they choose. Some to turn away, in hate of hope stolen, and some to drown in the things that make them “feel good”. Some, actively join sides or “teams” or groups of thinking dark, as that amazing little girl at The Magic Kingdom did Vader, drawing far more from Power which obeys itself, and which does not pretend.
    When a young Fidel Castro, speaking at the United Nations, paid off a good, rhetorical flourish by underscoring “...the right to live, and to work, and to eat”, it was the true reaching across the aisle—agrarian, pushing an atheist politick, in harmony with what Christian chautauqua king, William Jennings Bryan, knew. Life, butt end, is to be born and to live and to procreate and to die. Hanging other things upon Everyman, when there exists or can exist any nurturing Power which nods to him, is muddying the base upon which man sets his feet, the foothold base of Earth, with an acid. The march into cell phone zombiehood, as well as where you sit, nonfriend, eyes upon a tablet, was no victory. It proved only the flip side of an anarchist-friend, ca. 1988, “I see destruction as a form of creation.” Technology as Man become a new creation, let alone it be his voice and a greater one for Power, is creation as a form of destruction. And the next step, is unity, indeed, and yes, of a thinking, and yes, of One Voice. Ein volk. Does this register at at all, or are you just going to quote Godwin at me and squinch up your face? Cliche doesn’t matter, default thinking does not matter. The entrapping of practicality, transcends even practicality as understood. MOUSETRAP as a board game, symbolically shows us that, slapass and jerryrigged, what holds together, simply does, and that fate for those lost, is, at their end, inescapable. You’re not going to jumpstart anything, without whole C.W. McCall convoys of guns in hands. Methinks the moment has passed, even for that. Implosion, is imminent, and Castro’s words, the inner yearning, the base drive to live, work, eat, as used for individual thinking (the only sort I believe true, Laertes), are for survival in a real game of “Lifeboat”, or hoarding for the moment Quiet has come, or knives into those who splintered hopes, or knives into random offenders. Self. I keep telling you. It doesn’t make a good stone soup. Like Q of ‘Trek’s TNG, put it, “It’s difficult to work in a group, when you’re omnipotent.” And You as focal point of the universe, is great, imagined godhood, but all but those who haven’t yet melted down know at medulla oblongata, Self is Self’s own “safe place” (you realize Joel Chandler Harris and the now despised “Uncle Remus” mythos, began the “safe place”, don’t you? Remus, called it your “happy place”, but it’s the same thing. You might try calling it a “cry until you get backlash from your hiccups buffet”, in order to avoid flash mobs). Until one mounts the Greyhound or drives to the far city or is hiding in a closet or basement or warehouse or park, waiting for anOther’s unwariness or sleep, the selfcontained universal Self of One as actually equalling a “Me”, is as Miyagi said of karate, “for defense, only”.
    Oh, no!, say those committed to formless Utopias or slinging topical opinions like a hay thresher. All Axis, All Allies, All The Time. Up and at ‘em, the war never ends, the struggle is all, your own inertia devalues the sweet goodie for which we fight...where, 300 years from now, your kids’ kids’ kids, will enjoy what you never will. They’ll have their own issues, of course, nothing will ever be perfect, it’s what South Park’s Mr, Hanky might nod to as part of “The Cycle of Poo”, but, hey! Stop! Halt! It’s not about Us, no, it’s Life and the circle and the uncaring universe, and that isn’t bad, say Maher and the scientist sporting the outdated moustache, it’s just FINE we are nothing but a moment where we help to no end and no reward with no Self Power, always lost within All and Group and Army and Team and the thick of it where no matter what, the Voice as Power, really isn’t our own...and even better Caterpillar Moustache smiles, that there’s no God, not an afterlife or beingness or continuation, and after a time, not one memory we were here. It’s ALLLLLLL GOOOOOOD. It’s certainly isn’t bad. C’mon! Let’s get on board, join up, Kumba-fuckin’-Ya and fight the...uhh, we the...the Other thinking that we...right now, I mean, you won’t, it...your kids’ kids, though, they...gotta...gotta Fight, this is Better. “Better” is just better! What We’re Sayin’, ya know. It’s the Truly True Truth that’s True. We can give you links! Subscribe!!
