Table of Contents

poetry

(the passionate stuff)

performance art

the 12/2/17 “Who What Where When Why”
show @ the Bahá’í Faith Center, Austin, part 1

prose

(the meat & potatoes stuff)

philosophy monthly

(justify your existence)

lunchtime poll topic

(commentaries on relevant topics)

About the Arts

Cleveland Haiku #70

Two dozen bikers
menacingly go by---
out for a Sunday drive

Cleveland Haiku #104

Sunset---
a racing stripe of gold
reflects on the lake

Cleveland Haiku #401

Even on a holiday
some industrial smoke
belches in the air

From Easter to May Day

A hundred of us left Massillon, Ohio
on Easter Sunday, March 25, 1894,
accompanied by a large contingent of reporters
(twelve of whom would make it the entire way),
and began the trek to our nation’s capital

When asked the purpose of this I answered
“The aim and object of this march to Washington
has been to awaken the attention
of the whole people to a sense of their duty
in impressing upon Congress the necessity
for giving immediate relief
to the four million of unemployed people”

This went against the grain of the times:
once you’d made it you weren’t supposed
to concern yourself with those who hadn’t
But in my forty years on Earth
I hadn’t always been successful;
I’d had some tough times
during the depression twenty years earlier,
and I remembered what that was like
and wondered why many others didn’t

The march was also the first instance
of what would become much more common
during the next century and more,
and
for the march itself and the idea behind it
the papers said I was a
“Candidate for an Asylum”
that we were
“Populists of the lowest grade”
and,
with the inevitable personalization
of large economic issues,
that I was guilty of “Coxey’s Folly”

The papers seemed surprised
that in many places along the way
people came out to cheer us and feed us,
voluntarily,
but they didn’t realize
that at the same time they were ridiculing us
their articles were turning the unemployed
from abstract concept into human beings

Of course,
we couldn’t and didn’t always count
on being fed at no cost to us,
so
periodically I left the march
to undertake fund-raising duties,
taking the train to various locations
and returning as soon as the work was done

Others joined the march along the route:
we were up to about 270
around Homestead and Pittsburgh,
including,
depending on which report you believe,
either Frick’s or Carnegie’s nephew

During the march many would walk with us
part of the way in a show of solidarity,
then return to their regular lives;
the numbers reported reflected
the total of permanent marchers
As we neared Washington
that number was around 350;
in the city we picked up many more
so that the final stretch to the Capitol
had between 500 and 600,
again depending on which report you believe

We made it to the Capitol on Tuesday,
May 1st as we had planned
And although
“The Constitution of the United States
guarantees to all citizens the right
to peaceably assemble and petition
for redress of grievances,
and furthermore declares that
the right of free speech shall not be abridged”
I was not permitted to speak,
was in fact arrested
for attempting to do so

One of the advantages of a long life
(I lived to be ninety-seven)
is seeing some things you dreamed become reality
Improving the nation’s roads, specifically,
and the general idea that the government
had a role to play in alleviating unemployment
both eventually came about
And fifty years later I was even
allowed to give the planned speech
before Congress
Here’s part of it:

“We have come here through toil and weary march,
through storms and tempests,
over mountains
and amid the trials of poverty and distress
at the doors of Congress
in the name of Him whose banners we bear,
in the name of Him who pleaded
for the poor and the oppressed,
that they should heed the voice
of distress and despair that is now
coming up from every section of our country,
that they should consider the conditions
of the unemployed of our land
and enact such laws as will give them employment,
bring happier conditions to the people,
and the smile of contentment to our citizens”

“In doing so,
we appeal to every peace-loving citizen,
every liberty-loving man or woman,
every one in whose breast the fires of patriotism
and love of country have not died out,
to assist us in our efforts
toward better laws and general benefits”

He’s Long Gone Now

He’s long gone now, along with the pain,
His heart gave out in a grocery store.
He was buying some cheese for a party.
Even his worn-out kidneys couldn’t save him.

It was after a long battle with the bottle and
Keeping business and family responsibilities.
His unbounded spirit left his run-down body.
It winged its way to realms unknown.

He left behind five sons and a pretty girl-child.
His second son of the original six passed on before.
His farmland father proved himself the stronger.
He survived two of his three seeming hard stock.

My grandfather was always asking, asking
About my Dad’s habits, did he drink or
Whether he smoked, asking, always asking.
What was I to say to the confrontations?

I lied in half-truths, saying he once did both
But has since quit for quite some time now.
Times uncounted, the same half-truths given.
Feeling the fool, trying to keep the peace.

But it happened one day, grandfather found
A wine rack outside my door with bottles full.
It didn’t matter that my parents slept there
While he took the marital bedroom for himself.

My Dad spoke his own half-truth about it, the
Wooden wine rack was after all mine, he said.
Untold was that the bottles were his, after all.
I was condemned to be thought a slave to drink.

What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, they say.
And I have battled the wish of death many times.
But he is long gone now, along with the pain. His
Unbound spirit has winged its way to realms unknown.

When he passed on, I felt nothing for him.
But with each year’s growth I feel that
He is very much a part of me and, so I
Believe, much of me belongs to him today.

About the Artist—Allen F. McNair (in his own words)

    I am a self-taught artist and poet who is inspired daily by the wonders of life around me, my present and past experiences, and both the inner and outer beauty of all women. From individual poetic portrayals in my early years of writing, I have graduated to writing an epic saga mentioned below.
    I work mainly in marker art on paper, yet I have also worked in watercolor on paper, and acrylic pen and brush on canvas. Those works in marker art have been on 11" X 14" and 14" X 17" Bristol paper. Although painting contemporary subjects, I have mainly created illustrations that depict a future planet earth and other worlds more heavenly. These illustrations reveal a fascinating world of dreams and mental communication between the human and alien characters in our future. Other works of art included in this collection depict subjects from our contemporary world.
    I enjoy working mostly in Prismacolor markers for their vibrant color palate and the control I have over the use of this medium. I have most recently worked with Blick Studio Markers and their Studio Brush Markers as well. I also like the control I have when using an acrylic pen. When I am not portraying the interaction between human beings in a future world, I then use geometric shapes to create futuristic vehicles traveling above a pristine world.
    My proudest achievement is the self-publishing of my book, I Dream of A’maresh, a science fiction epic poem which is reflected in the several illustrations that can be seen in Chicago in the 27^th American Disabilities Act Celebration at the James R. Thompson Center July 17 through July 22, 2017. A few of these works of art were once displayed in the July 2015 ADA Celebration at this same location. Some of them were shown at the Orange Restaurant in Lincoln Park last April 4, 2016. Others were also presented at the Orange Restaurant in Roscoe Village March 10 through May 28, 2015. I have likewise exhibited my work at the Gallery Cabaret in August 2016.
    I have performed in an original production based on true stories for the Thresholds Theater Arts Project at the Theater Building. I have also taught classes in creative writing and performance at both the National Alliance for Mentally Ill (NAMI) and at Trilogy.
    I love watching science fiction, fantasy, and action in movies and reading those genres in literature in my spare time. I live in a one-bedroom apartment in Chicago with my 6 year-old white and ginger cat, Butterscotch. Previously, I had a black and white long-haired cat named Kit Kat, who lived to be 20 years old.

burning free of nightmares

i won’t be rewritten
stripped of my voice and my power
all my life men have feared and hated me
because i refused to be the standard
miss swooning and pining over them simply
because they were attractive

i had a quiet confidence even when i was at
my most shy in high school
hiding myself in the chapters of books
they never understood me,
and they never even attempted to;

constantly bullied because i was not the status quo
i wanted to be anyone but me before i realized
that was a waste of who i was
wanted to be popular and pretty like the cool kids
no one thought to mock—

i began to see, though, that weird wasn’t
the insult they meant but rather a compliment;
and i wouldn’t let them insult me with it any more
because i knew my heart was full of love and light
wouldn’t let the nightmares conquer my dreams.

i want to be the dream, not the nightmare

i don’t want all of this anger
just the kind that enforces good things
to happen and good change to happen,
but all this left over anger
is exhausting;

everything i feel is so intense, so deep
deeper than the fathomless depths of the sea;
passionate and mad my heart is a savage garden
i want to be compassionate enough to give
mostly flowers

but people mostly inspire me to strike out
with my thorns and fashion my tongue as the sword
that impales them—
i am fierce and rebellious and unwilling to change
who i am for the sake of anyone

because i know as ugly as i can be there is a beauty
in my scars, and i have a love and a light in me that shines
brighter than this incandescent rage
a beauty, a magic, and dreams of worth that
bloom within the hands of my flowers;

why won’t anyone let me be that girl?
they never seem to take me seriously until i’ve lost my temper
slaying them in the anguish of their wounds as
i salt them,
and i don’t understand why they prefer the nightmare of me to the dream.

the sun again

some days are a struggle
just want to collapse and call it quits
don’t want to suffer anymore

it is a heavy guaze that weighs down
on my bones
and this anxiety makes it heavier

feel like an anchor being dragged beneath the sea
when i want to be nothing more than the
mermaid who frees herself from her chains,

i’ve learned that i must be my own hero
because everyone’s too busy trying to save themselves
to notice that you’re drowning;

i always give them a helping hand when i can
but i don’t expect the same in return because i now know
not everyone has the same heart as i do as much as that hurts

there’s never anyone there when i need help
so i struggle on in silence
praying for a better day, one where there isn’t as much rain

falling from my eyes;
because even if from my deepest sorrows come my brightest joys
i just want to feel the sun again.

Whispers in the Wind

Whispers in the wind
like autumn leaves, ever drifting
time and space...

Love poems in the heart
like tears of a rose, harbinger
of autumn

Hymns to nature voicing
hunger for change and peace
of mind

Bogeyman at every corner
waiting to pounce, force-feed us
its prejudices

Drop-ins along every street,
ready to lend an ear, teach us
fight-back

People of all persuasions
asking no more of life than love
and peace

Grim Reaper harvesting
humankind’s failure to settle
its differences

Whispers in the wind
like deaf ears, perpetually drifting
time and space...

Graveyard as a Friend
(Dry-docked)

7:00 am
Plagued with the shakes,
slouched, expectant,

Most everyday
he waits in the service alley
at a back door
that runs behind “Billy Goodes”
a tavern on Marlborough Street
in Newport.

Grey eyes narrowed
supported by a worn,
ebony walking staff
near as long-
as he is tall.

Something like a smile
crossed his cracked lips
a familiar face.

Neck angled to the side,
peering up from below
his grubby war veteran’s cap,
he nods his greeting.

In a croaked noise,
he manages,
“Mornin’, Johnny.”

The man is enormous
“Mornin’ Hugh.”
turns- scrutinizes the ring
inserts a key,
the back door complains
a sound like relief.
both men step inside
the unlit hallway.

The smell of acrid
cigarette smoke
stale beer, and liquor
saturate the place-
familiar...
welcoming.

Johnny moves behind the bar
head tilted to the left
lights his first Parodi
cigar of the day,
his right eye squints
at the harsh smoke,
clenches it between
his front teeth in a snarl,
exposing two rows
of yellowed ivory.

Turning the old Wurlitzer on,
he follows up
by pouring a shot of Jim Beam
places it down
on the bar without a word,
moves over and pulls
on the tap to fill a 7oz glass
of Narragansett draft beer-
sets it before the old man,
picks up a yellow pencil
and starts a tab.

The juke box blazes to life
picks up where it left off
at closing time,
and fires up
with an unfinished play list
of music from the night before.

Hugh lays some crumpled bills
on the scarred mahogany
while attempting to steady
his right hand
with his left
looks down
into the amber shot glass,
not quite ready
to cross the boundary.

“I’ll be a son of a bitch...”
he whispers
eyes turn
towards the Juke,
a blast from the past-
“Swing- Swing- Swing”
was in the play list.

Jimmie Dorsey’s drums
fill the stale air,
his eyes glaze over...
Miller, The Duke, Goodman...
memory breaks in
and steals a moment.
...
Like it was a mere
few years back,
the memory rush...
that weekend on shore leave
before shipping out
in August of “42”

That was nine months after
the start of a war
he entered
just out of high school-
a seaman
on a World War II warship
the “USS Marcus Island”
the memory printed
boldly across
the beam ofhis veterans cap...

He recalls the first time
ever walking
into this bar,
but through the front door
at the time...

A slender, dark skinned beauty
on his arm;
one he thought looked
like Lena Horne,
went by the name
of ‘Tookie’
smelled of lavender,
teeth so white- perfect.

told her she had
the eyes
of an Egyptian goddess.

she swiveled into
Billy Goodes
ahead of him.

Hugging those curvy lines;
a summer thin,
black and white,
polka dot dress-
neck line low
exposing ebony cleavage,
winning his eyes,
prompting his imagination.

The cherry colored scarf
around her neck-
matched the shade
of her lipstick.

Man, Tookie was put together,
had his eye from moment one...

She was his first.

Happened in a rented room
on the 4th floor
at the Army- Navy, YMCA
right around the corner
at 50 Washington Square.

In this old Navy town,
his date may have been
a local whore;
plenty of them back then,
but that sweetheart
gave him- her entire weekend.
...
He smiles
Openly guffaws-
thinking out loud,
it spills out.
“And she didn’t charge me
a ‘fuckin’ cent!”

Johnny turned at the words,
scrutinized the old timer for a moment,
relit his cigar,
went back to
washing glasses.

In the dim morning light
Hugh settled down
to the business at hand.

He stared into
his shot glass of whiskey.

After coming back to Newport
at the end of the war,
he’d lived the rest of
his working life
as a fisherman- a lobsterman.

Now retired
73 summers under his belt,
he’s bent and beaten,
keeps to himself these days-
taken more to silence,
than sociability.

With both hands,
upending it
as best he could,
spilling some down the front
of his natty blue sweater
the glass made
its way to his split lips,
felt heavy,
tossed it back,
followed by an unsteady
swallow of beer.

His body,
once strong and erect,
spoke a lifetime
of working the waters
off the Atlantic
and in the Bay.

Arthritic fingers-
crippled in pain,
furrowed brow-
leathered and spotted
from over 50 years
of labor on the water
in wind, ice,
salt, and sun.
his skies now bleak;
desperate for light.

He fell inward.
working days behind him,
now just going through the motions.

Forever,
a hard drinking man-
one of rousing laughter
and back breaking labor
he now
was held in place
as depression chanted
words of finality.

Enduring their heartless sessions
for a time
he survived the folly
of doctors-
their narcotic pills,
confounding advice...

He blurts out,
“Fuck ‘em All!
again rousing
Johnny’s attention.

His incinerated music,
his hope,
resonated from
a depleted cask.

Its flavor
that of corruption.

Toxic brown bourbon,
once an ally
now his adversary
in this,
his final conflict.

Implanted deep
in disruptive memory
his indifference to life
and stubborn resistance
near concluding-
his days
now a comical irony,
akin to
his retired lobster boat-
the one he calls home,
dry docked
and on stilts;
like himself,
never to see water again,
yet, still stands...

The hours
speedily wind down.
secluded days, hours,
minutes, seconds,
... and all his dead friends
no longer sitting, standing,
drinking, and laughing
with him at this bar.

He croaks-
“The day comes soon, mates,
the bitch is steaming in fast
and hotter than the Satin’s balls!”

Hugh keeps it to himself-
sees it all as the logical conclusion
of a hard life-
long lived-
maybe too long.

Searching his memory
it fails in recall.
Armstrong’s tarnished horn,
doesn’t come around
much any more.

Johnny poured him another
shot of ‘Jim’
refilled Hugh’s beer glass-
this one on the house;
continued wiping down the bar.

Toasting old friends,
the second shot
went up and back in one motion.

Fire warmed his gullet;
the shakes
now subsided.

He journeyed back
to feeding a breakfast of trap bait,
to screeching seagulls off the pier,
before heading out from the docks
into a the new dawn.
with an eye opener
drinking whiskey
in his coffee
at 5:00 am,

But that was then-
this is now,
tomorrow not a promise
... any longer.

Like a dark companion
whispering the end
of all things,
the ominous lyrics there always;
ones he heard years ago
imprinted
in his now fuzzy brain,
written by a guy-
the last name of ‘Taupin’
...
“Do you know what it’s like
to have a graveyard as a friend-
’cause that’s where they are boy-
all of them...
Oh I know-
how it feels,
to grow old.”
...

Johnny edged
over to the ole timer.
not a word spoken,
poured another shot
pulled the tap-
filled a new glass.

Hugh thanked him
with a cockeyed smile,
like he knew something
the bartender
couldn’t fathom.

He rolled a cigarette
from a pouch
of Bugler tobacco
struck a match-
inhaled deeply,
then made his way
over to the Wurlitzer.

Hugh dug in his pocket,
came up with 4 memories-
inserted all of them...

Be a Man!

Hitting a vulnerable woman - does not make you a man
Threatening a quiet woman - does not make you a man
Lying to a trustable woman - does not make you a man
Cheating on a loyal woman - does not make you a man

Considering her to be weak - is chauvinism
Regarding her unimportant - is chauvinism
Forcing her to be domestic - is chauvinism
Suppressing her eminence - is chauvinism

Chauvinism is - not manly
Chauvinism is - not attractive
Chauvinism is - not praiseworthy
Chauvinism is - not marriage material

A chauvinist is not a real man.
A real man is not a chauvinist.

Preeti Singh Bio

    Preeti Singh is an Indian French Interpreter, International writer, journalist, and cine artist.

    She has a Bachelors degree in English, psychology, sociology and achieved a certificate of honour for securing the highest rank in English literature. After completing her graduation, she attained a postgraduate diploma in applied journalism and mass communication.

    Ms. Singh has also acquired a professional diploma in French language, authorised by the French Ministry of Education. Being multilingual, she speaks in English, French, Hindi, and other regional languages with adequate fluency and is a novice learner of Spanish.

    She is engaged in writing scripts, translation, and journalism. In her leisure time, she loves to indulge in photography and play sundry characters for television series and feature films. Her writings and art work has appeared both in print and digital medium. Being multilingual, she speaks fluently in a few foreign and regional languages.

You can get in touch with her at:
Website: https://about.me/preeti-singh
Author page: www.amazon.com/author/preeti
Blog: http://writtenbypreeti.blogspot.in
Twitter: https://twitter.com/PreetiWrites

I See Her Hands

I see her hands
when she dearly holds
mine with hers
She has cold, but lingering hands
So, I can still feel the very warmth
The skin shrivelled and
clustered with lifeless wrinkles
They have a pinkish hue
and a scatter of dark red spots
Her aged hands are the portrait
of a great life story
daubed with enormous sweat and tears
The reflection of a triumphant odyssey
full of love, courage and perseverance
and also a strength,
a staggering strength,
so lavish to enliven generations

Biography of Indunil Madhusankha

    Indunil Madhusankha is currently an undergraduate reading for a BSc Special Degree in Mathematics at the Faculty of Science of the University of Colombo. Even though he is academically involved with the subjects of Mathematics and Statistics, he also pursues a successful career in the field of English language and literature as a budding young researcher, reviewer, poet and content writer. Basically, he explores the miscellaneous complications of the human existence through his poetry by focussing on the burning issues in the contemporary society. Moreover, Indunil’s works have been featured in many international anthologies, magazines and journals.