    [Undead Vampire Emoticon Not Currently Available]
    Gee. I can’t imagine why someone would rather live a quiet, selfish, selfindulgent life, drown in group sex, or murder for closure. The Above sounds so much more noble! And well-defined. Dudn’ i’?
    Though, even as I write, the Get ‘Em, Get ‘Em, Get ‘Em-journalists, video activists and trickle-traffic bloggers, are shrill, as Selves break away, a natural San Andreas Fault of sociopolitical thinking. Their reasons, are a Family Feud of percentages, but are rooted in only one (possibly genetic) thing, ironically what my superior friend knew, as he believed he knew Dan Quayle’s very soul. When speaking of a zealous Christian friend momentarily at odds with me: “Fanatics, don’t understand. They don’t understand being a fanatic, doesn’t work for anyone but them.” As existentially based, as humanistic, as Life, day to day, living, working, eating with mindcarved memory of You, Other, Have Not Helped Me, no one but the fanatical can sustain focus as a furnace engine of drive. I can tell you by comparison, using a life experience personal as fuel, only one who stands apart from human, fully—the misanthrope, not the altruist—can sustain the bestial long enough, over Time of months into years into a life, for action to remain viable. Causes and issues and a felt need to march, even to bludgeon perceived foes, burns often brighter, sometimes blinding (metaphor), but not long. Not for most. There is laundry in the dryer. I want Fill in the Who or What. I now hate you; You’re a liar. Show me the money. What have you done for me lately? The latter 3 and maybe memory of the second, are Presto logs, in personal experience; in the Wednesday Meeting’s minutes of “We Want...!”, you wind up with Life of Brian and The Peoples’ Front of Judea.
    Bread and circuses, pacify open sores of broken hearts, dull perception, put blood to sleep. They salve. They lead away. And in the capitalist system, torn from the agrarian, bums are not in seats to stand for Tomorrow, as caring competes with playdates and all manner of “grrr, you don’t understand!” Again, magic was desired, and most saw the milk go all over the floor. Those fanatical, no matter impetus, no matter agenda, no matter their hearts be as Mary Pickford’s in Tess of the Storm Country, are left with some bats and their own balls, yelling, Charlie Brown, at uncaring uncontrollable—knees together in the pee-urge which goes with it. To watch the faces of those “you can just tell, by looking at” who clearly, sincerely care, faces freaking, manic of eye, hands gesticulating, voices edging to within dim memory of Beverly Sills, “C’mon, People...!”, the plea of The-Next-Guy-To-Get-It-In-A-Slasher-Film, “Guys? Hey, this isn’t funny...!”, has me barking, heckler, more and more, at the screen (as Mom did at Take Your Pick and Gram at Gorgeous George). These idealists, are clueless. Hardly the builders, they’re the kids who get sent home the first week of kindergarten, for soiling. They soil themselves, with good reason. Only their close fellows, want them around. I don’t mean as Voices of Dissent. I mean, as voices still with breath.
    Professor Frank Wu, author of the essential missive, Yellow, is quite correct in mirroring back the error of a nation where “‘American’ means ‘White’ and ‘minority’ means ‘Black’.” Agreed, this stated simplicity obscures, but the default distortion hides more than you know. Let’s take it away from big bad, “I never knew what ‘supply-side economics’ were, anyway, I’m just mad!”-America. Let’s consider China, and the generational exclusion/foul treatment of Manchurians. The rape of Tibet, atheist to Buddhist. Or if we look South from there, the ongoing oppressions suffered by the Muslim minority, in India (I’ll kind of guess the Mahatma never embraced them). Probably, I don’t have to recall the Rwandan genocide, 100 days of internecine slaughter to the stage-kicking of Michigan J. Frog. Or every aspect of meticulous, tribal dividing in the Arab world. It happens, spinning globe, in every type and caste and group. Racial, Gendercentered, Religious. Political. ...and Now, we Here, in a place no longer free to push Others away because of how they look or where they were born...we may still attack, terrorize and even murder, feral, based upon The Vote. And maybe the killers stand tall before The Man, and maybe they go free. Live free, full lives. Die old, in bed. It matters little to those driven, remains or ashes, beneath the Earth. Their deaths, were for being Yankees before Red Sox, or Red Sox before Yankees, and admitting it. Or unable to shield that truth. Often, in a moment, a second of “oh, shit!” Fate as Whack a Mole. Custer’s Last Stand and The Alamo, were drastically separate bursts of heroic, orchestral sound. Unlike the Travises, the Crocketts and Bowies, most in 2017, are deer in the headlights, deep in greasy grass. As a field general of blond locks, John Q stumbles into The Moment, perhaps is comp’d a “WTF?!”, and is gone. Conversely, every person with a minor take on Warriner’s and an opinion, has San Antonio-time to make a choice. To fold their banner, strike their tent, slip off with Moses Rose...to leave William Wallace to his fate, to live and to work and to eat...or, to leap at The Big Face Thing of Tron, sabre drawn, and with the machine confidence of Mike Tyson before buster-ing...or, sabre drawn, knowing the truth, and standing before the tsunami of 2004 rolling back in to cover all screaming, with Quiet to come. All but Iron Mike in this list, stand only for Truth, their drug of choice. They know they will die—and the Tyson of our list probably knows, too, and doesn’t care. Champions of POV and their antithesis, serve The Game.