Because

Hand held high,
fingers spread wide,
I cover the sun,
shield its shine
that is watering my eyes.
resurrecting an age old migraine.

It would be easier
to locate my sunglasses,
or close my eyes,
but this gesture,
my hand to the sky,
feels like a defiance
of all that is
stronger than I.

I make a fist.
Sunlight spills across my knuckles.
I close my eyes,
turn my head away,
smile ever so slightly
as I lower my hand
and step back into shade,
the coolness of shadows
raising the hairs
on my arms,
the straight divide
of light and dark
inches from my bare feet,
an horizon on the ground,
unable to reach me,
and I with no desire
to reach it.

I turn and re-enter our home,
leaving the door open
behind me.
Air-conditioning makes my skin itch,
as i make my way
to our bedroom
and lie beside you,
still asleep,
and more beautiful
that you’ve ever been,
shards of light
illuminating you
through the half open blinds
in the window.

I close my eyes,
heart gentle
in my chest.

Short Bio

    Edward Lee’s poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen and Smiths Knoll. His debut poetry collection “Playing Poohsticks On Ha’Penny Bridge” was published in 2010. He is currently working towards a second collection.

The Postmodern Army

The postmodern army
currently consists
of small, caring platoons
commanded by
holistic drill instructors.

Hup, two, three....
whatever.

1^st grade soldiers

Little platoon of a reckless army
in uniforms of non-conformity
they march to the mess hall
it is noon again, training on hold.

Boys and girls in one battalion
recruited as babes in the crib
learning ABCs and one two threes
they wear dresses and shorts of khaki.

Fleeing the coop for a few minutes more
they rush to enjoy an hour of recess
the battle with books, pens and maps
has ended with no one claiming victory.

Liberated they cackle cries of a ceasefire
there is no fear of an ambush for the moment
they share dreams, nightmares and TV shows
shaping lives just beginning on the chalkboard.

Rain, sleet or shine, they face their little days
disorderly children, privates in the first grade
with no concern for the next promotion
they strategize of things no general knows.

About Fabrice Poussin

    Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry and the advisor for The Chimes, the Shorter University award winning poetry and arts publication, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and dozens of other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review and more than 250 other publications.

Under-sky sleeping, bone keeping

In the holy spot
with the sitting rock
there is oak. Out
where humans live
there is shagbark hickory
and maple.

Ants climb the rock.
August, and young birds
are quiet when the parents
celebrate the flowering
weeds. Next come
the seeds of autumn.

I am here to name it
and know it and help it
to grow. True, these mountains
are my grave. A good grave
to go to.

The crows have been
in conference, again.
A jay, blue, pokes
a hole through reality.
There I find the sumacs
fruiting and the male sex organs
of the Queen Anne’s lace.

Company of flies, so
intelligent. Two abandoned
farmer’s fields are wide as
Alaska. Is there one
who could name
every flower here?

Robert Ronnow Bio

    Robert Ronnow’s most recent poetry collections are New & Selected Poems: 1975-2005 (Barnwood Press, 2007) and Communicating the Bird (Broken Publications, 2012). Visit his web site at www.ronnowpoetry.com.

Dispersed

    Ever lay around for days (perhaps), or weeks, months or even years? Ever lay around, waiting for your mind to settle? Tussled about like autumnal leaves in a disheveled, rust-tinged wind?

    Dispersed by nature’s violent breath, the mind, it cannot know itself, however hard it strives. Dispersed by nature’s violent breath, my bits along for the ride.

Beauty Is A Compromise

Her beauty is a compromise;
At the heart of assimilation
You find this knife in her face
Cutting away the doubts.

Her reality hangs
By the heels,
And by the neck;
From the trees of nations,
And the ropes of men.

Her life is a tangle of limbs –
A classic decoration of parts –
Swinging among the leaves.

Her future is bound
By the aberrations of its present,
And the madness of its past.
Death looms larger than life,
And the living move slower than the dead.

Diamonds And Guns (S. Africa)
(Written prior to Mandela’s rise to power.)

Exchanging words and body parts
In a madhouse of thoughts
And desires,
They have killed to lie among its jewels,
To hang upon its hooks;
But no dreaming that they do
Consoles the killing still to come.

Reaping the spoils of a whispered war
That would seem to have reached its end,
They cannot secure its walls,
Or expand beyond its bounds –
That feast is for the dead,
And the dying they will do.

Societal ills are like chats about the weather,
And no one complains when it rains.
Like the ladders they prop around a cherished ideal,
Or the guns they aim at the sun;
Like the idols they serve, and the castles they build:
They may rise to rule as kings and queens,
But they will not fall for nothing.

Previously published by Onionhead in 1995.

The Hunger

Expanding on a shrinking plain,
And speaking a language none will listen to hear,
She dreams less of survival,
And more of killing.
The hunger that was all but gone,
Now befits a feast of cannibals.

Backfire

Scrimshanker wheels a rusty underbone,
frenetic foot pegs scurrying away across
crazed sidewalks in the glutted guts
of a downtown delinquent and doorless
with cold fish, skillful smoke. Wherever
there are loose cannons mulling the air,
you can find him pedaling thirstily against
this baptized backdrop, a dragonfly hellbent
on guileless golden lilies, afterlight plumes.

Humanities teamed up

When I was in semester.
She bought the farm leaving me.
Wontedly I found harbor.
But never got single soul.
He also walked in the lead.
My cup, what is in the books.
But humanities teamed up.

Voltaire and Shithole Countries

    Today Dr. Pangloss announced his retirement as he stood on the steps of the White House.
    “For most of my life I have seen American behavior as it was portrayed from behind an Oz-like curtain. A behavior that has constantly tried to diminish others by pretending to be something grand. I would try to reassure others that there was no reason for alarm. I would point out that such behavior was only a building block on the road to a better world—that by such behavior we were assuring that buckets of uncertainty were being extinguished from the minds of others. I maintained that by allowing them to become confused and question the “truth” they would, a bit more, move.”
    The good Doctor suddenly paused, seemed to choke, and tore off his bandanna. After wiping his eyes, he raised the clenched rag. The features of his face were morphed from one of sincerity before, to one of firmness then. It reminded me of the visage of a young Castro riding a tank into Havana. It was neither hard nor soft. It simply was.
    As he tossed the bandanna and let his eyes water, he made his lasting point.
    “Today glory be, rejoice!!! My work is done, it is done. IT is the best of all possible worlds!!!”
    My my. Take another little piece of my heart now baby.

Untitled (thoughts)

Our thoughts
bend the wind
like arrows
coming loose
from a stretched bow

Untitled (dream)

a silver mist
rises in the meadow—
the wind erases
our footprints,
tomorrow’s dreams

Who
    What
        Where
            When
                Why

Who.
British explorers, then others,
looking for more ways to expand.

What.
They traveled farther than anyone
and discovered a cold, remote land.

Where.
As far south
as their ships could take them.

When.
Maybe two centuries ago.

Why.
To discover new land to claim,
and more animals to slaughter
for food and oil.

—

And in this unclaimed land,
ships from different countries came —

it was bitter cold, some died in their quest,
but they thought they found a natural treasure.

Giant whales were everywhere, so
slaughter anything you can find, get it to

the whaling ships to extract
the blubber and use for oil.

And there are so many seals here,
large animals that haven’t learned to fear us yet.

So with their impunity dozens of species
were almost completely decimated. What a treasure.

—

Who.
Twelve countries.
Eventually more than eighty,
but I think some were just trying to stake their claim.

What.
They signed an agreement
to make this one foreign continent
exist for maybe research, but only peace.

Where.
At the southern pole,
where days last half a year
and nights give us the Aurora Australis.

When.
Just over half a century ago,
when we realized we had to save
what we almost destroyed. And let it thrive.

Why.
Because when humans come
to a new place, the first thing we bring is battle.
So if we promise to leave it alone, maybe,

maybe peace can truly exist somewhere on planet Earth.

Ocean’s Call to Dive

the Gentoo penguins run down the mountain
to the rocky edge overlooking the southern ocean
they get into a single-file line at the edge
one jumps in
then another
then another
then a dozen more

the last penguin in the line gets to that edge
after all the other penguins dove into the southern ocean

the last penguin steps back and forth on his feet in place
turns around
looks at the mountain
turns back to the water
rocks once
steps in place twice
looks back again
then turns to the salt water and dives in

Underwater and Swimming

swimming with my best friend
in a pool in the summertime,
diving down in the deep end,
flipping and springing to the sky

could never compare to seeing
Gentoo penguins, stocky birds
actually swimming like porpoises
underwater, then springing so high

from the water, where we sat at the shoreline
after watching the penguins dive in
to the Southern Ocean’s frigid salt water
group together, and then spring away

like watching birds in flight, in formation
we’d watch six or eight of these birds
all spring up in the water together
just to porpoise together in sync

I think of my friend now, how we swam
near the Great Lakes, south of the North Pole.
And now, at the other side of the world
I see it’s part of the beautiful whole

on the Bridge

the Captain invited us onto the bridge
and we cautiously walked, and watched
the majestic view from the front of the ship
searching for what was yet to be found

but lucky us, crewmates saw it —
the first Humpback whales of the season
so the Captain gently slowed the ship down
just to try to glide alongside

and maybe the whales were as curious as we
because after a few minutes of gliding
three Humpback whales came along beside
trying to learn what we might be hiding

our intentions were pure, but maybe they knew
we would never be truly alike
so they blew from their blowholes, curled with their fins
and with their tails, they turned the other way

yes, it’s true, we’re not alike
they turned backward as we moved ahead
but I think we both learned from each other
and we grew through our final goodbye

I was honored to be on the bridge that day
I was honored he gave us that chance
to commune with something so different from us
that helps, in a way, makes us the same

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).

The Least Influential Boy in the World

    “They” gagged him. Again. The red kerchief with the white dotted and hyphenated shapes. Bloods regalia. “They” did it. At night. Each behemoth took his turn. Behind closed doors. They had oversized and cellulite ridden backsides, thick and graspable love handles, and droopy, feminine pecs. The clichéd apex predator. The pain was incredible and wordless. And it never got better. Chad never opened wide enough to accommodate them. When he saw Chad sitting dazed and sad on the rec room bench, another bitch, sharpening his pool cue with a pink cue cube, smelling of KY and with Kool Ade for lipstick, walked over to him and said, “It’s not the end of the world, dude. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You learn to like it.”
    “We’ll fuck you till you love us!” Ghost screamed into his ear. Spittle landed on Chad’s earlobe. He felt the sewing of the stitches in his rectum shredded into bits of fiber. The shower floor smelled of the cheap Bob Barker soap. The soiled feet of the inmates had dirtied the pale tiles. His first night at The Salt Lake County Jail—his first night at any jail, Chad walked into the showers ten minutes after the guard showed him to his bunk and “they” jumped him. The first few times they kept a wet rag to his face. Not anymore.
    He grunted, the sharpness of the gag bit into his lips and the sides of his mouth. His screaming at night had broiled his vocal chords and worn down his throat. During the day, the sun painting octagonal shadows through the grated windows, his voice was always hoarse.
    Ghost gyrated his hips. Chad huffed through his nose, blowing out specks and gobs of mucus. Why not just let it be. Forever and ever and ever. Amen. He closed his eyes. Nothing. He opened them. The world was a slot machine, and he had hit the jackpot. His right cheek rubbed against the tile in time to the thrusting.
    He woke. He felt nickels and dimes and quarters under him. He used to sleep with his pants on, and during the night change slipped out onto the sheets as he tossed and turned and sweated. He heard the night nurse, Brandi, going door to door, telling patients it was time to wake and line up for breakfast. Chad tore into his drawers and pulled out his gray slacks and stomped into them. He pulled on his sleek white button down shirt. He was so enraged he got the buttons wrong, and the shirt clung to itself lopsided. He marched down to the tech desk. Morgan sat behind it, leaning back in his chair.
    “Morgan! Nigger! You’re a nigger! I hate niggers!” He screamed in spondees, pronouncing each syllable as if he was blowing out of a French horn.
    “Oh man, Chad, I’m white.”
    “You’re a dumb assed fat lipped nigger!”
    Morgan sighed. “Chad, go back to bed.”
    Chad went back to his room and left his pants on the floor and lay down. The loose change was cool and random on his skin. He did not try to sleep. His head still rang. Gongs and cymbals and xylophones and bongo drums and tambourines and snare drums and bass drums. Just lay it off, he thought. Eventually the real world would creep back in, the dream would dissolve into fire-red sand, and he’d get a hold of himself. He kept his eyes wide open. If he shut them the nightmare would return. He willed them to open as dilated as possible, afraid to blink. Every muscle lay rigid and tight, his toes pointed straight up to the ceiling, his ankles pulled up, his hands clenched and taut over his stomach. Problem was, nightmares don’t really fade, they just doze a little under the skin, biding their time.

        Everyone spent most of their time sitting. The clock took its time in an Einsteinian warp. The hands rotated a swath through the institutional celluloid. The vents pumped in Serequil XL to keep the patients calm, and it gave the whole unit a smell of burnt toast. There was breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The vending machines opened for fifteen minutes, once at ten a.m. and once at four p.m. A big screen TV sat in the day room. Jody and Misty mostly used it to play Xbox One. The two stationary bikes were broken and missing pedals. The windows, to create the illusion of open space, stretched from floor to ceiling, so you could look out at the parking lot and see all the nurses and techs and counselors and security and administrators and cafeteria workers and custodians parking and driving off. Jared, a military nurse on Southeast, rode his Harley in at eight a.m. Wednesday through Sunday. There was a jet black Mountain Cougar rug nailed down on the orange carpet next to the tech desk. Nailed so tightly, a thick Hardened Steel Flooring Nail every two centimeters. The mouth was in perpetual scream, the tongue thick and meaty, the canines edged and keen. Sand was everywhere, always jamming up the custodians’ vacuums. It blew in when someone opened the entrance doors, leaving an open ended isosceles triangle of sepia on the floor. It floated in your generic cola in the cafeteria. Pinpoints of it lay on the sofas and the chairs. You felt it when you dug into your pockets.
    Every day, Chad wore the same clothes. He had been admitted to the Salt Lake County jail in a J.F.J. end on end business suit he bought at J.C. Penny’s, and when they transferred him, that’s all he had. He hadn’t washed it in the three or four months he had been at State.
    Sally Johnston, the admin for Southwest, had a tech escort him to her office one day. “You know, if you keep disturbing the other patients, we’ll hold a medication hearing, and I guarantee you you’ll lose, and Dr. Mellors will put you on a heaping dose of Haldol daily. One hundred milligrams for breakfast, lunch and dinner. You’ll need help tying your shoes. And if that doesn’t work, it’s out of Southwest, up two floors to Forensics. Do you want to know what Forensics is like? No vending machines there, no yellow passes to walk the yard, no smoke breaks, no windows. And the patients up there aren’t too friendly. They mean business. Remember, State is for people without the money to pay for a real hospital, people without resources. So you’ll be with the worst of the worst. Try what you do down here up there and see what happens.”
    “I keep asking you guys for Tiopan at night.”
    “What? What’s that?”
    “It cuts off Oxygen to the part of the brain that controls dreaming. So I won’t have nightmares. My prof in Med Psyche One talked about it for Gulf War vets.”
    “You’re not the doctor. I’ll see what I can do. Look...” she stared down at his file. “You’re...twenty four. You’re not psychotic. You’re neurotic. You know right from wrong. If you don’t start behaving, you’ll never be released.”
    It was around two p.m. on a Monday. Or a Tuesday. Or a Wednesday. Chad sat next to Todd and Dusty. Todd was an ex lance corporal. He had a crew cut with a mullet and always wore a red cub scout’s pack shirt. Dusty wore jeans with a hole in the left knee and a black shirt advertising Blueberry Pop tarts. His face looked equine, his nose and mouth stuck out, his teeth were all over the place, and gray hair ringed his lips, two blubbery worms. Chad’s attention drifted to their conversation.
    “No, I seen plenty,” Dusty went on. “On The Dark Web. You need a TOR browser.”
    “A what?” Todd asked.
    “It stands for The Onion Router. I don’t know. Some military type thing.”
    Todd frowned. “Soldiers would never use anything like that.”
    “Ah ah. It’s not meant for searching for the stuff, but people use it to search for the stuff.”
    “Whatever, dude.”
    “It disguises where you’re coming from, like your IP address. You got to look for sites advertising hard candy.”
    “What?” Todd said, irritated.
    “Hard candy.” Dusty spelled it out.
    “I don’t know if I want to hear this.”
    “I’ll spare you the details. But shit, those were the days.” Dusty shook his head. “Before they registered me as a level three risk. When I was on the outside, my PO came by my trailer a knockin’—totally unannounced, at random—to make sure I didn’t have no desktop or laptop or whatever. He looked under the bed, in the closet, in my bathroom, my dresser drawers, wherever.”
    “He was a good guy. You wouldn’t last two seconds with the niggers down at County.”
    “Sure I would. They’d put me in punk city.”
    “And that is?”
    “Protective Custody.”
    “They’d get you. They’d find a way. County is like eighty percent darky. Them boys can’t keep themselves out of jail. In all the pens, they is the majority.”
    Chad thought back to his conversation with the Block Head Admin for Salt Lake. The guy talked with a western twang, like he chewed on a stem of wheat, his first name was Opie, and he walked bow legged. Chad remembered his name tag. It was red, in big, white letters: “U.S. Department of Justice”. Under that, in smaller letters: “House C Administrator.” And under that, “Wendelbow, Opie. And at the bottom, in black: “8990-C”.
    “I need out of Gen Pop,” Chad told him. “Like now. Please, sir.” His voice quivered, he was pale, the vessels in his eyes exclaimed themselves.
    Opie sighed. “Why, son?”
    “Bad things are happening.”
    “So what.”
    I’m-I’m being sexually attacked.”
    “We all got to start being a man sometimes.”
    “Please. I’m only five foot nine and a hundred and thirty pounds.”
    PC ain’t for you, boy. It’s for accused sex offenders and snitches only. Just kick ‘em in the balls.”
    The conversation between Dusty and Todd continued.
    “This one pic, it was of a girl, a teen—”
    “I don’t want to hear it, man. I don’t want to hear it. And you got med mouth.” Med mouth was when medication caused a dry mouth. White gunk formed on your lips and your breath stank.
    Dusty sat up, he spoke quickly. “She was nude, in bed, totally shaved. Some razor burn.”
    “Shut up already.”
    “She looked like a minor, but that’s okay—”
    “No it’s not.”
    “They don’t prosecute on fifteen and sixteen year olds.”
    “Wonderful.”
    “So obviously she was posing for her boyfriend. He took the picture. She gave him the finger. I even remember the date: 05/07/2008. A Confederate flag hung over the bed. So this was in the good ole U. S. of A. A poster of Justin Beiber on the wall. Next to that a red and yellow Bulldogs cheerleading sign.”
    “Thanks for all the details.” Todd yelled to the tech desk. “Can we line up for lunch yet?! He’s triggering my PTSD!”
    “A lot of this stuff used to come from Serbia and the Ukraine. But then those governments clamped down. So now it mostly comes from us.”
    Todd turned to him, stone eyes. “Don’t badmouth the country my brothers fought and died for.”
    “She was hot.”
    “Why am I listening to this?”
    “But what made it illegal was that the boyfriend got the girl to get her sister in bed with her, the little girl was around eight, and she pulled up her nightgown.”
    Chad stood up over Dusty and pounded him. He called Dusty a nigger.
    Todd yelled, “Staff! Chad’s fighting again!” Then he got up and walked away. A male tech ran over and bear hugged Chad and body slammed him onto the carpet. Other techs ran over. A crowd of patients gathered round. Techs from Northwest ran in. One dug his knee into Chad’s back.
    “Get the fuck off of me! I didn’t do anything wrong!” His cheek was pressed hard against the carpet. All he saw were knees on the floor and tennis shoes. Adidas, New balance, K Swiss, and Nike.
    Someone shouted, “Brandon! Thorazine!”
    Brandon rushed out of the nurse’s station with a hypodermic. “This is an intramuscular of Thorzine, Chad. It will put you out.”
    “No! I don’t want to go to sleep!” He had to work to stifle shouting, “Please!”
    A male tech reached under his waist and unsnapped his pants. “No! Stop! I’m sorry!” They yanked down his slacks. He wore soiled and torn briefs. They pulled those down to his thighs, pink and hairless. Chad felt the cool air on his behind. Then he felt the pinch. The alcohol on the needle stung.
    “Just calm down,” a female tech said. “You’re safe. You’re okay.”
    Chad quickly lost his energy. He felt like someone covered him in a soaked wool blanket. He squirmed weakly. “Pull my underwear up! And my pants!” Brandon walked over to Dusty and looked at Dusty’s left ear and left eye. Then he went back to his station and walked back out with industrial vinyl gloves, a white bottle of saline solution, and some gauze and medical tape. He dabbed the solution on Dusty’s eyebrow and ear and wrapped them both up.
    Dusty laughed it off. “That guy’s crazy.”
    Chad struggled to keep his eyes open. A male tech dragged him like a limp mannequin by his armpits to his room. The tech lay Chad in bed, left, and returned with a notched brown leather strap. He pulled off Chad’s navy blue dress sock on his right ankle and tied one end of the strap to Chad’s ankle and the other end to a handle on the bed. “Sleep it off, Chad,” the tech said. “You’ll be better a few days from now.”
    Chad’s eyelids shut, without his consent, and his world went a charred black.

        Chad sat in the day room. It was filled with patients watching TV. A tech, Stacey Larger, escorted Charles in. He was eighteen, with brown hair in a bowl cut; he wore a Brigham U sweatshirt and black sweatpants. He perpetually had a hard on, and he had elephantine genitalia, so it stood out like a lateral flagpole. Charles spoke in sing song, like an underdeveloped adolescent. His voice cracked a lot. They sat down. A James Bond film was on.
    A sex scene. A brunette with tiny Kalashnikovs for earrings and a braided updo. A red evening gown hung off her scanty frame. The gown was strapless and covered with emerald glitter. She stood in a boudoir with a man in a tuxedo. His dinner jacket was off and the sleeves of his white button down shirt were rolled up. He had a tattoo of a blue python, scales prominent, on his left forearm. The makeup table with a mirror sitting on it was in disarray. “Do you think the kids are okay?” he asked her. She dropped her gown and walked like a cat over to him in blackly laced bra and panties and high heels. She undid her hair and it flopped down to her shoulders. Three pink panther paw prints were tattooed next to her belly button. Chad’s penis and scrotum shrunk. He was afraid if he looked at his groin he’d see a puckered maw, nothing there but impressed sphincter-like lips. He felt them literally lessen into his body.
    Charles asked, “Stacey, can you say the word ‘labia’?”
    “Why?”
    “Just say it.”
    “Labia.”
    He laughed in a slow, warped huff.
    “What’s so funny?”
    “Don’t you know what that means?”
    “A part of the body, I’m guessing.”
    One of the patients sighed.
    “It’s your Va G G. It looks like a flap. It gets full of blood when you stick something in it.”
    “Charles, let’s be appropriate and watch TV.”
    The couple on TV began to kiss. The lady’s arm drifted down the man’s back.
    “Oh Stacey, why don’t you lose some weight so you can be like the pretty girl on TV?”
    “This show is triggering you. Let’s head back to the sofas.” They stood up. Charles grabbed her breast and tackled her. The patients lunged at him. They pulled him off her and beat on him. “Staff, help!” Stacey Larger yelled.
    Charles curled up in a fetal position, trying to ward off the blows. “I’ll teach you to respect other people’s private parts!” yelled one patient with plaid pants and a Simpson’s T-shirt.
    “Not to a woman! No you don’t!” yelled another.
    “You fuckin’ sicko pervert!”
    “Guys! Guys! It’s okay! Leave him be!” Stacey Larger said. She got up and tried to maneuver through the tangle of bodies and pull them off.
    Techs ran in: “Lay off guys! Let us handle it! We got him!” They pulled down Charles pants and briefs and shot him up with Thorazine.
    “It brings back old memories, doesn’t it, Stacey?!” Charles screamed through the pile of arms and legs, looking like an octopus. Stacey Larger began to cry. Chad stayed out of it. He didn’t want to risk a shot of Thorazine himself. He was learning to play the game, to be that number.

        Carter Hampton, thirty-four, a former rodeo hand who worked most of his life on The Tara Hill Ranch, sat in a red leather wheelchair with an American Flag hanging upside down on back. An IV stand sat next to him, an IV needle inserted into his brachial artery. He couldn’t pay his bills, couldn’t find a job that paid more, and was a week away from foreclosure when he tried suicide via skydiving. He was twenty-three at the time.
    He spent his off time jumping out of planes. Once a month a Cessna 182 would fly him up to the skies and he would take the leap. So his plan was to keep his parachute closed and fall to earth at one hundred twenty-two miles per hour, terminal velocity for the human body. He torpedoed as far away as he could from the other jumpers. But as the black parking lot to the Target store loomed bigger and bigger and opened up before him, he lost his nerve and let out his reserve chute (He was too low to let out the primary chute). But it was too late. He hit the tarred pavement with a splat! like a swatted fly, right next to a western grandmother loading up her car with items. An ambulance ferried him to the hospital.
    He was damaged goods. Permanently damaged goods. They diagnosed him with semi-reverse parapalegia. He was one hundred percent deaf in one ear and seventy-eight percent deaf in the other. His eyeballs locked like he was looking at his crotch, and he had five/five vision in both of them. Not a muscle on his arms or chest worked. The only part of his face he could move was his right cheek. His digestive system was defunct, so he had a colostomy bag. He couldn’t talk, and he needed a daily IV drip of Duratine to keep his lungs working. Below the waist he was fine, his sexual organs and legs worked great. Swiftkey, the same company that invented the computer Stephen Hawking used to talk, donated their device to him. “Shoot me, please,” in a synthesized voice echoed throughout Southwest. Sometimes Carter would kick at the nurse when he or she changed his IV rehydration bag. At night before he fell asleep he’d hump his bed and he always orgasmed. The nurse on duty would have to clean him up the following morning.

        Chad lay in bed. It had been lights out for an hour now. His breath came light and quick. He watched his chest rise and fall. A film of sweat stuck to his forehead. His heart beat like a cartoon character’s, popping and stretching out of his breastbone. His genitals throbbed. He pulled down the covers, took off his underwear, knelt on the carpet, spit on his fingers, and rubbed. His counselor, Wella Clarkson, warned him this would happen. It was his mind’s way of controlling the pain:
    He always smelled Kamile’s armpits in bed. “Tomorrow, you go fetch us some safety pins from House and Sewing. We gonna make you some nipple jewelry. You hear, boy?”
    “Yes, daddy.”
    “Let’s hit the rec room. Time for some dicky play.” They got up and walked by the row of bunk beds. The inmates yelled.
    “Light him up, Kamile!”
    “Dig yo shit into that white boy!”
    “Punk that nigga into chocolate!”
    Kamile flipped on the lights: Two pool tables and three benches against a wall and a vending machine. “Get the balls off the table, Keisha.”
    “Okay, daddy.” Chad pushed the balls into the pockets. The table was bare.
    “Place them sweet little sugar hips on the table and gimme some o’ that asshole.” Chad unbuttoned his orange prison suit and stepped out of it. He pulled off his underwear and sat on the table’s edge. Kamile pushed him back on the green felt and lifted his legs into a ninety degree angle. “This is payback for Jim Crow, muthafucka. This is fo hundreds of years o slavery.” The air whistled through the gap in Kamile’s front teeth. “Ain’t no one gonna help you. Yo ma’s ain’t nowhere near. All yo money in the world can’t do shit for you now.”
    “I actually live in Belmont. That’s why I couldn’t make bail.”
    “You look like you come from Greenfield. You look like yo name is Winston and shit.”
    He plowed into Chad. Chad screamed. Kamile shoved a towel in Chad’s mouth. It tasted of Bob Barker detergent. The green felt rubbed his back raw. Each of his vertebrae emphasized themselves. His back burnt during the day and he asked permission to go down to Medical for some AD ointment, but Kamile said no.
    All Chad could do was look up at his feet shaking in rhythm and umph into the towel. The grated light bulb looked down apathetically.
    “I’m gonna break you in half, bitch! I’m almost there!” Chad reached down and squeezed Kamile’s testicles, delaying the orgasm. “That’s right! Make me hotter!”
    Chad spurted all over the carpet.

        Cherie poked at her head with a delicate hand in the rearview mirror, the long fingers brushing through the red weave. She got out of her 2017 Lexus IS, locked the door by remote, and the car horn beeped. She walked through the lot towards the hospital and her reflection in the doors grew larger. Her melanin always shown back darker than it really was. Forever the outcast. She looked at her hips and thought, Yep, I need to go back to the Gold’s in Clifton again. She unlocked both doors with her keycard, walked into the staff room, hung her coat in her locker, ruffled the sand out of her weave, clipped on her name tag, and walked onto Southwest to do her job.
     Aside for Forensics, Southwest was the worst unit to work on. The white bearded God of The Old Testament literally lived and breathed and hovered over Utah like the aurora borealis, and he had laid curse upon curse on the hospital. The sand that breezed through the unit, like it lived, must crawl into patients’ ears, granulate into their brains, and short circuit their neurons and galvanize their adrenal glands. Patients would throw billiard balls at each other. They used the balls to give their roundhouses extra weight. Ulnas and ribs had been fractured, teeth had been smashed like tossed dice, mandibles had been shattered, solar plexuses had been hammered and crushed. The techs had repeatedly made requests to Sally to haul out the pool table, but she had refused, saying patients needed it to cool off.
    And there was her skin. Sometimes the racism was overt, just out of the oven, like when she would walk by Barret and he would shout, “Yo yo yo what up what up what up?!” or try to coordinate his fingers into a Blood Killa gang sign. Other times it was implicit, under the covers, like when Dusty would ask her why Gangsta Rap always had to boom on and on about killing whitey and white folk. Black people were a rare commodity in Provo, and she was the only African American who worked at the hospital. She had wanted to get a job at Salt Lake Psychiatric, in the city, where there were more blacks, but they weren’t hiring. In the end, she didn’t mind; these patients lived at point zero, their lives were endless monotony, a zig zag into the sunset, and they didn’t know any better.
    “They” had taxed her since Xavier in Cincinnati. On Friday and Saturday nights, the black kids from Larimar Woods would flood the campus and mince, slice, and dice the white students. So sometimes when students got drunk, they would let loose a torrent of racial epithets. She got used to it. You learned to get used to it. Like at the hospital, she inferred a lot of it from the attitudes and tones of voice and nuanced conversation, but you didn’t have to be Jung to figure it out.
    As Xavier had educated her, the gray and black Jell-O of the human brain and the way it was wired was the cause. If you were white, and a cracker pummeled or threatened you, your brain deciphered no defining characteristics into the attacker. However, if a black threw you around, and you were weak mentally, and your psyche bent and broke easily, your mind kicked into survival mode: “Okay, so how can we, as a body, avoid this again? Who do we stay away from? What do we look for in strangers that will sound the alarum so that we’ll know to give these sickos and sociopaths and Godzillas a wide berth?” The circuitry dialogues with itself until all the wires sing together, “It’s the melanin factor! It’s the pigment!” Fear makes such a monumental footprint that it overrides judgement. Fright is blind and craven; it seeks survival at all costs, even in nefarious adjudication.
    With radical Islamic terrorism it was a similar misplaced ideology. You can plead with the Islamophobes, “This violence is not representative of Muslims as a whole.” But people get so angry they lose a handle and their rancor bleeds everywhere.
    It takes a lucid state of mind to say, “Okay, just because one Muslim is bad, that doesn’t mean all are bad.”
    But the hicks at Rednecks r Us lose control, they see stars, literally, and they lose the ability to discriminate and they just ride their anger while it bucks under them and they say, “I don’t care anymore! It’s not some, but ALL!”
    She walked by Nick Scott, sitting on the sofa. He was a cowboy, cactus-faced and wrinkled, schizophrenic and violent. “Fucking nigger,” he said, like he was talking about the taste of lemonade. “Go back to Nigeria.”
    “Not nice, not nice, Nicholas,” she said.
    She sat down next to Chad. “So Chad, I hear you’re doing better lately. No more write ups. No more Thorazine. In staff they said you’re up for a red pass.”
    “Leave me alone. What did I ever do to you?” He said it like he was sick of being hounded, and he started to flick a button on his shirt, signaling the conversation was over.
    “Okay, no problem.” She stood up and walked over to Bryce. He sat in a chair next to Charles’s door. After his brouhaha with Stacey Larger, Dr. Lupez placed Charles on twenty-fours. The doctor ordered him kept to his room, and staff had to sit outside his room twenty-four hours a day. His door always had to be open. She pulled up a chair from the tech desk and sat next to Bryce. “Hi there comrade. Just another day at State,” she said. “With the kiddies.”

        “Who wants to watch the fireworks?!” a female tech yelled. “They’re shooting them off at Junction Park! But if you sit down by the double doors, you can barely see them!” Chad, Todd, and a few other patients walked over and plopped down. Chad sat cross legged.
    “Nothing like spending the fourth of July locked up in State,” Todd said. Above the tops of the waterslides, at the waterpark across the way, you could see the tips of the spray of lights. The glare of red, white, and blue. Some green. Explosions of bright balls of light, the smoke blinked on and off in the night in time with the flashes and the booms and the whistles. Pyrotechnics rained down. Chad saw the tips of Girondolas and felt the concussions on the thin carpet. Burst after burst colored the night sky. He waited it out. He waited for the grand finale.
    We picnicked at Stadium Park to watch the fireworks. Many teens were there, cuddling, dabbing at each other, placing bits and morsels into each other’s mouths. Lots of families. Children running astray, being called back, tackling each other. We said one day we’d be like those parents. The American dream atomized. We’d push a boy in training wheels down Marlborough Road and have a girl in a crib we put together ourselves, a mobile of flying geese spinning lazily above her. You talked about your paper for Intro to Psyche, and how you had to write about Freud, and how much you hated him, and that he was an egotistical misogynist. You pulled an apple out of a braided picnic basket and made sexual innuendo over it, what did you say? Something about Eve giving the apple to Adam, and then they both had sex. I used my Swiss Army boy scouts knife to unpeel an orange. The huge speakers at the bottom of the hill played country tunes to keep the crowd busy, and we both hated country, but we weren’t bothered. The Liquor Control Board had their agents out grazing, asking every young person for their driver’s license, flipping open their badges like they were the shit, writing up fines. But neither of us drank, so we didn’t worry. Then the show began. I saw the sparkling lights gloss over your brown eyes. The fireworks exploded so close, and in such deep pastels, that we worried they would fall down on us, that they would drizzle down onto you and me and onto our blanket and we’d fry. We held hands, and we talked about traveling when we graduated, either heading south to Miami or across the Atlantic to Brussels.

Stupefied!