    CEE as Self, thinks oceans of words are the public toilets of Man. Our 21^st, Stables of Augeas. As foolish as my lunch partners in high school, Admiral, you’re wasting precious time. Socrates was cool, but he’s dead. Do you recall how? Micro-puling, is isometrics against The Mausoleum at Halicarnassus. “Born, Live, Procreate, Die.” Hey, what was that last one? This is Beat the Clock as your heartbeat. Tickety-goddammed-tock, nonfriend. You’re using the time, yelling at Power that it’s “bad”?
    Don’t misquote me. I stand as example, transparent. I’ve made my choice. I will proclaim my Me, before all oppressors, and I will fight and I will die, before I will betray my own interest—because it’s MY INTEREST. I will not have my freedom stolen, up to and including through happenstance—if you’re in a gas ‘n gulp with me when it gets held up, expect the focus to shift and the bullets to spray, because I’m leaving the store, it’s nothing to do with Me. I’ve been followed part-way home, btw, following a bit or bauble of Lottery luck. I live on a Dead End (‘that surprise ya?). I’ve prepared my last words, just in case, the sound byte ending with my very best Cartman (including physicality), “Screw you guys, I’m goin’ home.” I do not have time, for foolishness. The issues and machinations, interruptions and whines, petitions and guns and noise of The Other, are foolishness. As are their red herrings, presented by the fewest of voice. The “C’mon, People”-people. Nits, now, but with raspy teeth. Those masses uncaring, due to numbness or Life’s gluttony, have grown deaf to them. Those who cut the widest swath of Power in The West, consider them “lesser”, and say so. In such a marginalized position, one who baby-oinks to point of being noticed, encounters a Lenny Bruce stage-fantasy, the fate of Borscht Belt comedian Shelley Berman, insulting made men in a Mafia-run club. Power, very soon, will Openly Not Care, if it even does by your reading this. And if corporatist wars are but circle jerks and others drown in sweetbreads and circuses, if small, paramilitary squeaks are crushed with a pauper’s portion of horror at the crushing...if many who could have stood no longer comply because they’re sick of Eternal Decision 2000, and didn’t live in Palm Beach County, Florida, anyway, so what the Hell would their vote have done...? A pass of parrots laden with cool glossaries, “false equivalency, changing the narrative!”, that friend you thought seriously about hiring better goons to stomp than Nolte did for De Niro...if the small, petulant voices remaining, are become all which remain, then, the long nights of an Alamo choice, no longer apply. The clear, tinkling temple bell of your words, summon Little Big Horn by way of Hemingway. Again, this is You, Not what you mouth. Shove your sociopolitics. History as numbers, doesn’t change. No matter who wears the blue or the buckskin jacket, it ends the same.
    It’s easy to mock. Others, are loyal to their own need. You have to get it through your ass-fucking-heads, You Are Doing This, For YOU. I’m Not saying “Don’t Speak Out.” I am saying we are walked back, Toynbee, and not metaphorically, to a timeline where it’s going to cost something. Maybe a whole Johnstown Cemetery-full. Words as Web, are pixels of wind. They’re piss, in it. They mean nothing. Nothing, means anything, in a WWW-world, not even to catch the eye. Only, at the convergence to zero, blood.
    Decide now, each of you.