    Low-contrast sunlight washed on the park. Long shadows hovered over it like dragons.
    Ryan Dawson stared at the slides.
    19 years ago, every day, he would stand on top of a slide. His sister would stand 2 feet from the end. He would chant – and he would claim it was in Japanese.
    “Super Saiyan!” Dawson would shout. He would imagine his energy level increasing. He would lie and slide down.
    At the end he would hold his hands as if he held a dangerous energy ball in between, and he would clench his fingers. He would shoot the ball at her with a brief shout.
    “I don’t want to play this,” she would say.
    Right now, Dawson fiddled with his hands in the shape of an energy ball. He gaped.
    Two little girls beside him talked about how the red crayon is better than the blue one. And how the white is the worst. The one with the blonde hair had a white headband on.
    Dawson’s sister had a favourite white headband. One day, Dawson had stolen and tossed it behind a bush in the park. She had asked about it. He wouldn’t speak. She told mom. She always told mom.
    Dawson bit his lip.
    “A white crayon shouldn’t even be there!”
    “Hey,” Dawson said. He turned towards the girls. “Wanna watch something?”
    “What?”
    Dawson reached out and pulled a coin from behind the blonde girl’s ear. He drummed the air with the other hand.
    “Wow!”
    When he couldn’t find his sister’s headband that day, and she had been sulking, he had come to her with a coin behind his back. “Here. I have something else for you.”
    She had ignored him.
    He had reached out and almost lost grip of the coin. He had managed to keep it hidden. Then, he had pulled the coin from behind her ear.
    “No way!” She had said.
    Dawson had grinned.
    “Keep this,” he had said.
    Right now, Dawson handed the coin to little girl. “Keep this.”
    She rolled the coin and held it tight. “How did you do it?” She shoved it in her pocket. She was so small.
    “Magicians don’t tell. Hey, what’s your name?”
    “Amanda” she said.
    “And what’s your name?” He asked the girl with the plastic flower.
    She blushed and didn’t speak.
    “And can you do something more?” Amanda said.
    “Yes. Okay. Step back.”
    They hopped off the bench.
    Dawson stood up. He brushed his faded jeans and turned 180 degrees to show his back. He walked away three steps. Now, he could see the dry, old fountain.
    “I want teleportation, or invisibility as my superpower,” Ishaan, his best friend, had said when the fountain had used to run.
    Dawson always liked the cold spray. “I would like to fly.” He had said. “Invisibility is good. But I would fly.”
    “That would be sweet.”
    Right now, Dawson lifted his feet 3 inches from the ground. He hovered. His shadow remained. He spread his arms. He floated, 3 inches clear, in circles and in trapeziums.
    He heard laughter and giggles and a slight scream.
    He lowered himself down. He turned, smiled, and bowed.
    “Wow!”
    The girls ran back to him. Sunshine smiles on a warm evening lit his heart.
    He grinned and forgot the slides altogether.
    Amanda looked sideways. “There he comes,” she said. “My brother.”
    A kid, around 15, lean and lanky, walked towards them. He wore a t-shirt with a skull print.
    “Your brother?” Dawson said.
    “That is my brother, yes,” she said, without looking at Dawson. “Hey, Sammy, you must see this. He is a magician!”
    Sammy nodded.
    Dawson smiled. “Hello.”
    “Are you a magician?”
    Dawson waved at Amanda. “So, where is your coin?”
    She looked at the sky as she fished in her pocket. She shook her head. She showed an empty palm. Her brows tensed.
    “Don’t keep losing this.” Dawson said with raised eyebrows. He put forward the coin.
    She laughed and nodded.
    “I know this. I read it on Facebook. It’s not magic.” Sammy said.
    Dawson nodded. He smiled, pulled out a marble, and said, “Watch.”
    Amanda blinked a lot, like Dawson’s sister used to when she would watch mom work on home-made ice cream.
    As Dawson twisted the marble, it changed from blue to yellow.
    “But it’s a fake marble.” Sammy said.
    “You can examine it.”
    Amanda’s hair blew in the wind. She squinted at her brother.
    Sammy rolled the marble, shook it, rubbed on it, shrugged, and gave it back. He stared at it. “I know it’s fake. I study science. It must be science. Everything is science.”
    Amanda punched Sammy. She frowned.
    “Amanda, magic is not real.” Sammy said. He shook his head. “It’s science.” He waved his arms.
    Amanda said, “I will tell mom.”
    “What will you tell mom?”
    “I will tell mom.”
    “Oh, hey, Amanda,” Dawson said as he drew in a huge breath and leaned forward. “Can I guess your favourite colour?”
    She gasped and smiled. “Yes?”
    “Mom is calling you home. Now,” Sammy said.
    One day, 13 years ago, mom had called Dawson home early from football. He had grunted and his skin had still been red.
    Mom had been frowning. Her whole body had been tense as she hugged herself. Dawson had looked at her, mute.
    Her eyes had been wet and sunken. Her eyebrows had been creased. She would not look away from a spot on the floor.
    “Er..., mom, is there some food?” Dawson had said.
    She had not replied. But a phone had rung. Dawson had been in the kitchen, as he would open the first and the second and the third cabinets, all empty, and he had heard the words “Hospital” and “Bad”. Then, “Very bad.”
    He had heard mom speak his sister’s name five times. Her voice had been hushed.
    She had let out a wail.
    “Okay, let’s go home, Amanda.” Sammy said and held her small hand in his.
    “No! Let’s stay,” she said. She tugged at his arm. “I want to watch!”
    “Amanda, I have to go too. It’s late,” the flower girl said in a soft voice.
    Amanda frowned. She looked at Dawson, waved, and walked away sulking.
    Dawson sighed and bit his lip. He moved his hands as if they held an energy ball. He watched the slides.

Arpit Rohilla Bio

    Arpit Rohilla is a 20-year-old writer from Rohtak, India, and he loves ideal-staring outside a window. He also loves football. But, for the most part, he loves watching. He loves watching a new place, a new tree, a new dog, or even a new absolutely-destroying skill-move by Eden Hazard. He supports Chelsea FC. He adores John Terry.

3:14 am, empty

    Ironically I am drowning in a cold sweat as I lay here, alive and awake in my unmade king size bed. The comforter is half way on the floor and my sheets are soaked from continuous perspiration from my non-showered body. Through tear stained eyes, I stare at my ceiling fan, transfixed on it’s clockwise rotation. I count the number of every complete cycle as it spins, time seems to move so much slower here. I feel the deep, swollen bags that have formed under my eyes. They are so heavy. When was the last time I slept? Shit I can’t even remember. Giving the weight of these bags, I’m assuming that it has been at least 72 hours; 71 if you count the dream-like hallucinations I have been having the last 60 minutes. My body is so heavy with depression and exhaustion. Gravity is stronger here, but insomnia refuses to let me drift off to sleep. The soft, muffled sobbing coming from the other side of the room is not making it any easier. I turn over to my side and stare at my wife. She is rocking back and forth in her rocking chair, as she cries while rubbing her pregnant belly. The chair creaks against the hardwood floor every time she rocks. The sound making the hairs on the back of my neck stand erect. She looks at me through her blood shot eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Don’t look at me like that Natalie. Please stop looking at me like that.” I beg her. She looks away from me. I take a deep breath and turn away from her, facing the nightstand. I stare at the half bottle of hennessy I have left. It’s sitting there next to an empty prescription bottle of Ambien, which isn’t working worth a damn. I notice a piece of paper lying under the liquor bottle. The same piece of paper I’ve been staring at for the past week. In a daze, I knock the bottle over as it shatters, spilling the contents all over the floor. I reach over, grab the paper and stare at it for the ninth time tonight. On the front of it, under the word Obituary, is a picture of Natalie. She is so beautiful. Her long dark flowing hair, her hazel eyes, her soft features. Her smile so beautiful. I remember taking this photo the first day of our honeymoon. But now she’s pissing me off with all this crying. She died giving birth to my baby girl a week ago but she hasn’t stopped crying yet. Keeps me up every night. Keeps me feeling guilty that I did this to them. Did this to her. If I never got her pregnant she would still be alive. But it doesn’t matter, because she’s here now. Reminding me of my pain every night. I just wish she would let me sleep. I feel her climb in bed behind me. Her warm breath on the back of my neck, her tears wet upon our pillow, her belly pressed up against my back. I cry as I feel my daughter’s little feet kick. I weep now knowing that I lost 3 things on that day. My wife, my daughter and my mind. Wishing I lost my life instead. I finally feel myself drifting off to sleep, staring at that empty Ambien bottle. Knowing I took 10 too many...

Foreclosure

    “Complain, complain, that’s all you do, Lepty.” His alderman said. He was right too. The guy with the big ears and little head promised with an articulate, thundering voice he’d consider his next bid to rehab or, at least, gut the foreclosed and abandoned houses on several blocks in their precinct. Several retirees like Lepty had small companies that bid on rehabbing such properties. Jake Lepty and Associates finally got the contract on a large corner house on his block. Jake was special in the neighborhood; he hired guys with records and students on summer break. “Why not?” He explained to the alderman. “Looks good for you. They aren’t perfect, but you got to start somewhere.” They did okay today so Jake gave them an extra hour for lunch, besides the dumpster was full and the replacement was late due to a breakdown. Now he had time to go through the vast collection of old paperbacks and magazines Ms. Hart accumulated. The basement wasn’t damp or musty smelling, but the mice had a field day, nesting material everywhere. Piles of old clothes and antique furniture lined the walls by the furnace and laundry appliances. The rumor Ms. Hart reversed mortgaged the place after her husband died was true and good for Lepty and Assoc. This made the third home on the block, but the block still had a well kept look. All the ranch style homes were fifty feet off the city property line with well maintained lawns due to neighbor’s sense of community.
    Who would have thought the little old lady who was daily carrying in a six pack was a writer. There were stacks of boxes full of reference material and magazines surrounding an old oak desk with iron drawer knobs. The light on the table was straight out of a forties movie and pushed to the side an electric typewriter. Whether it worked he didn’t know, but everything he’d seen so far was handwritten in spiral notebooks. At some time was she a professional or teacher or what? He stacked a few boxes on the desk when he heard the crew return. Since they were ahead of schedule he gave them the rest of the day off. If there was something of value here he wanted first crack at it. He brushed dust and mouse droppings off one of many boxes. The contents of the first were paper clipped to copies of research with rough draft edits highlighted by a different color. The majority of the stories less than three thousand words. Curiosity got the best of him and he pulled up an old worn black recliner and started to read. Her titles grabbed him not to mention the first few paragraphs. She was good; he was jealous, slightly. Maybe this would be the incentive he needed to conquer his writer’s block. He finished several of her twilight zone like plots and by the browning and crinkles in the paper must have been written decades ago. He opened another box for something more recent.
    “Hello, Mr. Lepty.” Jake jumped to his feet. He didn’t hear the back door open. Those idiots forgot to lock it. “Mr. Lepty.” A female voice said. “Are you down there?”
    “Yes, I’m here.” He hurried to the stairs. A young woman in her thirties or early forties wearing a loose shirt above her knees and a sheer blue blouse stood on the landing. She smiled and Jake tried not to stare at her beautiful thighs and legs.
    “I didn’t mean to startle or interrupt you. May I come down?”
    “Yeah, be careful the staircase is a bit rickety.”
    When she took her first step and grasped the handrail several bracelets slid down her arms and bunched at her wrist. Four gold chains were draped around her long neck and various metal designs hung equally spaced setting on a set of large firm breast. Oversized hooped earrings enhanced her keen figures and close cut naturally curly black hair. She wasn’t cover girl pretty, but attractive with an approachable air about her attached to a curvaceous body. “It’s pretty dusty down here to put it mildly and you are?”
    “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Lepty, I’m Linda Mercer.” She stepped close to him with an inviting smile and extended her hand with brightly polished nails. “I’m Ms. Hart’s daughter.”
    “Daughter?” He vaguely remembered a little girl around years ago. “Little Linnie?”
    “Yes,” she giggled. “All grown up.”
    That was an understatement. “Jesus it’s been that long?” That’s what happens when you stop paying attention to the neighbors, Jake. “Didn’t you have a twin brother?”
    “Earl.” Her expressions changed. “He’s—.”
    “I’m sorry for your loss.” He wanted to know what happened, but left it alone.
    “That’s okay and thanks.” She perked up again. “I see you’re reading mom’s work.” She walked over and peeked in one of the boxes. “Some of this stuff is ancient. She loved to write at times and then she’d stop. I was too young and wild to pay that much attention, but I recall her passion. ‘Don’t play around in my office yall unless yall want a beatin’ she’d scream.’” Linda giggled. “We obeyed too...see anything interesting?”
    He hesitated, who is she to ask? “Well not really, but I must say what I did glance at.” He smiled to himself at the lie. “Your mom was good.” Time to change the subject. “By the way did you know the mortgage company foreclosed on this property?”
    “Yes, and I got all the valuable stuff out of here a while ago because of the reverse mortgage. And since you’ve read some I’ll assume you might be or have been a writer.”
    “Very intuitive young lady.” It was obvious she didn’t care about foreclosure. “I’ve written a few stories nothing got accepted, but...”
    “Me too, sorry to interrupt, but can I take the boxes?” Linda asked and grabbed the nearest. “I’m just starting to write. I guess my mom’s spirit hit me luckily her work is still here. I won’t need it all.”
    “Technically, no. This stuff is supposed to go in the dumpster, but since I gave the crew the rest of the day off you can. I won’t tell if you won’t.”
    “Cool, I’ll pull around back.”
    “Ok, and if you don’t mind can I read more?”
    “Yeah, fine by me.” She counted. “That’s eight, you can have the one you opened.”
    “Ok.” Jake watched her go up the stairs. Somebody’s enjoying her. He stacked boxes on the dolly and maneuvered it up the stairs slowly not to strain his back. She assisted him in arranging them in the back of her black SUV. “That wasn’t so bad. They fit in spite of all the other junk.”
    “Junk. Those computers look kinda new to me. You a hacker?” Jake smiled and pushed the last box to the side to leave room for whatever else she might pick up. “I’m kidding.”
    “No. Minor repair and virus removal.”
    “Linda, I saw a story I’d like to finish and then it’s mine, okay?”
    “Yeah, sure. Let’s work on one together for the hell of it and see what happens. You can teach me a thing or two, you seem like it anyway. We communicate by e-mail or call me.” Before he agreed his eyes focused on her breast. “Mr. Lepty.” She giggled.
    “Oh...uh sorry. That will be fine, what’s your number?”

    “So, poking around in Sherry Hart’s business gave you the idea to start writing again. And, I almost forgot her estranged daughter, Linda Mercer?” Helen Lepty questioned, while she dumped a cup of beef stew in her husband’s bowl.
    “Remember she’s deceased.”
    “You better not be doing that mid-life crisis thing with that young woman, Jake, your heart can’t take it.” Helen chuckled.
    “Least of your worries.” He smacked her on the behind. “You got enough to keep me happy. But, seriously, Ms. Hart got great ideas. If I couple them with mine no telling what could come out of it.” He cooled a spoonful of stew and ate. “Good as usual.”
    “Stop slurping, I hate that.”
    “Sorry.” Telling his wife about their agreement wouldn’t be wise at this time even if she was messing with him.”
    “I kind of remember what Little Linnie looked like, but she was a kid. Is she attractive like her mom or what?”
    “Yeah, in a sinister kind of way. It’s probably nothing. But, her skin isn’t as smooth as yours; you don’t need or use make-up. Are you blushing?”
    “No,” and she turned away.
    He didn’t tell her about a few of the guys who drove back down the alley to ask to be late the next day and asked. “Who’s that slick looking female, Mr. Lepty, you better watch that one?”
    “Um...you’re in your sixties, tall, distinguished looking light beard and light brown eyes. Don’t think you a player or start going to the health club more than usual.” Helen said. “Did she show you an ID?”
    “ID? Helen stop it. I thought you were messing with me.”
    She laughed. “I got you, but I’m going to ask the hood gossip what’s up with her. Might be some money hidden in that place.”
    He shook his head. “You oughta stop it.”
    “All jokes aside check anyway. We could get lucky on your last day in that place.”
    “Okay, Helen.” He’d check for loose floor boards; the inspector would be in and out, then he’d scout out his next house down the street. After that business he’d get back to work on one of her outlines. Several were promising, but sharing only one with Linda would be prudent. He left her a voice message to expect an e-mail in a day or so.

    Helen smiled at the thought of Jake presenting his case to Alderman Hess to accept his bid to finish cleaning out the last two houses on the block. If Jake didn’t get the contract that would affect his crew in a negative way. Those guys deserved and needed vocational training when it became available. She suppressed a sneeze and maneuvered the old feather duster her mother left her along the edges of the ceiling fan blades, entertainment center and her bridge trophies. The neighborhood bridge tournaments disappeared years ago, early deaths of a few of the shining stars and life of the party types who’d attracted many just to say they were a part. Cliques made no sense, but that’s what it became.
    Helen hadn’t kept in touch with her favorite club member. Lily who claimed to be having an affair with the alderman, but she preferred the wife who was also a member of the club. If true, was it still going on? Rumors surrounded the influential like flies around honey or shit, depending on the person. But, Helen suspected whatever was said about Alderman Clay Hess was true especially after throwing a kiss at her keister which she ignored. She pushed the button on the dish washer. Chores were finished for the day.
    That irritating ring tone of Jake’s shocked her. He forgot his phone on the key tray by the door to the garage. How did he do that? Lately he’d been making unusual mistakes. A senior moment as they say. She slipped his phone in her apron pocket. The urge to call Lily overwhelmed her and she hesitated to hit the speed dial. Would she be surprised, would she answer, but is she still around? Helen drummed her fingers on the kitchen counter. Three rings and no answer, one more time then she’d disconnect. “Hello, leave a message.” The recording sounded like the chipper Lily she was used too.
    “Hey, Lily, it’s Helen Lepty. Give me a call back when you get a chance, bye.” Well the number was still connected; now let’s see if she calls back. Two seconds later the phone rang. “Hello.”
    “Hey, Helen, how are you? Who died, is the world coming to an end? No, that ain’t it. You got a sex change.” They laughed.
    “I’m fine girl, it’s good to hear your voice and you still got a sense of humor.”
    “Hell, that’s all I got left. My tits droop, my ass sags, my skin is spotted and I’m old. I tried to be a cougar and couldn’t catch anything young...” They laughed forever. “So here I am being contacted by my.” She cleared her throat intentionally. “So called best friend after all this time and you better not tell me you’re sick either.”
    “No, I’m not ill, I was thinking about you and the group.”
    “Obviously, now for the truth.” Lily said.
    “The truth? I am telling the truth, almost.” She giggled. Lily knew what was going on in the area and she wanted to know more about Ms. Hart. “Let’s get the band back together.” She got silence. “You don’t like the cliché?” Helen asked.
    “No, I got it, but I’m surprised after what happened.” Ms. Hart accused them of cheating, but they turned it around and expelled her for it; it got around she had been ousted from a tournament. “Girl, that was cruel and stupid. It wasn’t worth falling out for ever we’re too old for that. But, I did go sign the book. You know I forgot she had kids.” Lily said.
    “Who didn’t? You didn’t see much of them. Let’s meet somewhere.”
    “Ok.” Lily agreed.
    Jake’s phone chirped and vibrated. She dug in her pocket. A text message. “Lily, I’ll call you back in a few minutes.” Don’t get nosy; Helen, but she did it anyway. What was his password? She stared at the screen and nothing came to mind. If she tried to0 many times it would lock her out. She poured more coffee; a couple of sips later it hit her. Jake wasn’t tech savvy, keep it simple: one, two three, four. It opened. “Whoa, that simple...I’ll take it.” Now let’s see what to see, Jake. She scrolled and read. Nothing meaningful, what was the latest? Jake honey I got a few ideas. Will call you later .Linda. Helen threw the phone across the room.

    Jake’s lower back continued to tighten the longer he sat. What was taking Alderman Hess so long? His attractive, home from school for the summer, who wore guy khakis and a green polo shirt secretary, said he’d be right with him. She went into his office. He could’ve sworn he heard a latch flip after the door closed. But, they wouldn’t be that stupid too add fuel to the flames of the usual rumor or myth of boss secretary relationships. Or would they? He concluded they were when the door opened a half hour later. “Alderman Hess will see you now.” She stepped aside. The room was musty and Jake gave her a disgusted glance that she avoided when she walked out. Jake found Hess’s Dumbo like ears amusing. He was taller with narrow sloped shoulders and thin patches of silver hair combed over. Hess sat at his desk full of loose papers and files that had been pushed to the side with pens and pencils on the floor. His office was typical; shelves full of books he’d never read, various sculptures, painting on the walls and a computer. He turned in his high back leather chair.
    “I like that tie, Clay.” The alderman quickly straightened it and shifted it upward.
    “Uh, thanks, Lepty.”
    “Open a window it’s stuffy in here.” Hess turned embarrassed red. “Anyway, I thought I’d drop by to check on my bid to finish the contract. I’m somewhat impulsive for my age, but nobody’s perfect and my crew needs the work.” Jake pulled up one of the politician’s fancy old leather chairs. “This is nice, I admire your good taste. I’ll make it short, Clay.” Hess rolled his eyes upward. “Let me guess. You want it all, right?”
    “No, the contract for what’s on the two blocks just like the bid says. I don’t want or need the drama if you follow me.” It wouldn’t surprise him if the place was bugged by whoever as crooked as Hess was. “OK?”
    “Deal.” They shook and Hess shuffled through the papers and folders. “Where are those papers? Here they are.” He signed and walked over to the printer. He forgot his fly was open. No fool like an old fool. “Here you go, Jake and have a good day.”
    “You too.” He could’ve done without the handshake and pat on the back, but Hess was a politician. He couldn’t wait to tell Helen and his crew. He reached in his pocket. No phone. All this time and he hadn’t thought about it. He back tracked to the office. He looked in the car for places he knew it wouldn’t be just in case. Was he having a senior moment or moments? No. It had to be on the table. Damn, how’d he do that? He tried to calm down, but the tightness in his chest persisted. Acid reflux or gas...it had to be. That’s what he got for going to see that asshole, but it was worth it.

    “At first I couldn’t believe it. How bold could you get, but when nature calls what can you do? I guess you should’ve been there. You got that look of disbelief on your face, beautiful.” Jake smiled and lifted his bottle of beer skyward. “To my brilliance and the Lord’s grace.” He gulped down half the bottle. “You haven’t said anything are you alright?”
    Helen nodded. “Of course, maybe they’re working on a kid.” She giggled.
    “A kid! His wife would ruin him. Hell hath no fury.” He picked up his phone. “Thanks for finding this thing I almost panicked.” He scrolled through the messages and calls. “Well surprise at that one.”He whispered.
    “What did you say?”
    “Nothing, nothing. You want to go out for lunch, dinner or whatever? This calls for a celebration.”
    Helen shrugged. “I guess why not?” She went and sat at the table.
    Something wasn’t right with his wife. It made him feel funny like something crawled in his gut. Every time that happened the bullshit followed. Ignore it, every things fine, Jake, just fine.
    “I’m going to get out of this suit into something more suitable for a celebration, khakis and shirt, be right back.” He dashed past the stair lift. It was a good day when his arthritis hadn’t bothered him. He sent Linda a text: I’ll be in touch later. And don’t call me honey!!! A woman that fine calling him honey gave him thoughts he didn’t need to entertain. What ideas did she have, if any? He wouldn’t share his best; he was smart enough not to trust a stranger, but he’d keep his word and share something.
    The dinner and movie were excellent for once usually it’s one or the other. Helen was tired and went to bed, but he decided to get on the computer and do a chapter or two of editing. Linda sent another text: Sorry meant no harm. He shook the fantasy of her cleavage and smiled at his creativity and got to work.

    Helen considered herself a wise old woman who didn’t let her imagination run away with her, but didn’t ignore her gut either. Was Jake in a midlife crisis at sixty? Who does that? It didn’t make any sense; he was years past the age for that foolishness and it took a lot of energy, but what he had left he used to chase after her.
    They were happy, but check it out anyway, Helen.
    The entire week Jake was full of enthusiasm writing and working with his crew on the two abandoned residences. Why complain he looked good especially when he finished a story? Be thankful, but she checked his phone anyway. Nothing. She added two extra drops of creamer to her coffee. She recalled the accusations that were reversed on Hart; they felt she was common. Ms. Hart told them to kiss her ass. Then it really hit the fan, Lily showed an interest in Ms. Hart. She liked big boned women with a heavy chest. The feelings weren’t mutual. Lily didn’t like rejection and before Hart could say Lily was a lesbian she stuck first, again. Ms. Hart confronted her about a lie going around. She denied it and told her not to worry. Certain people can shake off rumors and lies and others don’t. Their reputations mean everything. Did she tell her kids about it or what? Little Linnie came back for revenge. Now her imagination was on the rampage. Forget that crap. She opened the paper and drank her coffee.

    Jake told the crew to wrap it up for the day because they were ahead of schedule. Once they all signed their timesheets and left he opened his briefcase and got to work on the final edit of the combined work of Linda Mercer and Jake Lepty. He got a bottle of water out the cooler and sat by an open window to enjoy the late afternoon breeze. He felt good about this story, and as far as he was concerned it was his; he edited most of Linda’s work out. He replaced the water and decided on a beer. He pushed his fingers through the icy water and grabbed one. He drank and worked. To his surprise Linda pulled in the alley and honked. He waved and she parked as close to the fence as possible. Her sexy walk mesmerized him; bare legged in a skirt that blew between her legs revealing the shape of her thighs. She waved and stepped around the dumpster and debris left on the staircase into the nearly empty room. “Wow, you guys have been busy.”
    “Yes, we have.”
    “How are you? Surprise, I started to call, but since I was in the area I stopped by instead.” She hugged him tight. He smelled the humidity on her flawless skin. He nibbled on her neck and then her lips. He tried to lift her skirt. She moved his hands and broke away. “No, Jake I can’t.”
    “I’m so sorry, Linda.” He backed up. “I couldn’t help it, forgive me.” He felt like a fool. Why would she consider an old timer like himself? Dammit, he shouldn’t have drunk that beer. Every time he drank he did something impulsive and stupid. If she loses respect for you don’t be surprised. You’re supposed to be a mentor, Jake. She had the silliest grin on her face. What was that all about?
    She laughed. “Oh my God, you should see the look on your face.” She found a chair and continued to laugh. “Don’t be embarrassed, I understand.”
    “Do you?”
    “Yeah, I do. Younger woman...older man, it happens all the time. We’ll see what happens, but in the mean time how’s the final edit?” She dug in the cooler and got a beer. “Do you mind?”
    “No, no go ahead.” Jake said, still embarrassed, but pleased by her saying ‘we’ll see what happens’.”
    “That’s a nice breeze.” Linda said, crossed her legs and paged through the manuscript. “More pages then I thought.”
    Jake calmed his lust as time went by. “Well what do you think? That is our one and only masterpiece.”
    “Good, I like it and anything from this we split, right?”
    “Right.”
    “Mom put together some excellent material. I’ll mention her in the book credits or whatever it’s called. Will you do the same?” She closed the manuscript stood up and adjusted her skirt.
    “Maybe. There were notes that didn’t match up or make sense.” If she gets offended so what, she needed help, but would she accept or ignore his advice? Hopefully he’d give it to her in a hotel room. His eyes shifted to her breast and her hips. “I expect to hear from you soon, but this day’s over, I’ll see you later.” He escorted her to her car when she got in she intentionally pushed her skirt higher than usual up her thighs. “Take care, honey.” She sped down the alley way to fast. If he didn’t hear from her in two days it was a “no go.”

    Helen stood in front of the full length bathroom mirror and wiped it clear. She dried her short blondish hair and laughed at the joke Lily made about her drooping tits. She had similar problems, but with good legs. But, she wasn’t going to let a thirty something make a fool of her man. “Men are weak” her mom taught her, but if you get a good one try to overlook a slip or two. “They can’t help it.” She wasn’t perfect and avoided thoughts of her own indiscretions. She dabbed her double D’s dry taking pride in the hard work that went into maintaining a flat tummy that Jake appreciated. She wrapped towel around her and noticed Jake rubbing his chest. “What’s wrong?”
    “Heart burn, third time this week.” He rolled over. “I love that towel.”
    “Thanks. That heartburn’s from peppers on that Italian beef and for waiting to tell you made a deal with Linda to write a story.” She climbed in and massaged his chest and gut. “It’ll go away after I finish. Since it was an acceptance with no money what will she do move on or what?”
    Jake moved her hand. “Thanks that feels better. She’ll move on and work on her mom’s other stuff and I’ll do the same. We aren’t partners or anything.”
    “If you say so.” She still didn’t like his association with Linda whether he was interested or not. If Jake got a drink in him he was prone to impulse. “Wash up, I’ll go fix breakfast.”
    “Pass the salt and pepper.” He sprinkled too much.
    “Too much sodium, Mr. Lepty. You know I got in touch with a few of the old club.”
    “Oh yeah, and how’s Lily? She’s too crazy to be dead.”
     “Ok.” Surprised he asked, she sipped her coffee. “We were talking about Sherry Hart or Ms. Hart and her twins.”
    “You all did the neighborhood gossip, so what’s happening?”
    “Long story short Little Linnie moved away, but unfortunately she was killed in a fire in California.” Helen said.
    “What?”
    “Her twin who had female attributes took her place.”
    “You are lying! What...what have you and Lily cooked up now? You know what you’re saying? Wait a minute let me get this right. That sounds like something out of the movies. Are you saying Linda’s a man?”
    Helen shrugged. “Could be, you never know. What do you think?” It was working the look of dismay on his face said it all. “Things are crazy nowadays with all this high tech in some cases you can hardly tell one from the other. Transsexual, transgender, gay marriage and the digital age. They even got gay cartoon characters.”
    “I don’t know what to say, what do you say? She...he is part of the, what do you call them community?”
    “LGBT and some say LGBT and Q.” She answered. Now he was getting political. Jake was old school keep it in the closet behind closed doors, cross dressing and all that other stuff was a bad influence on the children. Same sex couples adopting kid was criminal and ungodly. Change the subject and let the lie fester. “Want more food?”
    “No, I’m finished...I’m going to my office and get some work done.”

    Jake couldn’t type and pecking away at the keyboard tired him. Dredding the goal of at least three pages into the system daily, he soldiered on trying not to give Helen’s theory, or lie, a second thought. But, it came back.
    Linda’s a man!
    Ridiculous, he’d been in the city all his life and he had street smarts. He could tell a man from a woman. This needed analysis. He slammed the laptop cover. Helen was playing mind games.
    Yes, Linda was tall and solid.
    She didn’t have large bones and knees, but she did have an Adam’s apple.
    She had no five o’clock shadow.
    She didn’t have a she male voice.
    She wasn’t overly feminine.
    He’d never seen her naked, but she wouldn’t let his hand under her skirt. That didn’t mean she had a prick.
    What if she did? You been kissing and hugging a guy. The thought turned his stomach. It’s best to leave it alone. He’d probably never hear from her again. How often would a guy his age get a shot at a female that fine? Maybe never without paying a big price.
    Had that rumor spread in the hood? That damn Lily ran her mouth all the time. A couple of guys in his crew lived on the block. Had they heard the rumor? That could affect the business. Screw them and everybody else. It was a lie and he’d prove it. He sent her a text: Meet me at the same place after 5 pm. He’d be the only one there and it would be settled.

    Linda caught Jake by surprise when she gently pushed him against the wall and her long tongue explored his mouth. They bumped and grinded like teenagers, but every time he tried to get between her legs she caught his hand. “Not yet, not here, I got a big surprise for you, honey.” What kind of big surprise? Was Helen right or what? He stopped nibbling on her neck and looked deep into her eyes. “How are we going to do this your place or a hotel?”
    “My place, my roommate’s gone until tomorrow.” She kissed him and buttoned her blouse. “You Ok?” He nodded. “I’ll send you a text with the address it’s not far. See you soon.”
    “Wait a minute.” He pulled her to him, cupped her behind. The more he squeezed the harder she moaned. Her hand intercepted his every time he went for her crotch. A hard squeeze of disapproval convinced him something wasn’t right. He broke it off. “You know what, Linda maybe we should wait.”
    “I wasn’t planning on doing it on a workbench, of course we wait?” She rubbed his face. “I’ll text you.” She hurried around storage equipment to the exit.
    Twenty minutes and two beers later Jake got the message: 925 Harlan Ave. Apt. 2. Was Helen right? Earlier one of the guys who had a feminine air about him asked, “What happened to that big butt guy, I mean girl that came through on the last job, Mr. Lepty?” He said he didn’t know and he told them before that was the deceased owner’s daughter who came for a last look at the place. Whether they believed him didn’t matter, at least not yet anyway. Who knows what those guys who’d been in jail were thinking. If he went over Linda’s and found out she was a he, he’d shoot her...him. He wasn’t penitentiary material. He struggled to make the right decision and finally ignored several texts and went home.

    The Lepty’s raised the crystal champagne glasses and toasted to the success of Author Jacob Lepty. The gentle breeze on the balcony of their suite rekindled romantic moments that they hadn’t experienced in a long time. The huge ship was a day out of the Bahamas, a destination Jake dreamed of his entire adult life. “The Love Boat” they jokingly called it. But, he spent two hours a day, at least, writing the sequel, in a three book deal. Who would’ve thought that six months after the Hart foreclosure and the discovery of her writings would cure his writer’s block and give birth to his novel? He told friends and family, but using a pen name made them not believe it. Why lie? He wasn’t trying to impress anybody. Envy, that had to be it. That’s a shame, share an accomplishment and you’re bragging. But, he cashed the checks. A knock on the door ended those thoughts and the young female waiter wheeled in dinner. “Helen dinner is here.”
    “Ok.”
    He tipped the boy and uncovered the plate. “Filet mignons medium well, looks good to me.”
    “Me too.” They dug in, both were starving.
    “I’ve been thinking when I finish book two let’s sell the house and move to Vegas where it’s nice and warm.”
    “Warm? You mean hot.” Helen said.
    “Ok, hot. The heat will help with the arthritis.” He rubbed his elbows.
    “I guess, but we’ll leave all our friends and family.”
    “That’s another reason far as I’m concerned. They can visit us instead of gambling, not that they can’t do that at home, but you know what I mean.”
    She nodded. “I’ll think about it, but for now let’s enjoy this vacation.”
    “I still want you to get away from that gossip machine, Lily. That grin tells me something, let me guess.” Jake mimicked the Jeopardy show jingle. “I got it you’re the head gossip.”
    Helen laughed. “No, no I’m not.”
    “Yeah you are, but I still love you. And, now back to our vacation.” A text popped on his phone. Linda, what the hell does she want?
    “Who’s that?”
    “Nothing.”
    “We agreed to ignore those things.”
    “Sorry, force of habit.”
    They lay on the sofa exhausted from all the day’s activities. Helen started to snore and he grabbed his phone and read Linda’s text: How are you? I love the way you stood me up.
    Sorry, but it was better that way I’ve had my day. It’s best I enjoy my old age like someone with sense. Jake smiled at his sleeping beauty and prayed she didn’t wake up.
    Congrats on the novel. I’ll get to the point; it was my mom’s work.
    No it wasn’t. Remember our deal?
    No, but we did a short story together.
    And that’s all. What was she up to? Somebody else was with her. How’s the computer business? He got nothing back for an hour.
    We shared thoughts and I’m writing a book and plan to self publish a collection of short stories. You promised to mentor me. Remember?
    No and no, I can’t, God bless you and your endeavor. She must think he’s stupid. The publisher’s legal departments told him don’t be surprised. The world is full of parasites. Tons of people have the same ideas, it’s who gets it out there first that counts. Back to his vacation, his curiosity was satisfied.

    Helen powered up her late husband’s desk top. Neither one of them suspected Jake’s heart burn nor occasional chest pain was heart disease. What was supposed to be a routine by pass turned into complications that took his life? He’d almost completed the third novel and told Helen where to find the outline if he didn’t make it. The password was one of the last things he shared with her. She thought nothing of it, but now here she was. She knew writing was complicated and required patience and a lot of love to offset rejection. Organizing his notes and info took enough of the loneliness and grief away for her to make it. She told the kids to go back to their lives, “I got this.” They disagreed, but agreed.
    She hadn’t seen Lily or any club members since the funeral. Lily seemed happy accompanied by a couple of attractive young women. The tall one reminded her of someone Jake described. Maybe she was Alderman Hess’s secretary or Ms. Hart’s daughter? She got to work, finished a chapter and decided to reach out to the club.

    “Where you been hiding, Lily. I’ve called you a thousand times?”
    “I thought that now your hubby is, was a famous author, you might not have time for us little people. Lucky you, or blessed you, for the religious types that have a spouse.”
    “You’re kidding right?” Helen didn’t like the sarcasm or whatever it was. What was that all about? Envy, jealousy. Lily didn’t want a husband. She was still promiscuous and enjoyed as many sex partners as possible, even though she complained about not having anyone. Disgusting behavior for her age.
    “No, but anyway since we talked about the old club I bumped into Sharon Hess...”
    Helen giggled. “Bet that was interesting.”
    “As I was saying, trying to say anyway.” Lily snapped.
    “Sorry.” Why was she being short with her?
    “It was awhile ago and she introduced me to Ms. Hart’s daughter, Linda. I was impressed by her wit and determination. She’s quite a talented writer too and she said she met Jake.”
    Where was she going with this? “Oh, I remember him mentioning her jokingly.” Helen came up with the theory Linda was a transsexual or she male. One day you see Earl Hart and the next Linda pops up. It was a lie and other crazy stuff they made up over a bottle of scotch. She didn’t mention to anyone that she was going to use it to keep, if possible, Jake in check. He told her about that one story that got published. One thing about Jake he didn’t share his ideas with anyone not even her. Every now and then he’d read aloud portions of a story.
    “You forgot, obviously. And, if I know you, you did a hands on inspection, concerning our theory right?” Silence.
    “Linda she deserves credit and if you think about it, it was her mom’s idea. Jake took advantage of her being a novice.”
    “Prove it.” Helen raised her voice louder then she liked, but the bitch was lying. Whatever Jake found in Ms. Hart’s house had nothing to do with his two novels. But, Linda didn’t know that, obviously she hadn’t read them. “Put her on the phone, she’s lying.”
    “She isn’t here I’m just saying.”
    “That your wife or husband now?”
    “What if she is? It ain’t your business, besides Linda’s good to me and for me. If she says he stole the ideas I believe her.”
    What happened, Lily? We were friends.” Helen asked, trying not to sounds hurt.
    “I got old this is my last chance to be happy and settle down.”
    “With a thirty something? Good luck with that. Well, I’m just saying whatever her...your plan is, it isn’t going to work. When this crap fails she’ll drop you like a hot potato leaving you with a broken heart and minus a good friend. Don’t call me to cry on my shoulder. You and her lawyers know where to find me. You should know the publishers know what they are doing. See you in court, but first answer a question?”
    “And what is that, Helen?” Lily spat the question in the phone. “Is she or isn’t she, big or small. You can tell me.” Silence. “Hello...hello.”

    Helen positioned her walker carefully with every step up the slight incline to Jake’s grave site. He insisted she not spend too much on his funeral. She agreed, but purchased the plot next to him. She placed the flowers just right and planned on protecting her husband’s legacy no matter what and finishing the book would do that. And, it would introduce a new writer on the scene, Helen Lepty. “Don’t worry; Jake that parasite can try whatever she likes. I got your back. They don’t know who they’re messing with.”

Getting It

    “Do you have to know something to ‘get it’”?
     Without even turning to her, I get it: it’s the beginning of the the beginning of the end. Why, exactly, I can’t tell you, but I get it. It’s what she’s getting at I’m getting at, after three days of a small vacation of rain with a heavy tremolo.
    “What I mean is,” she says to my back, “can you get it and not know it? Even—”
    I get it—what she’s going to say but never does:
    —“can you get it because you don’t know it? As if knowing something gets in the way of getting it?”
    “In the way, say,” I mentally subjoin, “of a whisper in the brain?”
    We’re silent for a space.
    I don’t need to turn to see the focus of her eyes lengthen and her brows lower. Besides, if I do her look will cut me like a whip. I get it.
    I study the raindrops streaming down the window. Inside my pockets my hands worry the silver sixpence coins she once gave for me for good luck.
    I prefer them as usual, her wide set eyes I mean, large and full and joyfully suffused. The raindrops as well. How she prefers them I don’t know—the raindrops or my eyes. She’s never said, and I’ve never asked. Now I wish I had.
    Shrewd, melancholy, meditative, obstinate, even kindling—my eyes look. So I’ve been told, but never by her. They’re set deep in bone rimmed sockets, that I can see. And weary of late, yet restless, I can see that, too. But then again, an eye can’t see itself, can it? Only its face reflected in the looking glass, un—
    She’s grown to dislike that. “Looking glass,” I mean.
    Me—I’ve always preferred “looking glass” to “mirror.” I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s my preference for “through” over “in”—y’know, as in “through the looking glass”? I don’t know. Of late she’s taken to calling me a prepositionist—y’know, like a sexist or an ageist? Imagine. “You know what else?,” I return in my defense, “I see them,” my eyes, I mean, “as if through a looking glass.” “Hmm,” she goes, “rum, definitely, rummy.” “Odd,” she means, “peculiar,” in the British sense.
    Once she thought it was charming, my English cousin did, coming, I guess, from an American and all, “looking glass,” I mean. Now she calls it—
    —unshaven and creased from a sleepless night, as if down and out in London. Deaf-looking eyes, are they, their blue fading fast in the looking glass through the looking glass.
    —the rummiest.
    I don’t need to face her to see her eyes snap and her head sink into her shoulders, as the rain taps against the glass.
    At length, “You know,” escapes her, breaking the throbbing silence. “You know,—” she hesitates just long enough for me to get that her lips are quivering and her jaw is working thoughtfully— “you know, that I can never think of you as a friend?” Her words are gentle enough to rub the down off the wings of a butterfly.
    I turn from the rain beaded window and say to her with slackened voice, “That’s what lovers always say.”
    She shows me the girlish line of her back and the back of her curly shingled head. I get it: She’s hiding a dim and dilatory smile and eyes that look like broken glass. “You mean, don’t you,” she goes on on the same note, “‘I’ll always think of you as a friend’?”
    My pocketed hands quit the coins and tighten spasmodically. Of a sudden, I’m not quite sure what I mean, what I get— what lovers always say. Does it even matter? Or is it the only thing that matters?
     Outside the wind is whistling like air through a chest wound.

    (originally printed in Star 82)

About Vincent Barry

    After retiring from a career teaching philosophy, Vincent Barry returned to his first love, fiction. His stories have appeared in numerous publications in the U.S. and abroad, most recently (2017): Dime Show Review, Mulberry Fork Review, Adelaide Literary Magazine, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, The Broken City, The Fem, Dual Coast, The Fiction Pool, Subtle Fiction, FictionWeek Literary Journal, Ariel Chart, Star 82, and Abstract: Contemporary Expressions. Barry, whose work has been nominated for Best of the Net 2017, lives with his wife and daughter in Santa Barbara, California.

A Rare Flower

    Ani recognized the aroma of roasted prawn as wisps of steam rose from a plate of brown rice in front of him. When will the grownups really grow up? He thought.
    Mom had this bad habit of hiding the delicacies in his rice when his friend Cheeran ate with him. He wished she had divided the prawns between them instead.
    Dad gave money to the servants but he didn’t mix with people like Cheeran’s father, who worked in their estate. Mom brought Christmas gifts for Cheeran’s mom, who worked in the household. But never allowed her to sit and dine with them.
    According to Ani’s parents, delicacies and luxuries were not for the working class. Mother had told him that when she was a child she had to take bath if she had so much as touched the children from lower castes.
    Mom allowed Cheeran to sit with him because Ani insisted that he wouldn’t eat unless his friend ate with him.
    Ani loved roasted prawns. But he loved Cheeran more than any food or drink; or person, for that matter.
    He looked toward his friend at the other side of the table. He was busy eating, head lowered. Was it because he sensed the love of Ani’s mother hiding beneath the rice, and didn’t want to spy?
    Cheeran never talked while he ate. He remained engrossed with his food. After he finished eating, he’d go out, wash his hands from the lawn’s tap. He’d then wait for Ani, lounging in the veranda.
    Ani thought Cheeran could smell the prawns. A distinct scent hung in the air. It wouldn’t come from the sardines cooked in coconut gravy that his mother openly served them.
    Ani’s fingers plowed through the rice. The hidden prawns doused his appetite. He thought of sneaking a few prawns into Cheeran’s plate and looked toward his side. He had already finished and gone to wash his hands.
    Ani stuffed a few fistfuls of rice into his mouth and swallowed. He chased it down with some water.
    He was done.
    “You didn’t finish your food?”
    Ani hadn’t noticed his mother coming.
    She ran her fingers through the rice. “You didn’t eat the prawns either,” she said.
    “They’re so hard.” Ani was in a hurry to leave so that he could join Cheeran.
    “You must learn from that boy. Look at his plate. He almost licked it clean.”
    “He’s twelve, Mama. I’m only ten. And he works a lot.” Ani went to the washbasin and washed his hands.
    Mother stared after him, shaking her head, hands on her hips.
    “You won’t even allow me to pick the coconuts fallen in the backyard,” he said, drying his hands.
    “Ani, don’t compare yourself to him. He’s just a servant boy. He doesn’t go to school.”
    “So?”
    “He works because that’s what they all do.” She ruffled his hair. “You’re different. You have to study; you need good food for brain development.”
    “I’ll eat more for dinner, okay?” He tugged at her sari. “Now please let me go.”
    He ran to the veranda. He had one hour left to play before he’d leave for school. It was Friday; that meant a two hour lunch-break, courtesy of the Muslim students.
    “They have to offer prayers in the mosque on Friday afternoons,” his teacher had explained. “Our state protects the rights of minority communities. So one hour extra lunch time on Fridays.”
    “I see,” Ani had said. He didn’t need concessions from the state. He went to church on Sundays, a holiday.
    Ani saw Cheeran pace up and down the veranda. He looked worried. Was it the prawns?
    “What is it Cheeran?” Ani held his hand.
    “Ani, it’s something very important. Don’t tell anyone.” Cheeran surveyed the area. “Today I won’t escort you to school. But don’t tell your mom.”
    “No!” Ani yelled. He held his breath and listened for Mom’s footsteps. Thank God, she hadn’t heard.
    He didn’t want to go to school alone. He recoiled at the thought of crossing the alley near the ‘Sarpakkavu’, the temple where Hindus offered milk and bananas to serpents. Fear crept over his skin in slithery movements.
    He had often thought that the Hindu gods would take their revenge on him. His great grandfather was a Hindu, mother had told him one day. He had converted to Christianity when White men had come to their country in large ships.
    “Please Ani, just for one day...”
    Cheeran’s voice broke his reverie. Ani looked quizzically at his friend, said nothing.
    “I know you’re afraid of going alone through that path in the woods. But I don’t see why you should be,” Cheeran said.
    “The evil spirits come out on Fridays. And you’ve chosen this day to send me alone?” Ani asked.
    “Ani, they come out when it’s dark. Not at noon.”
    “Well, it’s dark over there even at noon. Why don’t you understand?”
    “Easy, Ani; tell you what.” Cheeran put a hand on his shoulders.
    Ani felt the pounding of his own heart. He was afraid that the gods would unleash their anger. A large black cobra would come out of the temple of snakes and bite him. Nobody could save him from the wrath of gods.
    “When you reach the alley, remember Jesus, hold the cross. Say a prayer. Then take to your feet. Believe in God’s power.”
    Cheeran sounded sure. Maybe, he was right. His parents said the Lord was the supreme power. He destroyed evil. But, more than the power of the Holy Cross, more than his parents, Ani trusted his friend. He’d never lie to him.
    “Well, why can’t you come with me? Are you going fishing?”
    “No, Ani. You’re more important to me than fishing. It’s something else, something very important.”
    So there were things more important than him. The same way his grandfather had chosen a job in the British Army over the Hindu gods, Cheeran had chosen something over his friend. “What’s it?”
    “Well, have you ever heard about the ‘Rare Flower’? It blossoms only once every twelve years. My grandmother told me about it. It brings you such good fortune and power that you’ll be a King. I want to find it.”
    It’d be great to have a king for a friend, Ani thought. When Cheeran would become a king, maybe, Mother would serve the prawns to him also. “But why couldn’t you go tomorrow?” he asked. “Maybe, I could come with you too,” he said.
    “No Ani. The Rare Flower blossoms at the stroke of the midnight on the full-moon day. That’s tonight. Grandmother said it could be found deep inside of the jungle that bordered the Sarpakkavu.”
    “You mean you’ll scout that jungle at night, looking for this flower? Ain’t you afraid?”
    “I am afraid. But Granny says you can overcome fear. All it takes is to believe in what you do. Then the gods will be on your side. In the Hindu religion, we have some unique ways to ward off evils,” Cheeran said.
    Ani watched his friend, curious. Then why did his grandfather forsake his gods in favor of another? But then, the gods never punished him for that. Rather, he had been much better off than Cheeran’s grandfather who chose to worship the snakes.
    “She says there are prayer ceremonies. Mantras you chant, rituals you perform.” Cheeran paused and swept back strands of curly hair from his forehead. “They’ll give you the strength to overcome fear and evil.”
    “So, you know the mantras?” Ani felt genuinely surprised. His teacher had told him that mantras had magical powers. It gave you strength.
    “Some.” Cheeran smiled at his friend. “I need to perform a ritual before I go looking for the flower. That’s why I can’t escort you today. Hope you understand.”
    Was being a King so important that you risk meddling with evil spirits and snakes? Was a flower more important than your friend? Ani thought.
    Aloud he said, “I’m not afraid, Cheeran. I’ll go through the path alone.” He was confident now. After all, the Hindu gods didn’t bother to punish those who discarded them and worshipped the others.

    Ani stood at the mouth of the alley, peering at the mud walls on either side. Millipedes crawled along a thick carpet of moss over them.
    Weren’t they afraid of the evil spirits?
    He closed his eyes. Baby Jesus, lying in a hay crib, smiled at him. Maybe, the Hindu gods would still bless him the same way they continued to bless his grandfather even after he had forsaken them.
    The strength of your belief would see you through, Cheeran had told him. He said a prayer, touched the cross.
    He remembered his friend’s favorite God. Lord Shiva, with a snake coiled around his neck, a crescent in his tangled long hair, beamed at him.
    He opened his eyes and sprinted toward the darkness on the other end. Something made him stop at the spot he dreaded most.
    A banyan tree stood there, its dense branches blocked out the sunrays, its shadow ominous, even during noon. He glanced sideways and saw two emeralds glow in the darkness. The eyes of evil!
    Above the emeralds was the silhouette of ears, pointing towards the sky. The Devil... Its eyes were trained on him. It crouched, ready to spring, to tear him apart.
    His lips whispered a prayer; he didn’t know which of the gods. He only knew he must fight it. Or die.
    He’d rather fight.
    The green eyes blinked for a second. Just the moment he needed.
    Ani raised his school bag, heavy with books.
    Mustering all strength, he threw it in the direction of the eyes. The green glow disappeared. He heard a whining and shuffling noises. Dry leaves crushed under its paws as the jackal bolted in fear, tail tucked between its hind legs.
    Ani threw his fist into the darkness. “Yezzzzz!” he yelled as he fell backwards.

    Ani ran out of the bathroom, his feet dancing.
    His mother looked at him surprised. He never woke up before eight on Saturdays. Today he’d taken his bath by six.
    Ani was eager to listen to Cheeran’s adventure of the previous night. He was anxious to share his own adventure of the previous day.
    When Cheeran arrived around seven, Ani didn’t recognize him at first sight. He looked haggard, his eyes had sunken in. Sleep hung heavy on his eyelids. His cheeks had caved in.
    Ani stared at Cheeran. His hands were tucked behind him. The evil spirits had tied him up and he must have given them a slip, Ani thought.
    He ran toward his friend.
    Cheeran’s face broke into a wide grin. His hands magically appeared.
    “I brought it for you, Ani.” In his hands was the Rare Flower.
    Its exotic fragrance dazzled Ani. Golden yellow beams radiated from it in rapid flashes. The most beautiful flower he’d ever seen.
    “It’s for me? I thought you wanted to be the king! The flower seemed so important to you.”
    “It is important to me, Ani,” Cheeran said, “because I wanted to gift it to you.”
    Ani accepted the flower.
    Its sprightly glow rendered his skin a golden gleam. He felt a fresh energy coursing like warm ripple throughout his body as he smelled it.
    Was he transforming into a king?
    Ani’s Rare Flower stood before him, an ethereal glow glazing his dusky skin. He threw his arms around Cheeran’s neck and held on. Out of a corner of his eyes he saw his mother watching them.
    Sparkling diamonds rolled down her pale cheeks, crashed on the mosaic floor, and scattered noiseless.

    Published in Peaks & Valleys [Print, USA] 2003 - The magazine is defunct now and the story has been revised from its original form.

Hareendran Kallinkeel Bio

    Hareendran Kallinkeel lives in Kerala, India, after a stint of 15 years in a police organization and five years in Special Forces. After a hiatus of nearly a decade, he has recently returned to fiction writing. Prior to the hiatus, he has been published in online and print magazines. The title story of his short fiction collection, “A Few Ugly Humans,” has earned a Pushcart Prize nomination in 2005.

    Recent publications include Aphelion-Webzine Sep and Oct issues, Scarlet Leaf Review Nov issue, Flash Fiction Magazine and Pif Magazine Dec issue. Three stories forthcoming in Djed Press and one in Lunaris Review.

Two’s a Company But Three is not Always a Crowd

    Forty-eight year old Amanda Rosaleigh Blake munched on a luscious marijuana brownie. She had baked a batch a few days ago. The brownies provided a fine stone different from smoking reefer but just as good. She was musing about a situation involving her soul mate, Michael Demian Randolph, who would soon turn fifty, and a twenty six year old male African American neighbor they had recently befriended in a rather close way.
    All three members of this trio were extraordinarily attractive people. They were each trim and fit. Amanda had long curly dark reddish brown hair. Her figure was a close to perfect as it is possible to get. As a former lover said to her, ‘Woman you have a fine form.’ Her teacup sized and shaped breasts elicited compliments like ‘You have the most beautiful breasts I’ve ever seen.’ They were often admired by the men who caressed them. This was a shock at first since she felt, as self critical young women often do, that her breasts were way too small to be that beautiful. Her eyes were an intense aqua color, her skin was as smooth as a woman in her early twenties, and her belly was flat and firm. Her best feature, however, was a beautiful pair of long legs. They were legs to die for as the expression goes.
    Michael was six feet four inches tall. He had medium length thick dark brown hair, a smooth olive complexion, and gorgeous large brown eyes with long lashes which were the envy of both men and women. He too was slender with a flat stomach. He had long legs which had been beautifully shaped by several years of running track in high school and college. He ran both distance and hurdling events. His leg muscles were lovely.
    Calvin Garland the young African American neighbor was a handsome young man with a good looking body. He was more heavy set than Michael and Amanda because he worked out. His muscles were well defined and developed. However, he was by no means stocky. The couple played handball and did other kinds of exercise, including gardening. Unlike their young friend, they were interested in muscle maintenance, not development. Calvin had spent eighteen months in prison due to a grossly unfair conviction. He had been unwittingly seduced at nineteen by a voluptuous, but under age girl. He had not the slightest idea that she was only fifteen. In fact, he had implicitly assumed that she was his age or a little older. While he was in prison he converted to the Islamic Religion which he practiced faithfully on a daily basis. However, his religious principles did not place any restrictions on his sex life.
    The beginning of an erotic relationship among the three had its origins on a day when Amanda was entering the Garland’s house. She was going to see Calvin’s mother, her good friend. She went in the house just as he came out. When they passed each other feelings of a sexual nature were definitely felt by both of them. In particular, Calvin was especially turned on by Amanda. After the wordless communication, he began coming to the couple’s front door asking to see Amanda. She was not quite ready to deal with the situation. After the two talked it over, Michael, who was most interested in seeing an erotic relationship develop between Amanda and Calvin which he could observe and play a role in, intervened. He invited Calvin over for the next evening.
    Amanda giggled over this development. She knew from the beginning of her relationship with Michael that he was a most unusual man. She had to know that or she could have never established an erotic relationship with him. She required an unusual man especially in the breadth and depth of his perspectives, particularly those dealing with what was acceptable sexual behavior. Most males even in the late 20^th and early 21^st centuries would never have been able to deal with their wives having an erotic relationship with another man, particularly in their presence and with their participation. Even beyond that with their partial initiation in the first place. She was amazed that she had found such a man given the rigidity of the usual run of the mill males in contemporary society.
    The last thing he said to Calvin was, “We’ll all have some fun then.” Meanwhile, Calvin and Amanda acknowledged their erotic feelings for each other. Amanda told him there was one requirement regarding their erotic encounters. Given Michael’s role in setting up the first encounter, Calvin was not surprised at this requirement. It was that Calvin would have to relate to Amanda at times with Michael observing and participating. This was no problem at all. As they would soon see, he was not shy or bashful in these respects. They discovered Calvin had some annoying hang ups which, however, were more limiting to him than they were to Amanda or Michael. The couple was not surprised that the introduction of an appropriate third party into their erotic life depth charged that life. They sometimes made love before Amanda and Calvin did, and nearly always did so afterwards. After an encounter with Calvin, Michael always wanted Amanda to describe her experience of it down to the most minute detail.
    This was difficult for Amanda for reasons that she did not understand. This irritated Michael much to Amanda’s consternation. She tried as hard as she could, and she felt uncomfortably pressured by him. At the first encounter Michael sat on the left side of Calvin. Amanda was on his right in a short and sheer lingerie outfit. Michael had on a short and thin robe. Calvin was in his underwear. Amanda thought scornfully, you have a lot to learn about style in the bedroom from an erotic perspective. Men’s underwear, yuk. Soon he begin to stroke her thigh high up on her leg.
    As he stroked he asked, “Do you give head?”
    She had a feeling accompanied by a creeping irritation she knew where this was coming from and she soon discovered she was not wrong.
    “Why yes, but if and only if you do as well.”
    “Aw gosh. Are you sure?” he asked hopefully.
    “You’re damned right I’m sure,” she snapped. She thought to herself something she soon told him. What a fool you are Calvin. You would rather do without oral sex than over come your silly hang-ups with doing it for a woman. I could care less. I get it from Michael nearly every day and certainly every time I relate to you, sucker.
    With that sharp reply, Calvin gave up rather dejectedly. He soon perked up and prepared to have sex with his new lover. He took off her lingerie and then his underwear. Her beautiful breasts took his breath away, but he was not sensitive enough to comment on his feelings to Amanda. As he took off his underwear, she noticed he had a rather large penis. It was about the size of her first husband’s which had sometimes hurt her. This made her somewhat leery of sexual intercourse with Calvin. She admonished him to go slow and be careful.
    He assured her that he would, and they began to have their first encounter. She had already had sex with Michael, including oral sex and hand stimulation. She was somewhat delighted when Michael gave her breasts and other areas several strokes. With these embellishments her encounter with Calvin was quite complete and most pleasurable. This was in spite of the fact that his foreplay sucked.
    When the encounter was over and Calvin left, the couple had made love again. Afterwards they talked for a while. Amanda mentioned his hang-up with oral sex. Michael asked her if she could go ahead and give him a blow job in spite of his refusal to do oral sex on her.
    “It might be a nice gesture,” he said.
    “No way Jose,” Amanda snapped. “That will not happen. It is against my principles especially since his foreplay is practically non-existent. He does very little with his hands either with my breasts or my clitoral area In truth it does not really matter, but only because of our love making before and after Calvin’s and my encounters.”
    Later after Michael and Amanda said good night and as Amanda drifted toward sleep, she recalled a conversation she had with her best girl friend ever, the late Donda West, Kanye’s Mom. The two friends had lived together for a year. They often had conversations about erotic relationships regarding their mutual desires for open relationships in their respective marriages. They both later divorced their husbands when they were unable to deal with their desires in this respect. They agreed that there was not a man alive who could satisfy two women. When they commented that a man was lucky if they could take care of one woman, they had giggled long and loudly. However, they knew that any adventuresome woman, like themselves could easily satisfy two men. Women’s sexuality was far vaster than that of males. They knew this from their experiences and readings in the area of sexuality and its relationship to gender. For this reason while Amanda hoped that she and Michael would find a woman who did for their relationship what Calvin did. She was not too hopeful. Donda would have obliged to balance the situation, but that was no longer a possibility. Memories of the conversations they had the year they lived together always warmed Amanda’s heart. She missed Donda terribly. Amanda fervently wished she was still alive. Their sharing was always inspiring, uplifting, and rich.
    After the initial encounter they had some others shortly there after. Calvin continued to be urgently anxious for each one, far more than Amanda who could take them or leave them. Sometimes she thought both men enjoyed them more than she did. However she was glad for the unusual experience two men provided her.
    At times Amanda said to him while laughing gaily, “Calvin, my man, you aren’t the only young man who lusts after my body, but you are the one with the most urgent sexual feelings. What do you think accounts for your attraction to me?”
    “I guess I’m just attracted to older ladies,“ Calvin would often reply solemnly as though that explained the whole situation. He got to the point where he was almost pushy with his desires. Michael and Amanda could tell that he didn’t mind encounters when Michael was present and participated. However, he was always trying to get some alone time with Amanda. They did not mind but they did not want it to get out of hand.
    Amanda and Michael had gotten an excellent deal on a two bedroom cabin in the North Georgia Mountains. They bought the real estate to be used for both recreation and rental purposes to supplement their income. They decided to put a six person hot tub on the deck they had built on the back of the cabin. The weekend it was delivered Calvin and a few other friends traveled with them to the cabin to help carry the tub to its place on the deck from the street. Michael had to run an errand in the nearby village of Blairsville after they had finished with the tub. He suggested to Amanda and Calvin should feel free to make love while gone. They did so. She figured he was trying to accommodate Calvin’s desires for some solo time with her. Amanda was continually amazed at how less pleasurable an encounter was without Michael’s presence. One might have thought that this would have pleased Michael, but it did not especially do so. There was a part of him that wanted to believe that the young vigorous black man could give his wife extreme pleasure even more than he did. This should not be taken to mean that she would have more deeply erotic feelings for Calvin than for Michael. He was thinking predominately at the level of lust. This is the level at which he wanted Amanda to describe her encounters with Calvin. She was still not doing it to his satisfaction, although Michael said she had improved some.
    After the mountain trip Calvin got too pushy with his alone time with Amanda. They decided to leave a sign on the door indicating that no one should enter the house while Michael went to Atlanta on a reefer run. Michael thought it best to lock the door. After he left Amanda decided she wanted to test Calvin’s respect for their privacy. She unlocked the door in hopes that the sign would be enough. An hour or so later when she was napping, Calvin came in the door and was in the process of preparing to have sex with her.
    When Amanda awoke she was furious with him and screamed, “Get out of here. Didn’t you read the sign?” He left and she locked the door back. Her anger was short lived. Michael laughed and told her she only got what she deserved. She should have left the door locked he said. She agreed.
    The couple began to have genuine feelings of love mingled with the erotic attractions for their young friend. They were concerned for his future particularly his vocational one. At the time of the active erotic threesome, he was sort of adrift in that area of his life. The couple tried to get Calvin interested in trying college studies. Both of them had PhDs. This was a shame since he was intellectually inclined. Calvin was an avid reader of good books. He often borrowed Amanda’s and Michael’s books in philosophy, anthropology, history, humanities, art, and related areas.
    He had a good bit of talent and experience in various types of dancing which promised a viable income. They figured California would be a good place to get work in this area, especially the Bay area which they had explored thoroughly. After talking with them Calvin decided to make a trip to San Francisco. He went armed with letters of introduction to several of their friends in business and education. At length he decided to move there after being successful at getting interesting work in the area of dance. This work included both instruction and performance. His employers were members of a school of dance. Michael and Amanda were delighted that they were able to play a role in helping their young friend obtain well paid and stimulating work.

My Very Own Angel

    He wasn’t sniffing judgmentally at them like his wife accused. Jonah could play (“She’s a kid, Larry!”) could play with whoever he wanted. There was a reason Larry didn’t like her family. He didn’t want her teaching his son about sex or swearing or Harry Potter.
    He didn’t like watching his son play with dolls, but Larry frowned and kept his mouth closed because he didn’t need to be yelled at by Hannah again. He was just sitting here reading his Bible. He’d tried reading to Jonah and Esther, the red-haired ten year-old seducing his son with barbies. It wasn’t his fault that, when he read, the words jammed like a car whose engine was sugared. Everybody reads like that. Everybody.
    Larry inhaled loudly through his nose and openly sighed out his mouth, but everybody ignored him.
    He’d been reading them something from Leviticus when Hannah had come yawning from their bedroom to glare until she snipped, “Can I talk to you?” right in front of Jonah and the neighbor girl, Jonah’s little friend. She’d pulled Larry into the kitchen (wallessly adjoining the living room) and scolded him right there, where she knew the kids could listen. That wasn’t the place of a wife.
    When she was done and he was tired of repeating, alright! he’d gone back to the couch to sit moodily cheek to fist and read to himself, murmuring sometimes but not speaking any more or louder than the kids.
    “Dad?”
    And here came Joseph, abandoned by Jonah whenever the older boy’s friends came over. It wasn’t brotherly the way Jonah left him out.
    Larry smiled with his mouth and looked embarrassed with his eyes as he growled a tenor, “Ooouuh, what, son?” to the eight year-old who’d wandered from the boys’ shared bedroom.
    “There was a man in my room.”
    Larry stiffened. His eyes globed at his boy as his shocked shoulders and head snapped in opposite directions. “What?” He jumped up and, after an ice-cubed instant, stormed comically down the hall yelling strangled, “Hannah!”s behind him.
    Joseph followed slowly, advertising none of his father’s terror. A moment later Hannah followed, frantically asking what was wrong. She found her husband rising from under their sons’ bottom bunk. She stood as he unlocked the window and leaned his reddened face into the twigs outside.
    “Joseph saw a guy in here,” he explained, waist and hands against the sill to suspend his feet from the floor.
    “What?” Hannah was as confused as her husband. Larry had already begun to look at Joseph like a volcano-worshipping priest seeing a virgin.
    The other two children had followed curiously and were standing at the door now watching. Larry sidled past them at a gallop to check the other bedroom and the bathroom for hiding intruders. When he stumbled back his last terror had converted to awe.
    “Well,” he said slowly, “it must’ve been an angel.”
    Larry noticed Esther raising her thin eyebrows, but he very intentionally ignored the real invader—the heathen in their home. He knelt in front of Joseph as though intending to pray and pulled the boy uncomfortably close for an anointing hug. He panted into his son’s ear thinking how incredible it was that his son should be so gifted, thinking what a blessing from God had fallen on their family. He voiced these thoughts in a ramble that sacked his wife’s numb jaw and made all three children go stoic.
    Once his happiness was expressed, he thought to begin the interrogation.
    “What did he look like?” he asked Joseph.
    “Like a man,” Joseph answered.
    “Did he have wings?”
    Esther snorted. Something behind Larry’s breath hardened with annoyance and dry fury that the pagan child, the witch-girl, thought she could mock his family’s beliefs after he’d been so tolerant and let her play near his son.
    He didn’t look directly at her, but he thought his aim was clear when he said with clenched voice, “My son saw an angel. It was from Jesus.” And in response to his unspeaking wife (happy to reassert his god-given authority), “Hannah, don’t roll your eyes! How do you explain it?” And she kept quiet because she knew he was righteously right. “Did he have wings?” Larry asked again, but Joseph shook his head.
    “He looked like a man,” said the boy.
    “Uhhh, what was he wearing?” asked Larry.
    “Clothes.”
    Larry ignored the blasphemous bubble from Esther.

    “Is your brother crazy?”
    Jonah and Esther had stayed in the bedroom (with the door open) to evade the glaring. Her question caught him. It didn’t have judgment. It sounded like she was offering her explanation.
    Jonah had been thinking how lucky his brother was. He envied Joseph’s gift and (remembering his brother’s namesake) felt his soul endangered by the jealousy that urged him to call his brother raca (fool). He would’ve preferred that Joseph were seeing things or making them up. But thinking it might have been anything other than God seemed so sinful and pharisaical he answered, “No, it was an angel.”
    Saying the silly words, he blushed and dropped his face. Why did his family have to be different? He focused the red-headed Barbie he’d been putting in GI Joe’s truck while muscle memory of unconscious observation made his jaw stiffen like his dad’s did when Larry was determined. This unintentional imitation confused Jonah even more, but was missed by Esther who was confessing, “I saw an angel once.” to her GI Joe.
    “Oh?” Jonah looked at her the way his dad had looked at Joseph. Did everybody but him get to see angels?
    “It wasn’t like he said” she continued. “It didn’t look like anything alive. Mostly I felt it. It felt strong—like a principal or the president but a lot more. It had wings maybe, and was all dark. I think it saw me too. That scared me.”
    Jonah began to sympathize when he heard the penultimate word: scared. He imagined something cruel that beckoned with gray finger bones—nothing like he imagined angels.
    “Are you sure it wasn’t a demon?” he asked a little breathlessly, worried she might get mad at the question.
    Esther shrugged. “I don’t think there’s any difference. I think we call them angels when they’re on our side and demons when they’re not.”
    That made sense. Demons had been angels before they rejected God; that’s what they said in church. Jonah frowned intellectually and nodded a lifted chin.
    When he stayed silent Esther added, “That’s what my mom says anyway. She said it wasn’t here for me. It was just passing through on its way to someone else and had reached me by accident so I shouldn’t worry.”
    Jonah kept watching the beautiful Barbie drive GI Joe’s truck. It seemed important to pretend to play. Things were serious and dangerous now, leaning in the conversational direction that made his grandma say, “Oh! That’s just crazy, Larry!” and made his dad say he didn’t want Jonah staying at Grandma’s anymore until Jonah’s mom stepped in to angrily remind his dad that someday Grandma wouldn’t be around anymore, and he’d feel guilty for stepping between her and Jonah. This always seemed to make Jonah feel worse than his pouting dad.
    So his words wavered like flaked sugar when he asked, “Was the one you saw on your side?”
    Esther studied Jonah the way only a girl could. He contracted, thinking she was mad, until she bit her lip, and he realized she was thinking. She shook her head, then shrugged. “I don’t think it cared about me,” Esther told the wall behind his ear. “It would’ve been a lot scarier otherwise.”
    She was dressing her GI Joe, but slowly the way Jonah drove Barbie.
    “It was still scary though?” he asked.
    She nodded, still looking down. He saw how scared the memory made her. He wanted to hug her, but knew if his dad came by (the way he kept doing) and saw, she’d never be allowed over again. Jonah didn’t know why he wasn’t allowed to touch girls. All he knew was it was one more sin.
    He tried imagining what would be morally between an angel and demon if it hadn’t cared about her, but the concept of anything that wasn’t good or bad made a pressure in his forehead that stopped him moving and became painful.
    “Do you go to church?” he asked, and her head shook no. Maybe that made it harder for her to decide which side it was on. Jonah felt bad he’d asked.
    “It’s alright you don’t,” he said. “If you want you can come with us sometime.” He flitted eyes at her, hoping the offer would make her happy.
    It didn’t seem to.

    “He what?” Amelia yelped when her grandson told her about his brother’s visitation.
    “Oh,” she moaned at the speedometer, hating the sourness in her voice as she heard herself. “Your dad’s crazy!”
    She glanced at Jonah in the car passenger next to her. His wide eyes... Shit, shit, shit, she thought, and outloud, “Dagnabbit!” Her arms flexed as she resisted the urge to slap her steering wheel.
    What her son was teaching her grandsons! All blood and sacrifice and Old Testament... It was plain wrong! It wasn’t anything she’d taught him. She wished he’d never seen a bible. If anybody needed Hell it was those damn Gideons!
    “Look,” Amelia said more tersely than she wanted, “your dad needs to send Joseph to a therapist if he’s seeing things. Your mom knows better.”
    Jonah nodded hastily. “I don’t think Mom believed it was an angel,” he said.
    “Of course, not! Of course, she didn’t! And she should’ve spoken up then and there. I’ll have a talk with her.”
    “Don’t tell her I told you!” Jonah begged quickly.
    “No, I won’t. Of course, I won’t.” she soothed. Look how scared he was! “Dagnabbit! He makes me so mad sometimes!” She breathed deeply to calm herself and momentarily forget her son’s beliefs for her grandson’s sake. In her head she tried out arguments she’d throw at Larry. People don’t see angels!
    And she could hear him, Oh, in the Bible they did.
    And that’s when she’d explode in front of everybody. No. She’d stay calm this time. She’d very calmly explain that the bible was a bunch of horse-shit that somebody—
    No, that wouldn’t help.
    Amelia sighed and decided she really would put it away for now, since she was so worked up—quit while she was behind.
    If he didn’t do something about Joseph, she’d— Hell, she’d call CPS on him to make him send Joseph to a counselor.
    Mom! No! I don’t want them telling him God’s not real!
    They’re not going to do that, Larry! God! He’s having hallucinations!
    No, he’s not! That he would scream in a conversation-volume voice. And please don’t swear in front of the kids.
    I didn’t swear!
    You took the Lord’s name in vain.
    I’ll take whatever I damn well—
    Mom!
    That would be a familiar conversation, wouldn’t it? She didn’t want to fight with him, but was it necessary to be so rigid? Was it necessary to be such a nag (like his father)? Was it necessary to cram his goddam religion down everybody else’s throat until you had to choke or spit?
    She forced herself back to Jonah who was listening to his (Christian) music on her car’s CD player while looking out his window. God, did everything they were exposed to have to be—
    He turned from his window and saw her observing him. “Esther saw one too.”
    “One what?” she asked not meaning to snap. “An angel?”
    He nodded.
    “Oh, Esther’s mom is crazy!” He didn’t answer or disagree. And she felt bad for how she’d said that too. She didn’t want a fight with Jonah. It was Larry who filled the poor kids’ heads with all this horse-shit.
    “Are you hungry?” she asked, wanting a safe subject.
    He nodded and smiled yellow teeth, chapped lips wide as his mouth would stretch.
    “I thought so,” she chuckled. “You’ve got a hollow leg, you know that?”
    He asked what a hollow leg was, and Amelia explained, contentedly watching her bright boy innocently sponge knowledge.

    The glass door slid open and Larry watched Joseph trip inside over the tool chest Larry had lazily set next to the door. Joseph’s hands clenched and opened eagerly at his sides as he eyed the bundle of twine sitting atop a tangle of tape measures and screwdrivers.
    “Come here.” Larry patted the ugly green cushion next to him. Joseph looked at his dad like a factory worker called into the boss’s office. “I want to talk to you,” said Larry, trying to smile and patting the couch again.
    Joseph obeyed because children obey their parents (in the Lord for this is right). He sat with his back against the couch so the ankles on his short legs pointed straight out, unable to bend at the knees.
    Jonah was with Larry’s mom, and Larry could hear Hannah’s shower.
    “You know,” said Larry, “when you saw the angel that was a gift from God.” He looked at his son’s ear again proud. Proud (but not sinfully so) his son would be another Noah or Abraham or Jacob or Moses or Joshua.
    Joseph nodded passively, and bounced his feet on air the plastic tips of his knotted laces clinking against dirtied white shoes. Larry put a protecting arm around his son. “You know, sometimes God talks to me too. God talks to everybody, but most people ignore him because their hearts are hard like Pharaoh’s. That was why Jesus had to send the plagues on Egypt. But you were lucky. The Lord gave you to your mom and I. You know, your grandma didn’t bring me to church or read the Bible or anything and that made it harder for God to soften my heart. But he finally did, and I’m glad he did. But I felt really bad for all the sins I’d committed before He found me. You’re lucky your mom and dad gave you to the Lord.”
    Joseph put a thumb in his mouth before swerving green-rimmed pupils toward Larry and pulling it quickly out.
    “Do you understand what I’m saying so far?” a preoccupied Larry asked.
    Joseph nodded seriously. Larry wasn’t sure what the nod meant, and made a noise in his throat before going on.
    “You know, no matter what happens, you should always listen and do what God tells you, no matter what it is. You know, a lot of Christians have been persecuted and killed for obeying Jesus. And even right now in other countries, their leaders are still listening to Satan instead of God and persecuting Christians, just like Nero did. That’s why we’re lucky to live in a Christian nation. America’s been chosen. We’ve been blessed by God to bring the rest of the world to Him; that what the Bible means when it says we’re the New Israel. But a lot of our leaders have fallen away from the Lord. But God’s still on our side, even though Satan’s trying to pervert us with lies like evolution and letting men marry other men.”
    Joseph was starting to fidget. Larry pulled him closer and ran fingers across the boy’s blond scalp to keep his attention. Joseph fidgeted even more, but Larry held tightly.
    “No matter what anybody says, I want you to always remember: angels are messengers from God. People will try to tell you they’re not real or Jesus isn’t talking to you, but He is. You know, He sacrificed His son to die for our sins, and even though people’ve been shown the truth and know it in their hearts, they still choose to live in sin. I want you to remember that, son. Because God’s told me that all of our family will be saved. I want you to remember to always follow the Lord and always do what He tells you, even if people revile you and stone you and try to put you to death. Always stand up for God. Always stand up for what you know is true and what He tells you.”

    The next time they played together was beneath a tree three times the height of the neighborhood in Jonah’s backyard. Esther didn’t like the way Jonah’s dad looked at her—like she was green meat rippling with crawling gray flies. But he was at work. He was the sort of person her mom was always telling her to be careful around because a few hundred years ago during the Burning Times in England and Ireland they’d tied people like Esther and her mom to stakes and set fire to the women.
    Oh, he’s a crazy asshole, honey, but don’t mind him. Ignore him. The worst they can do today is make our lives miserable and try to put their fairy tales about what didn’t happen six thousand years ago in science class. Careful though. They’ve got cops on their side even if they haven’t got the law. I’d hide if I saw him with a gun or a baseball bat.
    Esther knew though in that gut way her mom taught her that Jonah had things hard like she did, that he ambivalently hated his family’s differences as much as she hated her mom’s. Kids at school laughed at him for wanting to be a priest (A missionary; priests are Catholic, she kept hearing him correct them) the same way they laughed at her for being a witch.
    They always did it in their friendly/superior voice saying they were just curious. And if you told a teacher the bullies shrugged and said they were trying to be nice, why d’you have to be so sensitive? so the teacher blamed you and brought peace by suggesting you quit tattling.
    They shared being different even if their differences were in opposition.
    So when he said to her (very calmly, stating a fact, just telling her like kids at school), “My Grandma says your mom is crazy,” the plump of her cheeks turned painful Irish red beneath her hair and she snarled back to hurt “Your Grandma’s crazy!” viciously enough a drop of her spit unintentionally landed on his forehead.
    Jonah turned his own bloated purple-red and said, “Nuh-uh!” defensively.
    She started to cry and wanted to punch him for being like her and still like everybody else. Thinking of hurting him made her feel guilty and sick, even if she knew her mom would be more proud than angry.
    She grabbed the truck he’d been playing with and—crunch!—flew it against the enormous brown-scoured trunk of the tree so his favorite truck was pieces of faded-to-pink plastic and popped-off wheels that could never be glued back to the tiny metal spring-spears lost in the moistly brown backyard.
    He started crying too.
    Esther confusingly felt even worse and felt better.
    The glass door around the corner of the house opened and concerned feet ran outside.
    She thought of what might happen if his dad saw the broken truck, forgetting Jonah’s patriarch was at work. She thought of pictures of women from England and France with their breasts uncovered, standing precariously on piles of wood, tied to terrifying standing spokes of wood while an executioner in black and a mask (only white where his over-muscular arms showed) came at the woman carrying a wooden torch that would make him laugh and her scream when the flames tickled and trickled so high you couldn’t see her face behind the red and yellow and gray and white.
    Esther ran away from the feet. She sprinted for a hole in the fence where she could slip to her yard and her home. As she turned sideways to fit, she saw the blur of Joseph leaning over Jonah. She slid away as Jonah shoved his brother to the ground he was jumping up from. The slats covered a final image of Jonah forcing an arm to wipe and hide tears.

    Dark that night, a form slipped open the parental knife drawer in the kitchen. A baby-fat finger questioned the blades, searching out the sharpest for protection’s sake. Satisfied. The drawer closed. The form whispered words begging blessing from the lightless night. A seen shadow slid from the kitchen and down the hall toward its room.

    Joseph slid through the gap in the fence feeling the holy form invisibly ghosting behind him. His twist of twine caught slivers from the slats. His noose was a single knot around near the end of the bundle, but it slid effectively.
    Joseph shuffled through wet grass in bare feet, feeling coarse strands make raw the places between his toes. It felt good to be God’s soldier.
    An enormous metal box with a giant fan that had something to do with electricity hummed at him beneath the witch-girl’s window. The window was open so it wouldn’t be necessary for his angel to fly him in. No miracles needed.
    His body dragged up onto the generator. The button on his jeans nail-chalked obnoxiously but quietly and the metal sheet on top popped inward and making a muffled clang. He stopped. Noise could end this crusade.
    Holding the bundle tightly, like a cowboy in a John Wayne movie, Joseph ledged his elbows onto the window and shoved down, landing on his gut half-in and half-out. He heard a gasp below him as he stared down.
    The firstborn girl in the witch’s house (the friend of his heretic brother) sat in bed, hand under pillow, breathlessly staring upward at the window he hung from.
    She hadn’t screamed yet. God was keeping her quiet; He must have shown her His angel so she’d be too scared to fight.
    Joseph reached downward, tiltig far enough into the room to shove the circle to his victim’s shoulders.
    Esther screamed.
    Joseph felt the angel’s hand on his wrist, heard a voice that never spoke words thickening the air. He yanked, pulling the rope taut to strangulation!
    Below, instead of trying to remove the rope, the witch-girl was slapping her mattress, trying to reach behind her as her face reddened.
    And fiat lux from the hall! Light on him and the girl, blocked by the shadow of a woman (an unmarried woman) in a bedtime t-shirt that had Blessed Be Your Sneeze scrawled over the picture of a sneezing, enormously nosed fairy.
    The witch jumped like a roaring lion, pulling the boy from the window, but Joseph kept his fists clenched, even as the adult body pummeled him crushingly to the floor.
    He felt persecuting fists from a woman older and stronger than him. He screeched as his weapon was stolen from him. As fist dragged his blond hair, he saw the rope loosening from the neck above them. He started crying at the words, the words, the obscene words this sinner screeched.
    The purple girl gawked from her pillow, until the weeping woman told her to run for a phone and police. As Esther obeyed, a blade slid from under her pillow. Feet through the door, the kitchen knife followed her flight and fell from the slope of her mattress to the floor.
    Joseph tried to twist toward the knife, knowing this gift from God could make a sacrifice of this pharaonic women. But a heavy hand on his shoulder stopped him.
    Staring at tear-blurred blade beyond his grasp, Joseph imagined the cold stone jail they’d throw him in. He thought of Paul, of bread and water, of truths he’d tell from the straw bed.
    Over the crying woman and crying boy hovered a form seen once by the boy (and maybe the witch’s daughter)—a mystified angel, unable to minister to children already indoctrinated by parental, material voices of pre-emptive battle.

Across the Wall

    I was born the year they built the Wall. It was a hideous monstrosity of concrete, barbed wire, and guard towers. They said that the Wall was there to protect us, that the people on the other side were “fascists” and “revanchists.” But everyone knew the truth. They didn’t build the Wall to keep out dangerous enemies. They built it to keep us in.
    Ever since I was a little girl, I felt drawn to a particular section of the Wall at a particular time of day. Every day that I could, I went to that part of the Wall at that time of the day and stood there, just for a minute or two. Of course, I had to be careful not to get too close to the Wall or else I’d be shot by the border guards who were there to “protect” us.
    “What do you stand there for, Comrade Heidi?” I was sometimes asked.
    “I don’t know,” I could only reply.
    I couldn’t explain it. I just had this vague feeling that there was something on the direct opposite side of the Wall calling to me. It was like I was meant to be joined to it, but was cut off instead. Even if I could have explained this feeling, I wouldn’t have dared voice it. There was probably a Stasi file on me as it was. “Comrade Heidi Baumann is daily engaged in suspicious counterrevolutionary staring contest with the Anti-Fascist Protection Rampart,” it probably said.
    As I grew up in the shadow of the Wall, under the flag of the hammer and compass, I continued to visit that section of the Wall every day that I could. Some of the details changed over the years. The Young Pioneer uniform I often wore during my visits to the Wall gave way to an FDJ uniform. My method of traveling there changed as well, from a child’s skip to a clunky Trabant. On the rare days that I couldn’t manage a visit to the Wall, I felt a sharp stab of guilt, as though I had abandoned someone calling for help. But what sense did that make? I wasn’t making a difference just by standing there.
    So it went until the twenty-eighth year of my life. Following reforms in the Soviet Union, Poland, and Hungary, our own hardline government finally began to bend to the people’s will. Erich Honecker, our intransigent fossil of a leader, was ousted. And then, on the evening of November 9, 1989, Günter Schabowski announced on television that the border with the West was now open. After all this time, could it really be true?
    I went to see if it was. It wasn’t exactly an original thought. Huge crowds were gathering at the checkpoints in the Wall to see if the border was really opening. The border guards seemed to know nothing about any change in policy, but they eventually gave in and let the people pass through. They were greeted warmly by the people on the other side, the people whom our government would have us believe were “fascists.” Soon, people were climbing over the Wall, but no one was shooting at them. The Wall had become harmless.
    I ran to the section of the Wall to which I had always been drawn. A hand reached down to help me up and I took it. As I came up onto the Wall, I gazed into the face of a twenty-eight-year-old woman. She was... me. A different me. A Western me, with a mass of curly hair atop her head and a most peculiar outfit composed of bright, neon colors. We embraced as we came together on top of the Wall.
    As I would soon learn, she was Marlene Baumann, the identical twin sister I had never known. She had been with relatives in the West on that day in 1961 when the Wall was built. No doubt hoping to spare us the pain of separation, our respective guardians had both chosen to never tell us about the other.
    And yet, we had somehow been able to sense the other. For as long as we could remember, we had felt the same pull. On every day that we could, we had stood directly across from each other, as close as we could be with the Wall in the way.

About Matthew McAyeal

    Matthew McAyeal is a writer from Portland, Oregon. His short stories have been published in the literary magazines “Bards and Sages Quarterly”, “cc&d”, “The Fear of Monkeys”, “The Metaworker”, “Danse Macabre”, and “Scarlet Leaf Magazine”. In 2008, two screenplays he wrote were semi-finalists in the Screenplay Festival.

About the Arts

    As an artist I enjoy my work. I feel satisfaction while doing it. But then I think people will appreciate it too and perhaps want it. While to a certain degree, that’s good to keep in mind, sometimes I convert such thoughts into unrealistic expectations internalized too far within myself.
    This is why I go out to other places to see others’ art for several reasons: To remind myself of the talent and the work that others possess. Also, I look at their work as a way of continuing to develop an appreciation for art that challenges my own preconceptions and prejudices about the world and all who exist within it. Each artwork is like a human. It has flaws, limitations, imperfections and whatnot. And that is where I come to preconceptions. I might view those attributes in a way to JUDGE that artwork as BAD.
    This judgment can be applied to humans the same way. If a human doesn’t fit my conception of what I think a good human is or should be, I can be dismissive of them and JUDGE them as BAD. If a painting is housed in a picture frame that is well presented and pleasing to the eye, that frame is an asset for that painting. If a child grows up in a nice home that is well presented and pleasing to the eye, being able to live in such a home is a privilege for such a child. Artwork that is housed in a frame made of rotted wood is not pleasing to the eye at all. The painting doesn’t have the privilege of a nice frame, just as a child doesn’t have the privilege of living in a nice home. Both artworks are equally beautiful in their own right, but the frames create the “distinction” in accessing their worth.
    Art teaches us many things. Ultimately, beauty is not just in the eye of the beholder. Beauty is not bound by appearance, privilege, color or status. If anything, beauty is bound by one virtue and one virtue alone, love. And love is a wondrous thing.

About the Arts, Creations 2017, Ada Writers, 2017

A Quarterback’s Call

    “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech or of the press ...”. The above quote is the opening line of the First Amendment of the Constitution of the United States. Strangely Voltaire’s dictum: “I may not agree with what you say, but I’ll defend to the death your right to say it.” receives little recognition influencing our First Amendment containing free speech. Regardless of Voltaire’s nay-sayers for the origin of this statement, the concept was clearly adopted by the founding fathers.
    A San Francisco NFL quarterback Colin Kaepernick made a call. The call was about unarmed African-Americans who died at the hands of police. Michael Brown was among those killed in 2014. During the same year 126 law officers also lost their lives in the line of duty.
    During a 2016 preseason NFL game Kaepernick took a seat on the bench as the national anthem was played. Before the next game he knelt during the anthem continuing this gesture for the season. For accuracy’s sake a number of team mates joined him and players from other teams followed suit. It took almost two weeks before the media solicited the reason or purpose for his gesture. Kaepernick explained that his call or gesture was a protest about inequality and social justice in the United States. For football fans at least it would not be an exaggeration to say that his gesture/protest generated a large vocal response by supporters and dissenters alike. As of this writing Kaepernick did not play in 2017.
    Supporters rallied around Kaepernick as a citizen exercising his First Amendment right of free speech. There is some degree of irony here as his gesture was a silent one.
    Who denied Kaepernick’s right? No abridgement of free speech occurred. Moreover there are more than a few exceptions to free speech.
    One can not gratuitously yell fire in a crowded public place. One can not knowingly provide false information to authorized law enforcers. Under oath one can not lie in a law court nor disrupt the proceedings with random outbursts. One can not preach or exhort others to physically attack or destroy local or national government. Depending on whose Bible you quote; for Catholics it’s the 8^th commandment and for Protestants it’s the 9^th, “You shall not bear false witness.” This commandment has been broken so frequently it’s evolved to cases of slander in court rooms. Our First Amendment is not as omnipotent as early England’s Divine Right of Kings where the law was anything the monarch said it was.
    In the U. S. there have been a number of incidents where police have shot and killed unarmed African-Americans. While the public is rarely privy to all the background surrounding these incidents, there have been situations where multiple shots were fired at fleeing suspects later deemed guilty of minor misdemeanors. What did these citizens do to warrant 10-16 wounds and death? In one case a black suspect died after being throttled by an officer applying a dangerous and unauthorized neck hold. Black citizens and white also want to know what is the legal disposition of police behavior? Were officers charged with cruel and unusual force to handle these incidents? What has been the outcome of legal proceedings surrounding these cases? Are white officers targeting black citizens? Are the former held to a lesser level of responsibility for their actions than black citizens would be?
    Kaepernick’s protest deals with these and other questions about police behavior. While discussing this issue with a former chief of police and a former Chicago lieutenant. Both men adamantly defended the authority and right of police officers to administer the law. Based on what they knew about these cases they agreed that some of the cases seemed almost like executions. They also allowed for the randomness of collateral deaths which are even more complicated and tragic.
    Kaepernick’s call and charges have merit and his right to protest has never been a question. Kaepernick and other black leaders have underestimated the degree of support by white citizens about these issues. The major reservation concerning Kaepernick’s protest is not the argument of the protest. The major reservation is about the venue or platform used in his protest.
    Again. This is an important distinction. The spectators came to see a football game. Not a political tableau. Only rarely have I heard any sports commentator meekly raise this distinction in the face of the tsunami wave of First Amendment arguments.
    While recognizing that sports and politics have been intertwined (Jessie Owens 1936 Berlin Olympics, Jackie Robinson 1947 L.A. Dodgers, Muhammad Ali 1961 draft protest, John Carlos and Tommie Smith 1968 Mexico Olympics, U. S. Olympic team 1980 boycott, Soviets Olympic team 1984 boycott, Soviet suspension 2018 South Korea), Kaepernick’s call chose the platform of the flag and national anthem. The former president (Barak Obama) said on Larry King’s TV show that if he could, he would replace the national anthem (The Star-Spangled Banner) with something less bombastic and aggressive (... “rockets red glare, bombs bursting in air” ...). According to the former Commander-in-chief our anthem was too war-like and offensive to other countries. If I remember correctly Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture called for canon fire or its sound as Russia commemorated it’s successful defense from Napoleon’s invading army. Witnessed this piece played by an Army orchestra along the Potomac River in Washington D.C. I try not to use the word awesome too much but when real cannons were used the whole piece was immensely impressive.
    It’s rumored the Russians provided useless information concerning Napoleon’s ascent to power. Of course since its Russia, we’d be disappointed with anything less. Our Commander-in-chief wanted something more harmonious and friendly. Perhaps. “I’d like to teach the world to sing/ In perfect harmony ...”
    Indeed a ESPN commentator asserted that the marriage between the flag and our anthem found its origin with WWII and it was too militaristic But wait.
    At the beginning of summer Olympic games each country is led into the stadium by a team elected participant proudly justified carrying their nation’s flag. Gold medal winners are honored on a podium with their flag and national anthem. Accordingly many countries have adopted this ritual completely independent of our country. International pride in a flag and anthem are widely practiced.
    At sporting events and other assemblies it is quite common to recognize the flag accompanied by the anthem. For a minute or two the crowd falls silent, focusing on, and pausing to recognize how fortunate we are to be Americans with all its warts, wrinkles, and yes, injustices to be addressed.
    A precedent to Kaepernick’s call occurred in the 1968 Olympics in Mexico City. Tommie Smith and John Carlos won a gold and bronze respectively in the 200 meter sprint. When they appeared on the podium for the traditional awards ceremony with their nation’s flag and anthem both athletes responded with the Black Power Salute. When these men qualified for the event in the United States they had the opportunity to inform Olympic officials that they chose not to represent the U. S. team. Or after the presentation they might’ve made their protest. Rather they decided that an international platform would provide a broader audience for their protest. One can only wonder what the rest of the Olympic team presumably representing the U. S. thought of their cooptive gesture.
    In 2017 prior to the 2018 Winter Olympics a premiere, woman’s down hill skier Lindsey Vonn said that failing an injury before the event, if she won a gold medal she would be representing the U. S. but not President Trump. Obviously Ms. Vonn was protesting the president’s performance or lack thereof. Whether you agree or disagree with her political position she has demonstrated considerable integrity and chutzpah with her protest expressing it before the event. Smith and Carlos were required to return their medals. As of this writing Kaepernick has not been picked up by any team. Considering the professional risks the above men took with their protest and its outfall, Ms. Vonn has exceeded their courage with her pre-Olympic statement.
    Professional athletes are considered celebrities. As such they have many venues or platforms to express social issues without resorting to the nation’s flag and anthem. February is African-American History month. Symposia, conferences, debates, university and college visits within this month and others would provide multiple opportunities to vocalize protests pursuing a variety of socio-political issues. In addition there are a number of talk radio shows and TV programs looking for timely topics or issues where celebrities, in this case professional athletes, would be welcome to express their opinions. TV shows alone provide an audience of millions of people.
    While watching the 2017 Army –Navy football game, viewing all the young men and women who some day may be defending us and our loved ones, I saw no gestures of protest. Both starting quarterbacks were African-American together with other black teammates. These men and women may some day put their lives on the line and in the days parlance “walk the talk.”
    In summary then I support Kaepernick’s call but not at the expense of our flag’s and anthem’s significance. Many Americans feel the same way.